"Did it come? I gave a man the check."

"Not yet. Sounds like it now."

There was a bumping and thumping out in the corridor, and an expressman came in with Andy's baggage. It was stowed away in a corner and then the five lads prepared to set out for the "eating joint."

"It's around on York street, not far from Morey's," volunteered Thad.

"Oh, yes, Morey's!" exclaimed Andy. "I've heard lots about that joint. I wish we could get in there."

"No freshman need apply," quoted Dunk, with a laugh. "That's for our betters. We'll get there some day."

"Oh, I say——" began Ted, as they were about to go out. He looked at Andy rather queerly.

"What is it?" asked our hero, with a frank laugh. "Am I togged up wrong?"

"Your—er—derby," said Bob, obviously not liking to mention it.

"Oh, yes, that's right!" chimed in Dunk. "Hope you don't mind, Andy, but a cap or a crusher would be in better form."

Andy noticed that the others had on soft hats.

"Sure," he said. "I was going to get one. I had a soft hat at Milton, but it's all initialed, and covered with dates from down there. I don't suppose that would go here."

"Hardly," agreed Dunk. "I've got an odd one, though. Stick it on until you get yours," and he hauled a soft hat from under a pile of things on his dresser.

Andy hung up his offending derby and clapped the other on the back of his head. Then the five sallied forth, locking the door behind them.

Their feet echoed on the stone flagging of the open courtyard as they headed out on the campus. Past Dwight Hall, the home of the Young Men's Christian Association, they went, out into High street and through Library to York. The thoroughfares were thronged with many students now, for it was the hour for supper.

Calls, cries, hails, gibes, comments and appeals were bandied back and forth. For it was the beginning of the term, and many of the new lads had not yet found themselves or their places. It was all pleasurable excitement and anticipation.

Huddled close together, talking rapidly of many things they had seen, or hoped to see—of the things they had done or expected to do, Andy, Dunk, and their chums walked on to the eating place. Dunk informed Andy, in a whisper, that his three friends had been at Phillips Academy, in Andover, with him.

"Over here!"

"This way!"

"Lots of room!"

"Shove in, Hunter!"

"There's Wilson!"

"Dunk Chamber, too! Oh, you, Dunk!"

"Oh! Thad Warburton, give us your eye!"

It was a call to health, and several lads arose holding aloft foaming mugs of beer. For a moment Andy's heart failed him. He did not drink, and he did not intend to, yet he realized that to refuse might be very embarrassing. Yet he resolved on this course.

There were more good-natured cries, and healths proposed, and then Andy and his companions found room at the table. Dunk introduced Andy to several lads.

"Oh, you, Dunk, your eyes on us!"

Several lads called to him, holding aloft their steins. Dunk hesitated a moment and then, with a quick glance at Andy, let his glass be filled. Rising, he gave the pledge and drank.

Andy felt a tug at his heart strings. He was not a crank, nor a stickler for forms or reforms, yet he had made up his mind never to touch intoxicants. And it gave him a shock to find his roommate taking the stuff.

"Well, he's his own master," thought Andy. "It's up to him!"

And then, amid that gay scene—not at all riotous—there came to Andy the memory of a half-forgotten lesson.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Andy wanted to close his mind to it, but that one question seemed to repeat itself over and over again to him.

"Have some beer?"

The voice of a waiter was whispering to him.

"No—not to-night," said Andy, softly. And what a relief he felt. No one seemed to notice him, nor was his refusal looked upon as strange. Then he noticed with a light heart that only a few of the lads, and the older ones at that, were taking the beverage. Andy noticed, too, with more relief, that Dunk only took one glass.

The meal went on merrily, and then Andy and Dunk, refusing many invitations to come to the rooms of friends, or downtown to a show, went to their own room.

"Let's get it in shape," proposed Dunk.

"Sure," agreed Andy, and they set to work.

Each one had brought from home certain trophies—mementoes of school life—and these soon adorned the walls. Then there were banners and pennants, sofa cushions—the gift of certain girls—and photographs galore.

"Well, I call this some nifty little joint!" exclaimed Dunk, stepping back to admire the effect of the photograph of a pretty girl he had fastened on the wall.

"It sure is," agreed Andy, who was himself putting up a picture.

"I say, who's that?" asked Dunk, indicating it. "She's some little looker, if you don't mind me saying so."

"My sister."

"Congrats! I'd like to meet her."

"Maybe—some day."

"Who's this—surely not your sister?" asked Dunk, indicating another picture. "I seem to know her."

"She's a vaudeville actress, Miss Fuller."

"Oh, ho! So that's the way the wind blows, is it? Say, you are going some, Andy."

"Nothing doing! I happened to save her from a fire——"

"Save her from a fire! Worse and more of it. I must tell this to the boys!"

"Oh, it wasn't anything," and Andy explained. "She sent me a mackinaw in place of my burned coat, and her picture was in the pocket. I kept it."

"I should think you would. She's a peach, and clever, too, I understand. She's billed at Poli's."

"Yes, I'm going to see her."

"Take me around, will you?"

"Sure, if you like."

"I like all right. Hark, someone's coming!" and Dunk slipped to the door and put on the chain.

"What's the matter?" asked Andy.

"Oh, the sophs are around and may come in and make a rough house any minute."

But the approaching footsteps did not prove to be those of vengeful sophomores. They were the three friends, Bob, Thad, and Ted, who were soon admitted.

As they were sitting about and talking there was a commotion out in the hall. The door, which Dunk had neglected to chain after the admission of his friends, was suddenly burst open, and in came, with a rush, Mortimer Gaffington and several other sophomores.

"Rough house!" was their rallying cry.

"Rough house for the freshies!"

"Rough house!"



CHAPTER XII

A FIERCE TACKLE

Andy and his chums were taken completely by surprise. The approach of Mortimer and the other sophomores had been so silent that no warning had been given.

Immediately on gaining admittance to the room the intruders began tossing things about. They pulled open the drawers of the dresser, scattering the garments all over. They tore down pictures from the walls and ripped off the banners and pennants.

"Rough house!" they kept repeating. "Rough house on the freshmen!"

One of the sophomores pushed Bob and Ted over on Andy's bed, together.

Then Gaffington pulled from his pocket a handful of finely chopped paper of various colors—"confetti"—and scattered it in a shower over everyone and everything.

"Snow, snow! beautiful snow!" he declaimed. "Shiver, freshmen!"

A momentary pause ensued. Andy and his chums were getting back their breaths.

"Well, why don't you shiver?" demanded Mortimer. "That's snow—beautiful snow—all sorts of colored snow! Shiver, I tell you! It's snowing! Little Eva in Uncle Tom's Cabin—Eliza crossing the ice! Shiver now, you freshmen, shiver!"

He was laughing in a silly sort of way.

"That's right—shiver!" commanded some of Mortimer's companions.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" jeered the society swell at Andy. "Why don't you shiver?"

"I've forgotten how," said Andy, calmly.

"Hang you, shiver!" and Mortimer fairly howled out the word. He started toward Andy, with raised arm and clenched fist.

Among the possessions disturbed by the intruders was Andy's favorite baseball bat, which he had brought with him. Instinctively, as he retreated a step, his fingers clutched it. He swung it around and held it in readiness. Mortimer recoiled, and Andy, seeing his advantage, cried:

"Get out of here! All of you. Come on, fellows, put 'em out!"

He raised the bat above his head, without the least intention in the world of using it, but the momentum swung it from his hand and it struck Mortimer on the forehead.

The lad who had led the "rough house" attack staggered for a moment, and then, blubbering, sank down in a heap on the floor.

A sudden silence fell. In an instant Andy had sunk down on his knees beside his enemy and was feeling his pulse and heart. There was only a slight bruise on the forehead.

"You—you've killed him!" whimpered one of the sophomores.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dunk. "He's only over-excited." This was putting it mildly. Mortimer had been "celebrating," and had really fainted. "That was only a love tap," went on Dunk. "Chuck a little water in his face and he'll be all right."

This was done and proved to be just what was needed. Mortimer opened his eyes.

"What—what happened?" he asked, weakly. "Where—where am I?"

"Where you don't belong," replied Dunk, sharply. "It's your move—get out!"

"You—you struck me!" went on Mortimer, accusingly to Andy.

"No, indeed, I did not! I thought you were coming for me, and so I raised the bat. It slipped."

"I guess that's right, old man," said one of the sophomores, frankly. "I saw it. Mort has been going it too heavily. We'll get him out of here. No offense, I hope," and he looked around the dismantled room. "This is the usual thing."

"Oh, all right," said Dunk. "We're not kicking. I guess we held up our end."

"You sure did," returned one of the sophomores, as he glanced at the wilted Mortimer. "Come on, fellows."

Andy, feeling easier now that he was sure Mortimer was not badly hurt, looked at the other lads. Two of them he recognized as the ones who had been with Gaffington when the loss of the money was discovered. Andy wondered whether it had been found, but he did not like to ask.

"I—I'll get you for this! I'll fix you!" growled Mortimer, as his chums led him out of the room. "You—you——" and he swayed unsteadily, gazing at Andy.

"Oh, dry up and come on!" advised Len Scott. "We'll go downtown and have some fun."

They withdrew and the dazed freshmen began helping Andy and Dunk straighten up the room. It took some time and it was late when they finished. Then, thinking the day had been strenuous enough, Andy and Dunk declined invitations to go out, and got ready for bed.

So ended Andy's first day at Yale.

There was a hurried run to chapel next morning, and Andy, who had to finish arranging his scarf on the way, found that he was not the only tag-ender. Chapel was not over-popular.

That Len Scott did not recover his lost money was made evident the next day, for there were several notices posted in various places offering a reward for the return of the bills. Andy heard, indirectly, that Len and Mortimer made half-accusations against the freshmen they had "frisked" earlier in the evening, and had been soundly trounced for their impudence.

Andy told Dunk of his connection in the affair and was advised to keep quiet, which Andy thought wise to do. But the loss of the money did not seem to be of much permanent annoyance to Len, for a few days later he was again spending royally.

Andy began now to settle down to his life at Yale. He was duly established in his room with Dunk, and it was the congregating place of many of their freshmen friends. Andy and Dunk continued to eat at the "joint" in York street, though our hero made up his mind that he would shift to University Hall at the first opportunity. He hoped Dunk would come with him, but that was rather doubtful.

"I can try, anyhow," thought Andy.

Our hero did not find the lessons and lectures easy. There was a spirit of hard work at Yale as he very soon found out, and he had not as much leisure time as he had anticipated, which, perhaps, was a good thing for him. But Andy wanted to do well, and he applied himself at first with such regularity that he was in danger of becoming known as a "dig." But he was just saved from that by the influence of Dunk, who took matters a little easier.

Following the episode of the "rough house," Andy did not see Mortimer for several days, and when he did meet him the latter took no notice of our hero.

"I'm just as pleased," Andy thought. "Only it looks as though he'd make more trouble."

Candidates for the football team had been called for, and, as Andy had made good at Milton, he decided to try for at least a place on the freshman team.

So then, one crisp afternoon, in company with other candidates, all rather in fear and trembling, he hopped aboard a trolley to go out to Yale Field.

Dunk was with him, as were also Bob, Ted, and Thad, who likewise had hopes. There was talk and laughter, and admiring and envying glances were cast at the big men—those who had played on the varsity team last year. They were like the lords of creation.

The car stopped near the towering grandstands that hemmed in the gridiron, and Andy swarmed with the others into the dressing rooms.

"Lively now!" snapped Holwell, one of the coaches. "Get out on the field, you fellows, and try tackling the dummy."

A grotesque figure hung from a cross beam, and against this the candidates hurled themselves, endeavoring to clasp the elusive knees in a hard tackle. There were many failures, some of the lads missing the figure entirely and sliding along on their faces. Andy did fairly well, but if he looked for words of praise he was disappointed.

This practice went on for several days, and then came other gridiron work, falling on the ball, punting and drop kicking. Andy was no star, but he managed to stand out among the others, and there was no lack of material that year.

Then came scrimmage practice, the tentative varsity eleven lining up against the scrub. With all his heart Andy longed to get into this, but for days he sat on the bench and watched others being called before him. But he did not neglect practice on this account.

Then, one joyful afternoon he heard his name called by the coach.

"Get in there at right half and see what you can go," was snapped at him. "Don't fuddle the signals—smash through—follow the interference, and keep your eyes on the ball. Blake, give him the signals."

The scrub quarter took him to one side and imparted a simple code used at practice.

"Now, scrub, take the ball," snapped the coach, "and see what you can do."

There was a quick line-up. Andy was trembling, but he managed to hold himself down. He looked over at the varsity. To his surprise Mortimer was being tried at tackle.

"Ready!" shrilly called the scrub quarter. "Signal—eighteen—forty-seven—shift—twenty-one—nineteen—"

It was the signal for Andy to take the ball through right tackle and guard. He received the pigskin and with lowered head and hunched shoulders shot forward. He saw a hole torn in the varsity line for him, and leaped through it. The opening was a good one, and the coach raved at the fatal softness of the first-team players. Andy saw his chance and sprinted forward.

But the next instant, after covering a few yards, he was fiercely tackled by Mortimer, who threw him heavily. He fell on Andy, and the breath seemed to leave our hero. His eyes saw black, and there was a ringing in his ears as of many bells.



CHAPTER XIII

BARGAINS

"That's enough! Get up off him! Don't you know enough, Gaffington, to tell when a man's down?"

Andy heard the sharp voice of the coach, Holwell, but the tones seemed to come from a great distance.

"Water here!"

"Somebody's keeled over!"

"It's that freshman, Blair. Plucky little imp, too!"

"Who tackled him?"

"Gaffington. Took him a bit high and fell on him!"

"Oh, well, this is football; it isn't kindergarten beanbag."

Dimly Andy heard these comments. He opened his eyes, only to close them again as he felt a dash of cold water in his face.

"Feel all right now?"

It was the voice of the coach in his ears. Andy felt himself being lifted to his feet. His ears rang, and he could not see clearly. There was a confused mass of forms about him, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet.

Then like another dash of cold water came the thought to him, sharply and clearly:

"This isn't playing the game! If I'm going to go over like this every time I'm tackled I'll never play for Yale. Brace up!"

By sheer effort of will Andy brought his staggering senses back.

"I—I'm all right," he panted. "Sort of a solar plexus knock, I guess."

"That's the way to talk!" exclaimed the coach, grimly. "Now then, fellows, hit it up. Where's that ball? Oh, you had it, did you, Blair? That's right, whatever happens, keep the ball! Get into the play now. Varsity, tear up that scrub line! What's the matter with you, anyhow? You're letting 'em go right through you. Smash 'em! Smash 'em good and hard. All right now, Blair?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get in the game then. Scrub's ball. Hurry up! Signal!"

Sharp and incisive came his tones, like some bitter tonic. Not a word of praise—always finding fault; and as for sympathy—you might as well have looked for it from an Indian ready to use his scalping knife. And yet—that is what made the Yale team what it was—a fighting machine.

Once more came the line-up, the scrub quarter snapping out his signals.

Andy took his old place. He was rapidly feeling better, yet his whole body ached and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height. He was terribly jarred, for Mortimer had put into the tackle all his fierce energy, adding to it a spice of malice.

Andy heard the signal given for the forward pass, and felt relieved. He could take another few seconds to get his breathing into a more regular cadence. He looked over at Mortimer, who grinned maliciously. Andy knew, as well as if he had been told, that the tackle had been needlessly fierce. But there was no earthly use in speaking of it. Rather would it do him more harm than good. This, then, was part of the "getting even" game that his enemy had marked out.

"He won't get me again, though!" thought Andy, fiercely. "If he does, it will be my own fault. Wait until I get a chance at him!"

It came sooner than he expected. The forward pass on the part of the scrub was a fluke and after a few more rushing plays the ball was given to the varsity to enable them to try some of their new plays.

Several times Mortimer had the pigskin, and was able to make good gains. Then the wrath of the coach was turned against the luckless scrubs.

"What do you fellows mean?" cried Holwell. "Letting 'em go through you this way! Get at 'em! Break up their plays if you can! Block their kicks. They'll think they're playing a kid team! I want 'em to work! Smash 'em! Kill 'em!"

He was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet—a veritable little cyclone of a coach.

"Signal!" he cried sharply.

It came from the varsity quarter, and Andy noticed, with a thrill in his heart, that Gaffington was to take the ball.

"Here's where I get him!" muttered Andy, fiercely.

There was a rush—a thud of bodies against bodies—gaspings of breaths, the cracking of muscles and sinews. Andy felt himself in a maelstrom of pushing, striving, hauling and toppling flesh. Then, in an instant, there came an opening, and he saw before him but one player—Mortimer—with the ball.

Like a flash Andy sprang forward and caught his man in a desperate embrace—a hard, clean tackle. Andy put into it all his strength, intent only upon hurling his opponent to the turf with force enough to jar him insensible if possible.

Perhaps he should not have done so, you may say, but Andy was only human. He was playing a fierce game, and he wanted his revenge.

Into Mortimer's eyes came a look of fear, as he went down under the impact of Andy. But there was this difference. Mortimer's previous experience had taught him how to take a fall, and he came to no more hurt through Andy's fierce tackle than from that of any other player, however much Andy might have meant he should. Our hero did not stop to think that he might have injured one of the varsity players so as to put him out of the game, and at a time when Yale needed all the good men she could muster. And Gaffington, in spite of his faults, was a good player.

There was a thud as Andy and Mortimer struck the earth—a thud that told of breaths being driven from their bodies. Then Andy saw the ball jarred from his opponent's arms, and, in a flash he had let go and had rolled over on it. An instant later there was an animated pile of players on both lads, smothering their winded "Downs!"

"That'll do! Get up!" snapped the coach. "What's the matter with you, Gaffington, to let a freshman get you that way and put you out of the game? Porter!" he shouted and a lad came running from the bench, pulling off his sweater as he ran, and tossing it to a companion. He had been called on to take Gaffington's place, and the latter, angry and shamed-faced, walked to the side lines.

As he went he gave Andy a look, as much as to say:

"You win this time; but the battle isn't over. I'll get you yet."

As for Andy, his revenge had been greater than he had hoped. He had put his enemy out of the game more effectively than if he had knocked the breath from him by a tremendous tackle.

"Good tackle, Blair!" called the scrub captain to him, as the line-up formed again. "That's the way to go for 'em!"

The coach said nothing, but to the varsity captain he whispered:

"Keep your eye on Blair. If he keeps on, he may make a player yet. He's a little too wild, though. Don't say anything that will give him a swelled head."

The practice went on unrelentingly, and then the candidates were ordered back to the gymnasium on the run, to be followed by a shower and a brisk rub.

Glowing with health and vigor, and yet lame and sore from the hard tackle, Andy went to his room, to find Dunk Chamber impatiently waiting for him.

"Oh, there you are, you old mud lark!" was the greeting. "I've been waiting for you. Come on around to Burke's and have some ale and a rarebit."

"No thanks. I'm in training, you know."

"That's so. Been out on the field?"

"Yes. I wonder you don't go in for that."

"Too much like work. I might try for the crew or the nine. I'm afraid of spoiling my manly beauty by getting somebody's boot heel in the eye. By the way, you don't look particularly handsome. What has somebody been doing to you?"

"Nothing more than usual. It's all in the game."

"Then excuse me! Are you coming to Burke's? You can take sarsaparilla, you know. Thad and his bunch are coming."

"Sure, I don't mind trailing along. Got to get at a little of that infernal Greek, though."

"All right, I'll wait. The fellows will be along soon."

And as Andy did a little of necessary studying he could not help wondering where Dunk would end. A fine young fellow, with plenty of money, and few responsibilities. Yale—indeed any college—offered numberless temptations for such as he.

"Well, I can't help it," thought Andy. "He's got to look out for himself."

And again there seemed to come to him that whisper:

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Surely Dunk was a college brother.

Andy had scarcely finished wrestling with his Homer when there came a series of loud and jolly hails:

"Oh, you Dunk!"

"Stick out your top, Blair!"

"Here come the boys!" exclaimed Dunk. "Now for some fun!"

The three friends trooped in.

"Some little practice to-day, eh, Blair?" remarked Bob Hunter.

"And some little tackle Gaffington gave you, too!" added Thad.

"Yes, but Andy got back at him good and proper, and put him out of the game," remarked Ted. "It was a beaut!"

"Did you and Mortimer have a run-in?" asked Dunk quickly.

"Oh, no more than is usual in practice," replied Andy, lightly. "He shook me up and I came back at him."

"If that's football, give me a good old-fashioned fight!" laughed Dunk. "Well, if we're going to have some fun, come on."

As they were leaving the room they were confronted by two other students. Andy recognized one as Isaac Stein, more popularly known as Ikey, a sophomore, and Hashmi Yatta, a Japanese student of more than usual brilliancy.

"Oh boys, such a business!" exclaimed Ikey. He was a Jew, and not ashamed of it, often making himself the butt of the many expressions used against his race. On this account he was more than tolerated—he had many friends out of his own faith. "Such a business!" he went on, using his hands, without which he used to say he could not talk.

"Well, what is it now?" asked Dunk with good-humored patience. "Neckties or silk shirts?" for Ikey was working his way through college partly by acting as agent for various tradesmen, getting a commission on his sales. Dunk was one of his best customers.

"Such a business!" went on Ikey, mocking himself. "It is ornaments, gentlemans! Beautiful ornaments from the Flowery Kingdom. Such vawses—such vawses! Is it not, my friend Hashmi Yatta?" and he appealed to the Japanese.

"Of a surely they are beautiful," murmured the little yellow lad. "There is some very good cloisonne, some kisku, and one or two pieces in awaji-yaki. Also there is some satsuma, if you would like it."

"And the prices!" interrupted Ikey. "Such bargains! Come, you shall see. It is a crime to take them!"

"What's it all about?" asked Dunk. "Have you fellows been looting a crockery store?"

"No, it is Hashmi here," said the Jew. "I don't know whether his imperial ancestors willed them to him, or sent them over as a gift, but they are wonderful. A whole packing case full, and he'll sell them dirt cheap."

"What do we want of 'em?" asked Andy.

"Want of 'em, you beggar? Why they'll be swell ornaments for your room!"

That was an appeal no freshman could resist.

"What do you say?" asked Dunk, weakly. "Shall we take a look, Andy?"

"I don't mind."

"You will never regret it!" vowed Ikey. "It is wonderful. Such bargains! It is a shame. I wonder Hashmi can do it."

"They are too many for me to keep," murmured the Jap.

"And so he will sell some," interrupted Ikey, eagerly.

"And pay you a commission for working them off, I suppose," spoke Thad.

Ikey looked hurt.

"Believe me," he said, earnestly, "believe me, what little I get out of it is a shame, already. It is nothing. But I could not see the bargains missed. Come, we will have a look at them. You will never regret it!"

"You ought to be in business—not college," laughed Dunk, as he slipped into a mackinaw. "Come on, Andy, let's go and get stuck good and proper."

"Stuck! Oh, such a business!" gasped Ikey, with upraised hands. "They are bargains, I tell you!"



CHAPTER XIV

DUNK REFUSES

"This way, fellows! Don't let anybody see us come in!"

Thus cautioned Ikey as he led his "prospective victims," as Dunk referred to himself and the others, through various back streets and alley ways.

"Why the caution?" Andy wanted to know, stumbling over an unseen obstruction, and nearly falling.

"Hush!" whispered the Jew. "I want you, my friends, to have the pick of the bargains first. After that the others may come in. If some of the seniors knew of these vawses there wouldn't be one left."

"Oh, well we mustn't let that happen!" laughed Dunk. "I know I'm going to get stuck, but lead on, Horatio. I'm game."

"Stuck, is it?" cried Ikey, and he seemed hurt at the suggestion. "Wait until you have seen, eh, Hashmi?"

"Of a surely, yes. They are beautiful!"

"And so cheap; are they not, Hashmi?"

"Of a surely, yes."

"Where are you taking us, anyhow?" demanded Thad. "I thought we were going to Burke's."

"So we are, later," said Dunk. "I want to see some of this junk, though. Our room does need a bit of decoration, eh, Andy?"

"Yes, it can stand a few more things."

"But where are we going, anyhow?" Bob demanded. "This looks like a chop-suey joint."

"Hush!" cautioned Ikey again. "Some of the fellows may be around. There is a Chinese restaurant upstairs."

"And what's downstairs?" asked Andy.

"Why, Hashmi had to hire a vacant room to put the packing box in when it came from Japan," explained Ikey. "It was too big to take up to his joint. Besides, it's filled with straw, you know, so the vawses couldn't smash. He's just got it in this vacant store temporarily. You fellows have the first whack at it."

"Well, let's get the whacking over with," suggested Andy. "I had all I wanted at Yale Field this afternoon."

They came to a low, dingy building, at the side of which ran a black alley.

"In here—mind your steps!" warned Ikey.

They stumbled on, and then came to a halt behind the college salesman. He shot out a gleam of radiance from a pocket electric flashlight and opened a door.

"Hurry up!" he whispered, and as the others slipped in he closed and locked the portal. "Are the shades down, Hashmi?" he asked.

"Of a surely, yes."

"Then show the fellows what your ancestors sent you."

There was the removal of boards from a big packing case that stood in the middle of a bare room. There was the rustle of straw, and then, in the gleam of the little electric flash the boys saw a confused jumble of Japanese vases and other articles in porcelain, packed in the box.

"There, how's that?" demanded Ikey, triumphantly, as he picked one up. "Wouldn't that look swell on your mantel, Dunk?"

"It might do to hold my tobacco."

"Tobacco! You heathen! Why, that jar is to hold the ashes of your ancestors!"

"Haven't any ancestors that had ashes as far as I know," said Dunk, imperturbably. "I can smoke enough cigar ashes to fill it, though."

"Hopeless—hopeless," murmured Ikey. "But look—such a bargain, only seven dollars!"

"Holy mackerel!" cried Andy. "Seven dollars for a tobacco jar!"

"It isn't a tobacco jar, I tell you!" cried Ikey. "It's like the old Egyptian tear vawses, only different. Seven dollars—why it's worth fifteen if it's worth a cent. Ain't it, Hashmi?"

"Of a surely, yes," said the Jap, with an inscrutable smile.

"But he'll let you have it for just a little more than the wholesale price in Japan, mind you—in Japan!" cried Ikey. "Seven dollars. Think of it!"

"What about your commission?" asked Thad, with a grin.

"A mere nothing—I must live, you know," and Ikey shrugged his shoulders. "Do you want it, Dunk? Why don't you fellows pick out something? You'll wait until they're gone and be kicking yourselves. They're dirt cheap—bargains every one. Look at that vawse!" and he held up another to view in the pencil of light from the flash torch.

"It would do for crackers, I suppose," said Andy, doubtfully.

"Crackers!" gasped Ikey. "Tell him what it is for, Hashmi. I haven't the heart," and he pretended to weep.

"This jar—he is for the holding of the petals of roses that were sent by your loved ones—the perfumes of Eros," murmured the poetical Japanese.

"Oh, for the love of tripe! Hold me, I'm going to faint, Gertie!" cried Bob. "Rose petals from your loved ones! Oh, slush!"

"It is true," and Hashmi did not seem to resent being laughed at. "But it would do for crackers as well."

"How much?" asked Andy.

"Only five dollars—worth ten," whispered Ikey.

"Well, it would look nice on my stand," said Andy weakly. "I—I'll take it."

"And I guess you may as well wish me onto that dead ancestor jar," added Dunk. "I'm always getting stuck anyhow. Seven plunks is getting off easy."

"You will never regret it," murmured Ikey. "Where is that paper, Hashmi? Now don't you fellows let anyone else in on this game until I give the word. I'm taking care of my friends first, then the rest of the bunch. Friends first, say I."

"Yes, if you're going to stick anybody, stick your friends first," laughed Dunk. "They're the easiest. Go ahead, now you fellows bite," and he looked at Bob, Thad and Ted.

"What's this—a handkerchief box?" asked Ted, picking up one covered with black and gold lacquer.

"Handkerchief box! Shades of Koami!" cried Ikey. "That, you dunce, is a box made to——Oh, you tell him, Hashmi, I haven't the heart."

"No, he wants to figure out how much he's made on us," added Andy.

"That box—he is for the retaining of the messages from the departed," explained the Japanese.

"You mean it's a spiritualist cabinet?" demanded Thad. "I say now, will it do the rapping trick?"

"You misapprehend me," murmured Hashmi. "I mean that you conserve in that the letters your ancestors may have written you. But of a courseness you might put in it your nose beautifiers if you wish, and perfume them."

"Nose beautifiers—he means handkerchiefs," explained Ikey. "It's a bargain—only three dollars."

"I'll take it," spoke Thad. "I know a girl I can give it to. No objection to putting a powder puff in it; is there, Hashmi?"

"Of a surely, no."

More of the wares from the big box were displayed and the two other lads took something. Then Dunk insisted on having another look, and bought several "vawses," as Ikey insisted on calling them.

"They'll look swell in the room, eh, Andy? he asked.

"They sure will. I only hope there's no more rough house or you'll be out several dollars."

"If those rusty sophs smash any of this stuff I'll go to the dean about it!" threatened Dunk, well knowing, however, that he would not.

"Such bargains! Such bargains!" whispered Ikey, as he let them out of the side door, first glancing up and down the dark alley to make sure that no other college lads were lying in wait to demand their share of the precious stuff. The coast was clear and Andy and his chums slipped out, carrying their purchases.

"Are you coming?" Dunk asked of Ikey.

"No, I'll stay and help Hashmi pack up the things. If you want any more let me know."

"Huh! You mean you'll stay and count up how much you've stuck us!" said Dunk. "Oh, well, it looks like nice stuff. But I've got enough for the present. I've overdrawn my allowance as it is."

"Well, we'll leave this junk in your room, Andy, and then go out and have some fun," suggested Thad.

They piled their purchases on the beds in Andy's and Dunk's room in Wright Hall and then proceeded on to Burke's place, an eating and drinking resort for many students.

There was a crowd there when Andy and his chums entered and they were noisily greeted.

"Oh, you Dunk!"

"Over here! Lots of room!"

"Waiter, five more cold steins!"

"None for me!" said Andy with a smile.

"That's all right—he's trying for the team," someone said, in a low tone.

"Oh!"

Through the haze of the smoke of many pipes Andy saw some of the football crowd. They were all taking "soft stuff," which he himself ordered.

Then began an evening of jollity and clean fun. It was rather rough, and of the nature of horseplay, of course, and perhaps some of the lads did forget themselves a little, but it was far from being an orgy.

"I'm going to pull out soon," spoke Andy to Dunk, when an hour or so had passed.

"Oh, don't be in a rush. I'll be with you in a little while."

"All right, I'll wait."

Again to Andy had come the idea that he might, after all, prove a sort of "brother's keeper" to his chum.

The fun grew faster and more furious, but there was a certain line that was never overstepped, and for this Andy was glad.

The door opened to admit another throng, and Andy saw Mortimer and several of his companions of the fast set. How Gaffington kept up the pace and still managed to retain his place on the football team was a mystery to many. He had wonderful recuperative powers, though, and was well liked by a certain element.

"Hello, Dunk!" he greeted Andy's roommate. "You're looking pretty fit."

"Same to you—though you look as though you'd been having one."

"So I have—rather strenuous practice to-day. Oh, there's the fellow who did me up!" and he looked at Andy and, to our hero's surprise, laughed.

"It's all right, old man—no hard feelings," went on Mortimer. "Will you shake?"

"Sure!" exclaimed Andy, eagerly. He was only too anxious not to have any enmity.

"Put her there! Shake!" exclaimed the other. "You shook me and I shook you. No hard feelings, eh?"

"Of course not!"

"That's all right then. Fellows, I'll give you one—Andy Blair—a good tackier!" and Mortimer raised his glass on high.

"Andy Blair! Oh, you Andy! Your eye on us!"

And thus was Andy pledged by his enemy. What did it mean?

Faster grew the fun. The room was choking blue with tobacco smoke, and Andy wanted to get away.

"Come on, Dunk," he said. "Let's pull out. We've got some stiff recitations to-morrow."

"All right, I'm willing."

Mortimer saw them start to leave, and coming over put his arm affectionately around Dunk.

"Oh, you're not going!" he expostulated. "Why, it's early yet and the fun's just starting. Don't be a quitter!"

Dunk flushed. He was not used to being called that.

"Yes, stay and finish out," urged others.

Andy felt that it was a crisis. Yet he could say nothing. Dunk seemed undecided for a moment, and Mortimer renewed his pleadings.

"Be a sport!" he cried. "Have a good time while you're living—you're a long time dead!"

There was a moment's hush. Then Dunk gently removed Mortimer's arm and said:

"No, I'm going back with Blair. Come on, Andy."

And they went out together.



CHAPTER XV

DUNK GOES OUT

"Look at that!"

"Why, it's the same stuff!"

"There's a rose jar like the one I bought for seven dollars marked two seventy-five!"

"Oh, the robber! Why, there's a handkerchief box, bigger than the one he stuck me with, and it's only a dollar!"

"Say, let's rough-house Ikey and that Jap!"

Andy, Dunk, and their three friends were standing in front of a Japanese store, looking in the window, that held many articles associated with the Flowery Kingdom. Price tags were on them, and the lads discovered that they had paid dearly for the ornaments they had so surreptitiously viewed in the semi-darkness, under the guidance of Ikey Stein.

This was several days after they had purchased their bric-a-brac and meanwhile they had seen Ikey and Hashmi going about getting other students into their toils.

"Say, that was a plant, all right!" declared Dunk. "I'm going to make Ikey shell out."

"And the Jap, too!" added Andy. "We sure were stuck!"

For the articles in the window were identical, in many cases, with those they had bought, but the prices were much less.

"I thought there was something fishy about it," commented Thad. "Never again do I buy a pig in a poke!"

"I'll poke Ikey when I catch him," said Bob.

"Here he comes now," spoke Ted, in a low voice. "Don't seem to see him until he gets close, and then we'll grab him and make him shell out!"

So the five remained looking steadfastly in the window until the unsuspecting Ikey came close. Then Andy and Dunk made a quick leap and caught him.

"What—what is it?" asked the surprised student.

"We merely want your advice on the purchase of some more art objects," said Andy, grimly. "You're such an expert, you know."

"Some other time—some other time! I'm due at a lecture now!" pleaded Ikey, squirming to get away.

"The lecture can wait," said Dunk. "Look at that vawse for the holding of the rose petals from your loved one. See it there—now would you advise me to buy it? It's much cheaper than the one you and your beloved Hashmi stuck me with."

Ikey looked at the faces of his captors. He saw only stern, unrelenting glares, and realized that his game had been discovered.

"I—er—I——" he stammered.

"Come, what's your advice?" demanded Dunk. "Did I pay too much?"

"I—er—perhaps you did," admitted Ikey, slowly.

"Then fork over the balance."

"And what about my cracker jar—for the ashes of dead ancestors?" asked Andy. "Was I stuck, too?"

"Oh, no, not at all. Why, that is a very rare piece."

"What about that one in the window?" demanded Andy. "That's only rare to the tune of several dollars less than I paid."

"Oh, but you are mistaken!" Ikey assured him. "It takes an expert to tell the difference. You can ask Hashmi——"

"Hashmi be hanged!" cried Dunk, giving the captured one a shake. A little crowd had gathered in the street to see the fun.

"I—I'll give you whatever you think is right," promised Ikey. "Only let me go. I shall be late."

"The late Mr. Stein," laughed Andy.

"What about the rare satsuma piece you wished onto me?" demanded Ted.

"And that cloisonne flower vawse that has a crack in it?" Thad wanted to know.

"That's because it's so old," whined Ikey. "It is more valuable."

"There's one in the window without a crack for three dollars less," was the retort.

"Oh, well, if you fellows are dissatisfied with your bargains——"

"Oh, we're not going to back down," said Andy, "but we're not going to pay more than they're worth, either. It was a plant, and you know it. Now you shell out all we paid above what the things are marked at in this window, and we'll call it square—that is, if you don't go around blabbing how you took us in."

"All right! All right!" cried Ikey. "I'll do it, only let me go!"

"No; pay first! Run him over to our rooms," suggested Dunk. They were not far from the quadrangle, and catching hold of Ikey they ran him around into High Street and through the gateway beside Chittenden Hall to Wright. There, up in Andy's and Dunk's room, Ikey was made to disgorge his cash. But they were merciful to him and only took the difference in price.

"Now you tell us how it happened, and we'll let you go," promised Andy.

"It was all Hashmi's fault," declared Ikey. "I believed him when he said his brother in Japan had sent him a box of fine vawses. Hashmi said he didn't need 'em all, and I said maybe we could sell 'em. So I did."

"That was all right; but why did you stick up the price?" asked Andy.

"A fellow has to make money," returned Ikey, innocently enough, and Dunk laughed.

"All right," said Andy's roommate. "Don't do it again, that's all. Who is Hashmi's brother?"

"One of 'em keeps that Jap store where you were looking in the window," said Ikey, edging out of the room, "and the other is in Japan. He sent the stuff over to be sold in the regular way, but that sly Hashmi fooled me. Never again!"

"And you passed it on to us," said Andy with a laugh.

"Well, it's all in the game."

"Still, we've got the stuff," said Ted.

They had, but had they known it all they would have learned that, even at the lowered price they were paying dearly enough for the ornaments, and at that Hashmi and Ikey divided a goodly sum between them.

The college days passed on. Andy and Dunk were settling down to the grind of study, making it as easy as they could for themselves, as did the other students.

Andy kept on with his football practice, and made progress. He was named as second substitute on the freshman team and did actually play through the fourth quarter in an important game, after it had been taken safely into the Yale camp. But he was proud even to do that, and made a field goal that merited him considerable applause.

Mortimer had dropped out of the varsity team. There was good reason, for he would not train, and, though he could play brilliantly at times, he could not be depended on.

"I don't care!" he boasted to his sporting crowd. "I can have some fun, now."

Several times he and his crowd had come around to ask Dunk to go out with them, but Dunk had refused, much to Mortimer's chagrin.

"Oh, come on, be a good fellow!" he had urged.

"No, I've got to do some boning."

"Oh, forget it!"

But Dunk would not, for which Andy was glad.

Then came a period when Dunk went to pieces in his recitations. He was warned by his professors and tried to make up for it by hard study. He was not naturally brilliant and certain lessons came hard to him.

He grew discouraged and talked of withdrawing. Andy did all he could for him, even to the neglect of his own standing, but it seemed to do no good.

"What's the use of it all, anyhow?" demanded Dunk. "I'll spend four mortal years here, and come out with a noddle full of musty old Latin and Greek, go to work in dad's New York office and forget it all in six months. I might as well start forgetting it now."

"You've got the wrong idea," said Andy.

"Well, maybe I have. Hanged if I see how you do it!"

"I don't do so well."

"But you don't get floored as I do! I'm going to chuck it!" and he threw his Horace across the room, shattering the Japanese vase he had bought.

"Look out!" cried Andy.

"Too late! I don't give a hang!"

Someone came along the hall.

"What are you fellows up to?" asked a gay voice. "Trying to break up housekeeping?"

"It's Gaffington!" murmured Andy.

"Come on in!" invited Dunk.

"You fellows come on out!" retorted the newcomer. "There's a peach of a show at Poli's. Let's take it in and have supper at Burke's afterward."

Dunk got up.

"Hanged if I don't!" he said, with a defiant look at Andy.

"That's the stuff! Be a sport!" challenged Mortimer. "Coming along, Blair?"

"No."

Mortimer laughed.

"Go down among the dead ones!" he cried. "Come on, Dunk, we'll make a night of it!"

And they went out together, leaving Andy alone in the silent room.



CHAPTER XVI

IN BAD

The clock was ticking. To Andy it sounded as loud as a timepiece in a tower. The rhythmic cadence seemed to fill the room. Somewhere off in the distance a bell boomed out—a church bell.

Andy sat in a brown study, looking into the fireplace. A little blaze was going on the hearth, and the young student, gazing at the embers saw many pictures there.

For some time Andy sat without stirring. He had listened to the retreating footsteps of Dunk and Mortimer as the boys passed down the corridor, laughing.

Through Wright Hall there echoed other footsteps—coming and going—there was the sound of voices in talk and in gay repartee. Students called one to the other, or in groups hurried here and there, intent on pleasure. Andy sat there alone—thinking—thinking.

A log in the fireplace broke with a suddenness that startled him. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney, and a little puff of smoke shot out into the room. Andy roused himself.

"Oh, hang it all!" he exclaimed aloud. "Why should I care? Let him go with that crowd—with Mort and his bunch if he likes. What difference does it make to me?"

He stood up, his arm on the mantel where had rested the Japanese vase purchased so mysteriously. Now only the fragments of it were there.

A comparison between that shattered vase and what might be the shattered friendship between himself and his roommate came to Andy, but he resolutely thrust it aside.

"What difference does it make to me?" he asked himself. "Let him go his own way, and I'll go mine."

He crossed to the book rack on the window sill, intending to do some studying. On the broad stone ledge outside the casement he kept his bottle of spring water. It was a cooler place than the room. Andy poured himself out a drink, and as he sipped it he said again:

"Why should I care what he does?"

Then, from off in the distance he heard the chimes of a church, playing "Adestes Fideles."

He stood listening—entranced as the tones came to him, softened by the night air.

And there seemed to whisper to him a still, small voice that asked:

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Andy shut the window softly, and, going back to his chair sat staring into the fire. It was dying down, the embers settling into the dead ashes. It was very still and quiet in the little room. All Wright Hall was very still and quiet now.

"I—I guess I'll have to care—after all," whispered Andy.

Footsteps were heard coming along the corridor, and, for a moment Andy had a wild hope that it might be Dunk returning. But as he listened he knew it was not his chum.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come!" called Andy sharply. It could be none of his friends, he knew.

A messenger entered with a note, and, observing an unfamiliar handwriting, Andy wondered from whom it could be. He ripped it open and uttered an exclamation. He read:

"Dear Mr. Blair:

"I am doing a little engagement at Poli's. Won't you drop around and see me? I promise not to compel you to play the fireman.

"Sincerely yours, "MAZIE FULLER."

"Jove!" murmured Andy. "I forgot all about her."

"Any answer?" asked the messenger.

"No."

The boy started out.

"Oh, yes. Wait a minute." Andy scribbled an acceptance.

"Here," he said, and handed the boy a quarter.

"T'anks!" exclaimed the urchin. Then with a roguish glance he added: "Gee, but you college guys is great!"

"Hop along!" commanded Andy briefly.

Should he go, after all? He had said he would and yet——

"Oh, hang it! I guess I'd better go!" he said aloud, just as though he had not intended to all along. He turned up the light and began throwing about a pile of neckties. He tried first one and then another. None seemed to satisfy him, and when he did get the hue that suited him it would not allow itself to be properly tied.

"Oh, rats!" Andy exclaimed. "Why should I care?"

Why indeed? It is one of the mysteries. "Vanity of vanities" and the rest of it.

As he entered Poli's Andy was aware that something unusual was going on. The ushers were grinning with good-natured tolerance, but there was rather an anxious look on the faces of some of the women in the audience. Some of their male escorts appeared resentful.

Andy had been obliged to purchase a box seat, as there were no vacant ones in the body of the house. As he sank into his chair, rather back, for the box was well filled, he saw a college classmate.

"What's up?" he asked, the curtain then being down to allow of a change of scene.

"Oh, Gaffington and his crowd are joshing some of the acts."

"Any row?"

"No, everybody takes it good-naturedly. Bunch of our fellows here to-night."

"Show any good?"

"Pretty fair. Some of the things are punk. There's a good number coming—Mazie Fuller—she's got a new act. And Bodkins—you know the tramp juggler—the one who does things with cigar boxes—he's coming on next. He's a scream."

"Yes, I know him. He's all right."

The curtain went up and from the wings came Miss Fuller. She had prospered in vaudeville, it seemed, for she had on a richer costume than the one she wore when she had been so nearly burned to death.

She was well received, and while singing her first number she looked about the house. Presently she caught the eyes of Andy—he had leaned forward in the box, perhaps purposely. Miss Fuller smiled at him, and at once a chorus of cries arose from the students in the different parts of the theater. Up to then, since Andy's entrance, there had been no commotion. Now it broke out again.

"Oh, get on to that!"

"The lad with the dreamy eyes!"

"Oh, you Andy Blair!"

Andy sank back blushing, but Miss Fuller took it in good part.

Her act went on, and was well received. She did not again look at Andy, possibly fearing to embarrass him. And then, as she retired after her last number—a veritable whirlwind song—there came a thunder of applause, mingled with shrill whistles, to compel an encore.

Andy was aware of a disturbance in the front of the house. It was where a number of the students were seated, and Andy had a glimpse of Dunk Chamber. Beside him was Gaffington. Dunk had arisen and was swaying unsteadily on his feet.

"Sit down!"

"Keep him quiet!"

"Put him out!"

"Call the manager!"

"Make him sit down!"

Andy began to feel uneasy. He could see the unhappy condition of his roommate and those with him. The worst he feared had come to pass.

Swaying, but still managing not to step on anyone, Dunk made his way to the aisle, and then, getting close to the box where Andy sat, climbed over the rail. The manager motioned to an usher not to interfere. Probably he thought it was the best means of producing quiet.

"Here I am, Andy," announced Dunk gravely.

"So I see," spoke Andy, his face blazing at the notice he was receiving. "Sit down and keep quiet. There's a good act coming."

"Hush!" exclaimed a number of voices as the curtain slid up, to give place to "Bustling Bodkins," the tramp juggler. The actor came out in his usual ragged make-up, and proceeded to do things with a pile of empty cigar boxes—really a clever trick. Dunk watched him with curious gravity for a while and then started to climb over the footlights on to the stage.

"No, you don't, Dunk!" cried Andy, firmly, and despite his chum's protests he hauled him back. Then he took Dunk firmly by the arm and marched him out of a side entrance of the show-house.



CHAPTER XVII

ANDY'S DESPAIR

"Pretty bad; was I, Andy?"

"Yes."

"Whew! What a headache! Any ice water left?"

"I'll get some."

"Never mind. What's there'll do."

It was morning—there always is a "morning after." Perhaps it is a good thing, for it is nature's protest against violations of her code of health.

Dunk drank deep of the water Andy handed him.

"That's better," he said, with a sigh. "Guess I won't get up just yet."

"Going to cut out chapel?"

"I should say yes! My head is splitting now and to go there and hear that old organ booming out hymns would snap it off my neck. No chapel for me!"

"You know what it means."

"Well, I can't be in much worse than I am. I'll straighten up after a bit. No lectures to-day."

"You're going the pace," observed Andy. It was not said with that false admiration which so often keeps a man on the wrong road from sheer bravado. Andy was rather white, and his lips trembled.

"It does seem so," admitted Dunk, gloomily enough.

"Any more water there?" he asked, presently.

"I'll get some," offered Andy, and he soon returned with a pitcher in which ice tinkled.

"That sounds good," murmured his roommate. "Was I very bad last night?"

"Oh, so-so."

"Made a confounded idiot of myself, I suppose?" and he glanced sharply at Andy over the top of the glass.

"Oh, well, we all do at times."

"I haven't seen you do it yet."

"You will if you room with me long enough, Dunk."

"Yes, but not in the way I mean."

"Oh, well, I'm no moralist; but I hope you never will see me that way. Understand, I'm not preaching, but——"

"I know. You don't care for it."

"That's it."

"I wish I didn't. But you don't understand."

"Maybe not," said Andy slowly. "I'm not judging you in the least."

"I know, old man. How'd you get me home?"

"Oh, you were tractable enough. I got a taxi."

"I'll settle with you later. I don't seem to have any cash left."

"Forget it. I can lend you some."

"I may need it, Andy. Hang Gaffington and his crowd anyhow! I'm not going out with them again."

Andy made no reply. He had been much pained and hurt by the episode in the theater. Public attention had been attracted to him by Dunk's conduct; but, more than this, Andy remembered a startled and surprised look in the eyes of Miss Fuller, who came out on the stage when Dunk interrupted the tramp act.

"If only I could have had a chance to explain," thought Andy. But there had been no time. He had helped to take Dunk away. When this Samaritan act was over the theater had closed, and Andy did not think it wise to look up Miss Fuller at her hotel.

"I'll see her again," he consoled himself.

The chapel bell boomed out, and Andy started for the door.

"What a head!" grumbled Dunk again. "I say, Andy, what's good when a fellow makes an infernal idiot of himself?"

"In your case a little bromo might help."

"Got any?"

"No, but I can get you some."

"Oh, don't bother. When you come back, maybe——"

"I'll get it," said Andy, shortly.

He was late for chapel when he had succeeded in administering a dose of the quieting medicine to Dunk, and this did not add to the pleasures of the occasion. However, there was no help for it.

Somehow the miserable day following the miserable night ended, and Andy was again back in the room with Dunk. The latter was feeling quite "chipper" again.

"Oh, well, it's a pretty good old world after all," Dunk said. "I think I can eat a little now. Never again for me, Andy! Do you hear that?"

"I sure do, old man."

"And that goes. Put her there!"

They shook hands. It meant more to Andy than he would admit. He had gone, that afternoon, to the theater, where Miss Fuller was on for a matinee, and, sending back his card, with some flowers, had been graciously received. He managed to make her understand, without saying too much.

"I'm so glad it wasn't—you!" she said, with a warm pressure of her hand.

"I'm glad too," laughed Andy.

"No sir—never again!" said Dunk that evening, as he got out his books. "You hear me, Andy—never again!"

"That's the way to talk!"

It was hard work at Yale. No college is intended for children, and the New Haven University in particular has a high aim for its students.

Andy "buckled down," and was doing well. His standing in class, while not among the highest, was satisfactory, and he was in line for a place on the freshman eleven.

How he did practice! No slave worked harder or took more abuse from the coaches. Andy was glad of one thing—that Gaffington was out of it. There were others, though, who tackled Andy hard in the scrimmages, but he rather liked it, for there was no vindictiveness back of it.

As for Mortimer, he and his crowd went on their sporting way, doing just enough college work not to fall under the displeasure of the Dean or other officials. But it was a "close shave" at times.

Dunk seemed to stick to his resolution. He, too, was studying hard, and for several nights after the theater escapade did not go out evenings. Andy was rejoicing, and then, just when his hopes were highest, they were suddenly dashed.

There had been a period of hard work, and it was followed by a football disaster. Yale met Washington and Jefferson, and while part of the Bulldog's poor form might be ascribed to a muddy field, it was not all that. There was fumbling and ragged playing, and Yale had not been able to score. Nor was it any consolation that the other team had not either. Several times their players had menaced Yale's goal line, and only by supreme efforts was a touchdown avoided. As it stood it was practically a defeat for Yale, and everybody, from the varsity members to the digs, were as blue as the cushions in the dormitory window seats.

Andy and Dunk sat in their room, thankful that it was Saturday night, with late chapel and no lessons on the morrow.

"Rotten, isn't it, Andy?" said Dunk.

"Oh, it might be worse. The season is only just opening. We'll beat Harvard and Princeton all right."

"Jove! If we don't!" Dunk looked alarmed.

"Oh, we will!" asserted Andy.

Dunk seemed nervous. He was pacing up and down the room. Finally, stopping in front of Andy he said:

"Come on out. Let's go to a show—or something. Let's go down to Burke's place and see the fellows. I want to get rid of this blue feeling."

"All right, I'll go," said Andy, hesitating only a moment.

They were just going out together when there came the sound of footsteps and laughter down the corridor. Andy started as he recognized the voice of Gaffington.

"Oh Dunk! Are you there?" was called, gleefully.

"Yes, I'm here," was the answer, and it sounded to Andy as though his chum was glad to hear that voice.

"Come out and have some fun. Bully show at the Hyperion. No end of sport. Come on!"

Mortimer, with Clarence Boyle and Len Scott, came around the corner of the corridor, arm in arm.

"Oh, you and Blair off scouting?" asked Gaffington, pausing before the two.

"We were going out—yes," admitted Dunk.

"We'll make a party of it then. Fall in, Blair!"

Andy rather objected to the patronizing tone of Mortimer, but he did not feel like resenting it then. Should he go?

Dunk glanced at his chum somewhat in doubt.

"Will you come, Andy?" he asked, hesitatingly.

"Yes—I guess so."

"We'll make a night of it!" cried Len.

"Not for mine," laughed Andy. "I'm in training, you know."

"Well, we'll keep Dunk then. Come on."

They set out together, Andy with many misgivings in his heart.

Noisy and stirring was the welcome they received at Burke's. It was the usual story. The night wore on, and Dunk's good resolutions slipped away gradually.

"Come on, Andy, be a sport!" he said, raising his glass.

Andy smiled and shook his head. Then a bitter feeling came into his heart—a feeling mingled with despair.

"Hang it all!" he murmured to himself. "I'm going to quit. I'll let him go the pace as he wants to. I'm done with him!"



CHAPTER XVIII

ANDY'S RESOLVE

"Come on back!"

"Don't be a quitter!"

"It's early yet!"

"The fun hasn't started!"

These cries greeted Andy as he rose to leave Burke's place. His eyes smarted from the smoke of many pipes, and his ears rang with the echoes of college songs. His heart ached too, as he saw Dunk in the midst of the gay and festive throng surrounding Gaffington and his wealthy chums.

"I've got to turn in—training, you know," explained Andy with a smile. It was the one and almost only excuse that would be accepted. Two or three more of the athletic set dropped out with him.

"Goin', Andy?" asked Dunk, standing rather unsteadily at a table.

"Yes. Coming?" asked Andy pausing, and hoping, with all his heart, that Dunk would come.

"Not on your life! There's too much fun here. Have a good time when you're living, say I. You're an awful long time dead! Here you are, waiter!" and Dunk beckoned to the man.

Andy paused a moment—and only for a moment. Then he hardened his heart and turned to go.

"Leave the door open," Dunk called after him. "I'll be home in th' mornin'."

And then the crowd burst out into the refrain:

"He won't be home until morning, He won't be home until morning."

Over and over again rang the miserable chant that has bolstered up so many a man who, otherwise, would stop before it was too late.

Andy breathed deep of the cool night air as he got outside. The streets were quiet and deserted, save for those who had come out with him, and who went their various ways. As Andy turned down a side street he could still hear, coming faintly to him through the quiet night the strains of:

"We won't go home until morning."

"Poor old Dunk!" mused Andy. "I hate to quit him, but I've got to. I'm not going to be looking after him all the while. It's too much work. Besides, he won't stay decent permanently."

He was angry and hurt that all his roommate's good resolutions should thus easily be cast to the winds.

"I'm just going to quit!" exclaimed Andy fiercely. "I've done all I could. Besides, it isn't my affair anyhow. I'll get another room—one by myself. Oh, hang it all, anyhow!"

Moody, angry, rather dissatisfied with himself, wholly dissatisfied with Dunk, Andy stumbled on. As he turned out of Chapel into High Street he saw before him two men who were talking earnestly. Andy could not help hearing what they said.

"Is the case hopeless?" one asked.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that."

"Yet he's promised time and again to reform, and every time he slips back again."

"Yes, I know. He isn't the only one at the mission who does that."

Andy guessed they were church workers.

"Don't you get tired?" asked the questioner.

"Oh, yes, often. But then I get rested."

"But this chap seems such a bad case."

"They're all bad, more or less. I don't mind that."

"And you're going to try again?"

"I sure am. He's worth saving."

Andy felt as though some one had dealt him a blow. "Worth saving!" Yes, that was it. He saw a light.

The two men passed on. Andy hesitated.

"Worth saving!"

It seemed as though some one had shouted the words at him.

"Worth saving!"

Andy's heart was beating tumultuously. His head and pulses throbbed. His ears rang.

He stood still on the sidewalk, near the gateway beside Chittenden Hall. His room was a little way beyond. It would be easy to go there and go to bed, and Andy was very tired. He had played a hard game of football that day. It was so easy to go to his room, and leave Dunk to look after himself.

What was the use? And yet——

"He is worth saving!"

Andy struggled with himself. Again he seemed to hear that voice whispering:

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Andy turned resolutely away from the college buildings. He set his face again down High Street, and swung out into Chapel.

"I'll go get him," he said, simply. "He's worth saving. Maybe I can't do it—but—I'll try!"



CHAPTER XIX

LINK COMES TO COLLEGE

With hesitating steps Andy pushed open the door of Burke's place and entered. At first he could make out little through the haze of tobacco smoke, and his return was not noticed. Most of the college boys were in the rear room, and the noise of their jollity floated out to Andy.

"I wonder if Dunk is still there?" he murmured.

He learned a moment later, for he heard some one call:

"Stand up, Dunk! Your eye on us!"

"He's in there—and I've got to save him!" Andy groaned. Then, with clenched teeth and a firm step he went into the rear room, among that crowd of roistering students.

Andy's reappearance was the signal for a burst of good-natured jibing, mingled with cries of approval.

"Here he comes back!"

"I knew he couldn't stay away!"

"Who said he was a quitter?"

From among the many glasses offered Andy selected a goblet of ginger ale. He looked about the tables, and saw Dunk at one, regarding him with a rather uncertain eye.

"There he is!" cried Andy's roommate, waving his hand. "That's him. My old college chum! I'm his protector! I always look after him. I say," and he turned to the youth beside him, "I say, what is it I protect my old college from anyhow? Hanged if I haven't forgotten. What is it I save him from?"

"From himself, I guess," was the answer. "You're all right, Dunk!"

"Come on, Dunk," said Andy good naturedly. "I'm going to the room. Coming?"

Instantly there was a storm of protest.

"Of course he's not coming!"

"It's early yet!"

"Don't you go, Dunk!"

Mortimer Gaffington, fixing an insolent and supercilious stare on Andy, said:

"Don't mind him, Dunk. You're not tied to him, remember. The little-brother-come-in-out-of-the-wet game doesn't go at Yale. Every man stands on his own feet. Eh, Dunk?"

"That's right."

"You're not going to leave your loving friends and go home so early; are you, Dunk?"

"Course not. Can't leave my friends. But Andy's my friend, too; ain't you, Andy?"

"I hope so, Dunk," Andy replied, gravely.

Somebody interrupted with a song, and there was much laughter. Mortimer alone seemed to be the sinister influence at work, and he hovered near Dunk as if to counteract the good intentions of Andy.

"Here you are, waiter!" cried Dunk. "Everybody have something—ginger ale, soda water, pop, anything they like. Cigars, too." He pulled out a bill—a yellow-back—and Andy saw Mortimer take it from his shaking fingers.

"Don't be so foolish!" exclaimed the sophomore. "You don't want to spend all that. Here, I'll hand out a fiver and keep this for you until morning. You can settle with me later," and Gaffington slipped the big bill into his own pocket, and produced one of his own—of smaller denomination.

"That's good," murmured Dunk. "You're my friend and protector—same as I'm Andy's protector. We're all protectors. Come on, fellows, another song!"

Andy was beginning to wonder how he would get his chum home. It was getting very late and to enter Wright Hall at an unseemly hour meant trouble.

"Come on, Dunk—let's light out," said Andy again, making his way to his roommate's side.

"No, you don't!"

"That game won't go!"

"Let Dunk alone, he can look out for himself."

Laughing and expostulating, the others got between Andy and his friend. It was all in good-natured fun, for most of the boys, beyond perhaps smoking a little more than was good for them, were not at all reckless. But the spirit of the night seemed to have laid hold of all.

"Come on, Dunk," appealed Andy.

"He's going to stay!" declared Mortimer, thrusting himself between Andy and Dunk, and sticking out his chin in aggressive fashion. "I tell you he's going to stay! We don't want any of your goody-goody methods here, Blair!"

Andy ignored the affront.

"Are you coming, Dunk?" he repeated softly.

Dunk raised his head and flashed a look at his roommate. Something in Dunk's better nature must have awakened. And yet he was all good nature, so it is difficult to speak of the "better" side. The trouble was that he was too good-natured. Yet at that instant he must have had an understanding of what Andy's plan was—to save him from himself.

"You want me to come with you?" he asked slowly.

"Yes, Dunk."

"Then I'm coming."

Mortimer put his arm around Dunk and whispered in his ear.

"You don't want to go," he insisted.

"Yes, he does," said Andy, firmly.

For a moment he and the other youth faced each other. It was a struggle of wills for the mastery of a character, and Andy won—at least the first "round."

"I'm going with my friend," said Dunk firmly, and despite further protests he went out with his arm over Andy's shoulder. There were cries and appeals to remain, but Dunk heeded them not.

"I'm going to quit," he announced. "Had enough fun for to-night."

Out in the clear, cool air Andy breathed free again.

"Shall I get a cab?" he asked. "There must be one somewhere around."

"Certainly not," answered Dunk. "I—I can walk, I guess."

They reached Wright Hall, neither speaking much on the way. Andy was glad—and sorry. Sorry that Dunk had allowed his resolution to be broken, but glad that he had been able to stop his friend in time.

"Thanks, old man," said Dunk, briefly, as they reached their room. "You've done more than you know."

"That's all right," replied Andy, in a low voice.

Dunk went to chapel with Andy the next morning, but he was rather silent during the day, and he flunked miserably in several recitations on the days following. Truth to tell he was in no condition to put his mind seriously on lessons, but he tried hard.

Andy, coming in from football practice one afternoon, found Dunk standing in the middle of the apartment staring curiously at a yellow-backed ten-dollar bill he was holding in both of his hands.

"What's the matter?" asked Andy. "A windfall?"

"No, Gaffington just sent it in to me. Said it was one he took the other night when I flashed it at Burke's."

"Oh, yes, I remember," spoke Andy. "You were getting too generous."

"I know that part of it—Gaffington meant all right. But I don't understand this."

"What?" asked Andy.

"Why, this is a ten-spot, and I'm sure I had a twenty that night. However, I may be mistaken—I guess I couldn't see straight. But I was sure it was a twenty. Don't say anything about it, though—probably I was wrong. It was decent of Gaffington not to let me lose it all."

And Dunk thrust the ten dollar bill into his pocket.

It was several days after this when Andy, crossing the quadrangle, saw a familiar figure raking up the leaves on the campus.

"What in the world is he doing here—if that's him?" he asked himself. "And yet it does look like him."

He came closer. The young fellow raking up the leaves turned, and Andy exclaimed:

"Link Bardon! What in the world are you doing here?"

"Oh, I've come to college!" replied the young farm hand, smiling. "How do you do, Mr. Blair?"

"Come to college, eh?" laughed Andy. "What course are you taking?"

"I expect to get the degree B. W.—bachelor of work," was the rejoinder. "I'm sort of assistant janitor here now."

"Is that so! How did it happen?"

"Well, you know the last time I saw you I was on my way to see if I could locate an uncle of mine, just outside of New Haven. I didn't, for he'd moved away. Then I got some odd bits of work to do, and finally, coming to town with a young fellow, who, like myself was out of work, I heard of this place, applied for it and got it. I like it."

"Well, I'm glad you are here," said Andy. "If I can help you in any way let me know."

"I will, Mr. Blair. You did help a lot before," and he went on raking leaves, while Andy, musing on the strange turns of luck and chance, hurried on to his lecture.



CHAPTER XX

QUEER DISAPPEARANCES

"Come in!" cried Andy as a knock sounded.

"I'm not going out, I don't care who it is!" exclaimed Dunk, fidgeting in his chair. "I've just got to get this confounded Greek."

"Same here," said Andy.

The door was pushed open and a shock of dark, curly hair was thrust in.

"Like to look at some swell neckties!" a voice asked.

"Oh, come in, you blooming old haberdasher!" cried Andy with a laugh, and Ikey Stein, with a bundle under his arm, slid in.

"Fine business!" he exclaimed. "Give me a chance to make a little money, gentlemen; I need it!"

"No more of that Japanese 'vawse' business!" warned Dunk. "I won't stand for it."

"No, these are genuine bargains," declared the student who was working his way through college. "I'll show you. I got 'em from a friend of mine, who's selling out. I can make a little something on them, and you'll get swell scarfs at less than you'd pay for them in a store."

"Let's see," suggested Andy, rather glad of the diversion and of the chance to stop studying, for he had been "boning" hard. "But I don't want any satsuma pattern, nor yet a cloisonne," he added.

"Say, forget that," begged Ikey. "That Jap took me in, as well as he did you fellows."

"Well, if anybody can take you in, Ikey, he's a good one!" laughed Dunk.

"Oh, don't mind me!" exclaimed the merchant-student. "You can't hurt my feelings. I'm used to it. And I'm not ashamed of my nature, either. My ancestors were all merchants, and they had to drive hard bargains to live. I don't exactly do that, you understand, but I guess it's in my blood. I'm not ashamed that I'm a Jew!"

"And we're not ashamed of you, either!" cried Andy, heartily.

"Same here," added Dunk. "Trot out your ties, Ikey."

In spite of the fact that he sometimes insisted on the students buying things they did not really need, Ikey was a general favorite in the college.

"There's a fine one!" he exclaimed, holding up a hideous red and green scarf. "Only a dollar—worth two."

"Wouldn't have it if you paid me for it!" cried Andy. "Show me something that a fellow could wear without hearing it yell a block away."

"Oh, you want something chaste and quiet," suggested Ikey. "I have the very thing. There!" holding it up. "That is a mere whisper!"

"It's a pretty loud whisper," commented Dunk, "but at that it isn't so bad. I'll take it, if you don't want it, Andy."

"You're welcome to it. I want something in a golden brown."

"Here you are!" exclaimed Ikey, sorting over his stock.

He succeeded in selling Andy and Dunk two scarfs each, and tried to get them to take more, but they were firm. Then the merchant-student departed to other rooms.

"It's a queer way to get along," commented Andy, when he had finished admiring his purchases.

"Yes, but I give him credit for it," went on Dunk. "He meets with a lot of discouragement, and some of the fellows are positively rude to him, but he's always the same—good-natured and willing to put up with it. He's working hard for his education."

"Harder than you and I," commented Andy. "I wonder if we'd do it?"

"I'd hate to have it thrust on me. But I do give Stein credit."

"Yes, only for that Japanese vase business."

"Oh, well, I believe that oily Jap did put one over on him."

"Possibly. Oh, rats! Here come some of the fellows!"

The sound of footsteps was heard in the corridor. Andy glanced at Dunk. If it should prove to be Mortimer Gaffington, who, of late had tried in vain to get Dunk to go out with him, what was to be done? Andy caught his breath sharply.

But it proved to be a needless alarm, for Bob Hunter, Ted Wilson and Thad Warburton came in with noisy greetings.

"Look at the digs!"

"Boning away on a night like this!"

"'Come into the garden, Maud!' Chuck that, you fellows, and let's go downtown. What's the matter with a picture show?"

It was Thad who asked this, but Bob, with a wry face, put his hand in his pocket and drew out seven cents.

"It doesn't look much like a picture show for me to-night," he said.

"Oh, I'll stake you!" exclaimed Ted. "Come on."

"Shall we?" asked Dunk doubtfully of Andy.

"Might as well, I guess," was the answer. Andy was glad it had not been Gaffington, and he realized that it might be better to take this chance now of getting Dunk out, before the rich youth and his fast companions came along, as they might later in the evening. He knew that with Bob, Ted and Thad, there would be no long session at Burke's.

"I haven't done my Greek," objected Dunk, hesitatingly.

"Oh, well, I'll set the alarm clock, and we'll get up an hour earlier in the morning and floor it," suggested Andy.

"Burning the candle at both ends!" protested Dunk, with a sigh. "Ain't I terrible? But lead me to it!"

As they went out of Wright Hall, Andy looked across the campus and saw Gaffington, and some of his boon companions, approaching.

"Just in time," he murmured. When Gaffington saw Dunk in charge of his friends he and the others turned aside.

"That's when I got ahead of him!" exulted our hero.

They spent a pleasant evening, and Andy and Dunk were back in their room at a reasonable hour.

"I declare!" exclaimed Dunk, "I feel pretty fresh yet. I think I'll have another go at that Greek. We won't have to get up with the chickens then."

"I'm with you," agreed Andy, and they did more studying than they had done in some time.

"Well, I'm through," yawned Dunk, flinging his book on the table. "Now I'm going to hit the hay."

The next day Dunk was complimented on his recitation.

"Oh, I tell you it pays to bone a bit!" Andy cried, clapping Dunk on the back as they came out.

"That's right," agreed the other.

In the days that followed Andy watched Dunk closely. And, to our hero's delight, Gaffington seemed to be losing his influence. Several times Dunk refused to go out with him—refused good-naturedly enough, but steadfastly.

Andy tried to get Dunk interested in football, and did to a certain extent. Dunk went out to the practice, and Andy tried to get him to go into training.

"No, it's too late," was the answer. "Next year, maybe. But I like to see you fellows rub your noses in the dirt. Go to it, Andy!"

Link Bardon seemed to find his employment at Yale congenial. Andy met him several times and had some little talk with him. The young farmer said he hoped to get permanent employment at the college, his present position being only for a limited time.

Andy had received letters from some of his former chums at Milton. Among them were missives from Ben Snow and Chet Anderson. Chet wrote from Harvard, where he had gone, that he would see Andy at the Yale-Harvard game, while from Ben, who had gone to Princeton, came a similar message, making an appointment for a good old-fashioned talk at the annual clash of the Bulldog and Tiger.

"I'll be glad to see them again," said Andy.

It was about two weeks after the arrival of Link Bardon at Yale that some little disturbance was occasioned throughout the college, when an announcement was made at chapel one morning. It was from the Dean, and stated that a number of articles had been reported as missing from the rooms of various students.

"You are requested to keep your doors locked when you are out of your rooms," the announcement concluded.

There was a buzz of excitement as the students filed out.

"What does it mean?"

"Who lost anything?"

"I have," said one. "My new sapphire cuff buttons were swiped."

"I lost a ring," added another.

"And a diamond scarf pin I left on my dresser walked off—or someone walked off with it," spoke a third.

There were several other mysterious losses mentioned.

"How did it happen?" asked Andy of a fellow student who had said a few dollars had been taken from his dresser.

"Hanged if I know," was the answer. "I left the money in my room, and when I came back it was gone."

"Was the room locked?"

"It sure was."

"Did any of the monitors or janitors see anyone go in?"

"Not that I know of; but of course it could happen. There are a lot of new men working around here, anyhow."

Andy thought of Link, and hoped that the farmer lad would not be suspected on account of being a stranger.

But as the days went on the number of mysterious thefts grew. Every dormitory in the quadrangle had been visited, but the buildings outside the hollow square seemed immune.



CHAPTER XXI

A GRIDIRON BATTLE

Harvard was about to meet Yale in the annual football game between the freshman teams. The streets were filled with pretty girls, and more pretty girls, with "sporty" chaps in mackinaws, in raglans—with all sorts of hats atop of their heads, and some without hats at all.

There had been the last secret final practice on Yale Field the day before. That night the Harvard team and its followers had arrived, putting up at Hotel Taft.

Andy, in common with other candidates for the team, was sitting quietly in his room, for Holwell, the coach, had forbidden any liveliness the night before the game. And Andy had a chance to play.

True, it was but a bare chance, but it was worth saving. He had played brilliantly on the scrub team for some time, and had been named as a possible substitute. If several backs ahead of him were knocked out, or slumped at the last moment, Andy would go in. And, without in the least wishing misfortune to a fellow student, how Andy did wish he could play!

There came a knock at the door—a timid, hesitating sort of knock.

"Oh, hang it! If that's Ikey, trying to sell me a blue sweater, I'll throw him down stairs!" growled Andy. He was nervous.

"Come in!" called Dunk, laughing.

"Is Andy Blair——Oh, hello, there you are, old man!" cried a voice and Chet Anderson thrust his head into the room.

"Well, you old rosebud!" yelled Andy, leaping out of the easy chair with such energy that the bit of furniture slid almost into the big fireplace. "Where'd you blow in from?"

"I came with the Harvard bunch. I told you I'd see you here."

"I know, but I didn't expect to see you until the game. You're not going to play?"

"No—worse luck! Wish I was. Hear you may be picked."

"There's a chance, that's all."

"Oh, well, we'll lick you anyhow!"

"Yes, you will, you old tomcat!" and the two clasped hands warmly, and looked deep into each other's eyes.

"Oh!" exclaimed Andy. "I forgot. Chet, this is my chum, Duncan Chamber—Dunk for short. Dunk—Chet Anderson. I went to Milton with him."

The two shook hands, and Chet sat down, he and Andy at once exchanging a fund of talk, with Dunk now and then getting in a word.

"Did you come on with the team?" asked Andy.

"Yes, and it's some little team, too, let me tell you!"

"Glad to hear it!" laughed Andy. "Yale doesn't like to punch a bag of mush!"

"Oh, you won't find any mush in Harvard. Say, have you heard from Ben?"

"Yes, saw him at the Princeton game."

"How was he?"

"Fine and dandy."

"That's good. Then he likes it down there?"

"Yes. He's going in for baseball. Hopes to pitch on the freshman team, but I don't know."

"You didn't play against the Tiger?"

"No, there wasn't any need of me. Yale had it all her own way."

"She won't to-morrow."

"Wait and see."

Thus they talked until Chet, knowing that Andy must want to get rest, in preparation for the gridiron battle, took his leave, promising to see his friend again.

The stands were a mass of color—blue like the sky on one side of Yale Field, and red like a sunset on the other. The cheering cohorts, under the leadership of the various cheer leaders, boomed out their voices of defiance.

Out trotted the Yale team and substitutes, of whom Andy was one. Instantly the blue of the sky seemed to multiply itself as a roar shook the sloping seats—the seats that ran down to the edge of green field, marked off in lines of white.

"Come on now, lively!" yelled the coaches, hardly making their voices heard above the frantic cheers.

The players lined up and went through some rapid passes and kicking. Andy and the other substitutes took their places on the bench, enveloped in blankets and their blue sweaters.

Then a roar and a smudge of crimson, that flashed out from the other side of the field, told of the approach of the Harvard team.

"Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!"

It was an acclaim of welcome.

Andy watched Yale's opponents go through their snappy practice.

"They're big and beefy," he murmured, "but we can do 'em. We've got to! Yale has got to win!"

The captains consulted, the coin was flipped, and Harvard was to kick off. The teams gathered in a knot at either end of the field for a last consultation. Then the new ball was put in the center of the field.

Andy found difficulty in getting his breath, and he noticed that the other players beside him had the same trouble.

The whistle shrilled out, and the Harvard back, running, sent the yellow pigskin sailing well down the field. A wild yell greeted his performance. One of the Yale players caught it and his interference formed before him. But he had not run it back ten yards before he was tackled. Now would come the first line-up, and it would be seen how Yale could buck the crimson.

"Signal!" Andy could hear their quarterback yell, and then the rest was swallowed up in a hum of excitement in the songs and cheers with which the students sought to urge on the defenders of the blue.

There was a vicious plunge into the line, but the gain was small.

"They's holding us!" murmured Blake, at Andy's side.

"Oh, it's early yet," answered Andy. He wondered why his hands pained him, and, looking at them found that he had been clenching them until the nails had made deep impressions in his palms.

Again came a plunging, smashing attack at Harvard's line, and a groan from the Yale substitutes followed. The Yale back had been thrown for a loss.

"We've got to kick now," murmured Andy, and the signal came.

Then it was the Yale ends showed their fleetness and they nailed the Harvard man before he had gained much. An exchange of punts followed, both teams having good kickers that year.

Then came more line smashing, in which Yale gained a little. It was a fiercely fought game, so fierce that before five minutes of play Harvard had to take one man out, and Yale lost two, from injuries that could not be patched up on the field.

"I've got a chance! I've got a chance!" exulted Andy.

But it was not rejoicing at the other fellows' misfortunes. Unless you have played football you can not understand Andy's real feelings.

The first quarter ended with neither side making a score, and there was a consultation on both teams during the little breathing spell.

"We've got to do more line plunging," thought Andy, and he was right, for Yale began that sort of a game when the whistle blew again. The wisdom of it was apparent, for at once the ball began to go down toward Harvard's goal, once Yale got possession of the pigskin after an exchange of kicks.

"That's the way! That's the way!" yelled Andy. "Touchdown! Touchdown!"

This was being yelled all over the Yale stands. But it was not to be. After some magnificent playing, and bucking that tore the Harvard line apart again and again, time for the half was called, Yale having the ball on Harvard's eight-yard line. Another play might have taken it over.

But both teams had been forced to call on more substitutes, and Harvard lost her best punter. Yale suffered, too, in the withdrawal of Michaels, a star end.

The third quarter had not been long under way when, following a scrimmage, a knot of Yale players gathered about a prostrate figure.

"Who is it? Who is it?" was asked on all sides.

"Brooks—right half!" was the despondent answer. "This cooks our goose!"

"Blair—Blair!" cried the coach. "Get in there! Rip 'em up!"

A mist swam before Andy's eyes. Some one fairly pulled him from the bench, and his sweater was ripped off him, one sleeve tearing out. But what did it matter—he had a chance to play!

"We've got to buck their line!" the freshman captain whispered in his ear. "They're weak there, and we dare not kick too much. Our ends can't get down fast enough. I'm going to send you through for all you're worth."

"All right!" gasped Andy. His mouth was dry—his throat parched.

"Steady there! Steady!" warned the coach.

"Ready, Yale?" asked the referee.

"Yes!"

Again the whistle blew. Yale had the ball, and on the first play Andy was sent bucking the line with it. He hit it hard, and felt himself being pushed and pulled through. Some one seemed in his way, and then a body gave suddenly and limply, and he lurched forward.

"First down!" he heard some one yell. He had gained the required distance. Yale would not have to kick.

Panting, trembling, with a wild, eager rage to again get into the fight, Andy waited for the signal. A forward pass was to be tried. He was glad he was not to buck the line again.

The pass was not completed, and the ball was brought back. Again came a play—a double pass that netted a little. Yale was slowly gaining.

But now Harvard took a brace and held for downs so that Yale had to kick. Then the Crimson took her turn at rushing the ball down the field by a series of desperate plunges. Yale's goal was in danger when the saving whistle for the third quarter shrilled out.

"Fellows, we've got to get 'em now or never!" cried the Yale captain, fiercely. "Break your necks—but get a touchdown!"

Once more the line-up. Andy's ears were ringing. He could scarcely hear the signals for the cheering from the stands. He was called upon to smash through the line, and did manage to make a small gain. But it was not enough. It was the second down. The other back was called on, and went through after good interference, making the necessary gain.

"We've got 'em on the run!" exulted Yale.

The blue team was within striking distance of the Harvard goal. The signal came for a kick in an attempt to send the ball over the crossbar.

How it happened no one could say. It was one of the fumbles that so often occur in a football game—fumbles that spell victory for one team and defeat for another. The Yale full-back reached out his hands for the pigskin, caught it and—dropped it. There was a rush of men toward him, and some one's foot kicked the ball. It rolled toward Andy. In a flash he had it tucked under his arm, and started in a wild dash for the Harvard goal line.

"Get him! Get that man!"

"Smear him!"

"Interference! Interference! Get after him!"

"It's Blair! Andy Blair!"

"Yale's ball!"

"Go on, you beggar! Run! Run!"

"Touchdown! Touchdown!"

There was a wild riot of yells. With his ears ringing as with the jangle of a thousand bells, with his lungs nearly bursting, and his eyes scarcely seeing, Andy ran on.

He had ten yards to go—thirty feet—and between him and the goal was the Harvard full-back—a big youth. Andy heard stamping feet behind him. They were those of friends and foes, but no friends could help him now.

Straight at the Harvard back he ran—panting, desperate. The Crimson player crouched, waiting for him. Andy dodged. He was midway between the side lines. He circled. The Harvard back turned and raced after him, intent on driving him out of bounds. That was what Andy did not want, but he did want to wind his opponent. Again Andy circled and dodged. The other followed his every move.

Then Andy came straight at him again, with outstretched hand to ward him off. There was a clash of bodies, and Andy felt himself encircled in a fatal embrace. He hurled himself forward, for he could see the goal line beneath his feet. Over he went, bearing the Harvard player backward, and, when they fell with a crash, Andy reached out, his arms over his head, and planted the ball beyond the goal line. He had made the winning touchdown!



CHAPTER XXII

ANDY SAYS "NO!"

Men were thumping each other on the back. Some had smashed their hats over other persons' heads. Others had broken their canes from much exuberant pounding on the floors of the stands.

Everyone was yelling. On one side there was a forest of blue flags waving up and down, sideways, around in circles. Pretty girls were clinging to their escorts and laughing hysterically. The escorts themselves scarcely noticed the said pretty girls, for they were gazing down on the field—the field about which were scattered eleven players in blue, and eleven in dull red, all motionless now, amazed or joyful, according to their color, over the feat of Andy Blair.

On the Harvard stands there was glumness. The red banners slumped in nerveless hands. It had come as a shock. They had been so sure that Yale could not score—what matter if the Crimson could not herself—if she could keep the mighty Bulldog from biting a hole in her goal line?

But it was not to be. Yale had won. There was no time to play more. Yale had won—somewhat by a fluke, it is true, but she had won nevertheless. Flukes count in football—fumbles sometimes make the game—for the other fellow.

"Oh, you Andy Blair!"

"It's a touchdown!"

"Yale wins!"

"Yale! Yale! Yale!"

Some one started the "Boola" song, and it was roared out mightily. Then came the locomotive cheer.

Slowly Andy got up from behind the Harvard goal line. The other player who had tackled him, but too late, himself arose. His face was white and drawn, not from any physical pain, though the fall of himself and Andy had not been gentle. It was from the sting of defeat.

"Well—well," he faltered, gulping hard. "You got by me, old man!"

"I—I had to," gasped Andy, for neither had his breath yet.

The other players came crowding up.

"It'll be the dickens of a job to kick a goal from there with that wind," spoke the Yale captain. "But we'll try it."

The whistle ending the game had blown, but time was allowed for a try at kicking the ball over the crossbar. A hush fell over the assemblage while the ball was taken out and the player stretched out to hold it for the kicker. The referee stood with upraised hand, to indicate when the ball started to rise—the signal that the Harvard players might rush from behind their goal in an attempt, seldom successful, to block the kick.

The hand fell. There was a dull boom. The ball rose and sailed toward the posts as the Harvard team rushed out. And then fate again favored Yale, for a little puff of wind carried the spheroid just inside the posts and over the bar. The goal had been kicked, adding to Yale's points. She had won.

Once more the cheers broke forth, and Andy's team-mates surrounded him. They slapped him on the back; they called him all sorts of harsh-sounding but endearing names; they jostled him to and fro.

"Come on, now!" cried the Yale captain. "A cheer for Harvard! No better players in the world! Altogether, boys!"

It was a ringing tribute.

And then the vanquished, tasting the bitterness of defeat, sent forth their acclaim of the lads who had bested them.

Andy found himself in the midst of a mad throng, of which his own mates formed but a small part, for the field was now overflowing with the spectators who had rushed down from the stands.

Some one pushed a way through and grabbed Andy by the hand.

"You did it, old man! You did it!" a frantic voice exclaimed. "I give you credit for it, Andy!"

Andy found himself confronting Chet.

"I told you we'd win," answered Andy, with a laugh.

"Yes, but you never said you were going to do it yourself," spoke Chet, ruefully.

"Come on, fellows, up with him!" called the quarterback, and before Andy could stop them they had lifted him to their shoulders, while behind the students had formed themselves into a queue to do the serpentine dance.

Cheer after cheer was given, and then the team passed into the dressing rooms, and into comparative quiet. Comparative quiet only, for the players were babbling among themselves, living the game over again.

"And to think that a substitute did it, after we've thought ourselves the whole show all season," groaned one of the regulars.

"Oh, well, it was just an accident," said Andy, modestly.

"A mighty lucky accident for Yale, my friend!" exclaimed Holwell. "May there be more of such accidents!"

Back in the gymnasium, later, after a refreshing shower, Andy managed to get away from the admiring crowd, and finding Chet took him to his room. Dunk was there before them.

"This is a great and noble occasion!" he cried, as Andy came in. "I'm proud of you, my boy! Proud! Put her there!"

Andy sent his hand into that of his roommate with a resounding whack.

"We've got to celebrate!" cried Dunk. "The freshman football season is over. You break training. You've got to celebrate!"

"I don't mind—in a mild sort of way," laughed Andy.

"Oh, strictly proper—strictly proper!" agreed Dunk.

"I think I'd better be getting back," remarked Chet.

"No, stay and see the fun," insisted Dunk, and Chet agreed to do so.

There came a rush of feet along the corridor, and some one whistled "See the conquering hero comes!"