"Yes, we stopped in at his room after supper," answered Steve. "Is he——" He hesitated.

Miller laughed. "Go on and say it, Edwards! Is he what?"

"I was going to ask if he was liked."

"Oh, yes, Daley's all right. Rather shy, but he's young yet. This is only his second year. You'll like him better when you've known him awhile. What form are you fellows in?"

"Fourth. At least, we hope we are."

"Oh, you'll make it. They'll put you in, anyway, and then drop you back if you don't keep up. That's a pleasant little trick of theirs here. You'll have Daley in French and German. Take my advice and don't have fun with him just because you can. Most of the new fellows try to make life a burden to him because he gets kind of rattled and tries to swallow his tongue when he talks. But they're generally sorry for it later. He stands about so much and then—bing! Off you go to Josh! And here's another tip, fellows. Always be dead serious with 'Uncle Sim.' That's Mr. Simkins, Greek instructor. If you can look as if you'd lost all your friends and bitten your tongue you'll make a big hit with him. He doesn't know a joke even when it's labelled and can't stand any flippancy. I made a pun in class once; I've forgotten what it was, but it was a bright and scintillant little effort; and Uncle Sim told me I'd end on the gallows. He's never forgotten that and still views me with deep suspicion."

"We will try to remember," laughed Steve. "I suppose you are in the Sixth Form?"

"Yes, this is my last year here. I ought to have been out last year, but I slipped a cog when I first came and got dropped a form. You see, I made the mistake of thinking that the principal branches were Football, Baseball and Hockey. When I'd woke up to the fact that a little attention to mathematics and languages and such foolishness was required it was too late, and—plop!—sound of falling!"

Steve recalled a similar warning of his father's and silently made up his mind then and there to not make Miller's mistake.

"Do you play football?" asked Tom. "I mean, are you on the team?"

"Yes, I—I'm on the team." Miller's smile had an odd quality that puzzled Tom at the moment. "You chaps know the game?"

"Steve has played more than I have," replied Tom. "He was on our high school team at left end last year. He's pretty good, Steve is. I didn't make the 'Varsity, but I played a couple of years with the scrubs."

"Tom plays a good game," said Steve. "I suppose it's pretty hard to get on the team here."

"About the same as anywhere," answered Miller. "If you show the goods you're all right." He viewed Steve speculatively and then turned an appraising gaze on Tom. "You chaps look pretty fit for this time of year. What do you weigh, Edwards?"



"About a hundred and thirty-eight."

"You look solid, too," said Miller approvingly. "You chaps show up in togs day after to-morrow at four. Look me up and I'll see that you get a good chance to show what you can do. Where have you played, Hall?"

"At tackle, mostly. I played half a little last fall."

"You look rather likely, I think. Don't be disappointed if you don't make the first or second this year, fellows. Keep going. There's your hall team. Try for that. You'll get lots of good fun and experience. I tell you this not to discourage you but because we've kept a lot of last year's fellows and it's going to be harder than usual to break into the first team, I guess. And that means that a good many of the second team fellows will be disappointed and will have to stay where they are. Hard on them, but lucky for the school. I don't know whether you chaps understand the football situation with us?"

"I don't believe so," replied Steve.

"Well, it's like this. When I came here four years ago there wasn't any team. Before that, five or six years before, they'd played, but about that time football got into disfavour and the faculty stopped it. I believe they allowed the hall teams to play, but that didn't last long. My second year here they lifted the ban and we started a team. Of course it didn't amount to much that first year and we got licked right and left. The next year, though, we did a good deal better, and last year we turned out a mighty good team. We lost only two games out of nine and tied one. Unfortunately, though, one of the games we lost was the game with Claflin, which is our big game of the year. Claflin has beaten us three years running now and this year we're out for revenge with a rolling R. Considering that we've played only three seasons, we've got a pretty good start. Our coach is a dandy, a chap named Robey; played with Brown the year they downed Pennsy; and he's been building up this year's team ever since he started in. At first we didn't have more than forty candidates to choose from. Last year about sixty fellows turned out and this fall I guess we'll have nearer eighty. Robey started the hall teams up again year before last and that helped a lot. The best of the hall team chaps went into the second last year, and now, this year, we've got fellows with three years' experience behind them. So, you see, Edwards, we haven't got much football history at Brimfield and our system is still pretty new, but we're getting on! And this fall if we don't lick Claflin—well, if we don't, I'll have missed my guess."

Miller's lean, good-looking face had lighted up with enthusiasm during his recital, and, when he had ended, as though impatient to begin the campaign which was to end in the rout of the enemy, he got up and took a turn the length of the room. He didn't look the least bit in the world like a confidence-man to-night and the two boys marvelled at their earlier suspicions. Miller was tall, lean with the leanness of muscles unhampered by useless flesh, and lithe. He had very clear brown eyes, a straight nose and high cheek bones that somehow reminded Steve of the engraved portrait of John C. Calhoun that hung in the library at home. Altogether, from the top of his well-shaped head to the soles of his rubber-shod feet, he was good to look at, clean-cut, well-groomed, healthy and very much alive. Steve found himself wishing that some day he might find himself playing shoulder to shoulder with Miller. He hated to think what would happen to the enemy in such a case!

Miller paused at the table, thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled a trifle apologetically. "Well, that's the way it is, you chaps," he went on. "So, whether you make the first or the second or neither, you keep on playing and trying. There's another year coming for you fellows; two of them, in fact. Keep that in mind, and if you don't get what you want this year keep plugging. And don't fail to come out Wednesday and do your best. You'll get a fair show and if you can play the game well enough you'll get places. Now I must run along with my bag. I'm glad to have met you chaps. If I can help you in any way don't fail to call on me. You'll find me in 7 Hensey. Come and see me anyway. Miller's the name. And, by the way, I'm glad you chaps took my little joke so decently and didn't get waxy about it. If you had, I'd probably have told it around and you'd have got a lot of joshing. As it is, no one knows it and no one will. Good-night."

And Miller, his suit-case in hand, smiled, nodded and went out. They could hear him whistling merrily until the landing door had closed behind him.

"I meant to ask him what position he played," said Steve regretfully. "I'll bet he's a corker, though!"

"I'll bet you he is," agreed Tom warmly.

"And he seemed a rattling good sort, too, didn't he?"

"Yes. And I'm glad I lost my bag. If I hadn't we mightn't have known him, seeing that he's a Sixth Form fellow."

"I guess he's sort of prominent," mused Tom. "He gives you the idea of being someone, doesn't he?"

"Oh, he's someone, all right! Do you think he really wants us to call on him, Tom? Or—or was he just being polite?"

"Both, I guess. I don't suppose we'd better call unless he asks us again. We don't want to act fresh, you know. Besides," and Tom smiled mischievously, "I'm not sure we ought to associate with him."

"Why not?" asked Steve incredulously.

"Well, seeing that he's a confidence-man——"



CHAPTER VIII

IN THE RUBBING ROOM

After breakfast the next morning, a breakfast eaten with excellent appetites, the two boys set out on a sightseeing tour about the school. They went first to the gymnasium. The big front door was locked, but Steve was not to be denied and eventually gained entrance through a little door at the rear which led into the boiler-room and from there found their way into the main basement where were situated the big swimming tank, a commodious baseball cage and a bowling alley. On the floor above they found themselves in a square hall, entered from the front door, from which other doors led to the gymnasium, the locker and bathrooms and a small office bearing the sign "Physical Director." From the hall a fireproof stairway ascended with a turn to the running-track and a large room which was evidently used as a meeting hall. Settees were neatly arranged in front of a platform, a row of low windows admitted a flood of morning sunshine and against the walls hung many photographs of athletic teams. Most of them showed groups of track and field men, although a few were of hockey sevens and there were three football teams in evidence. The explorers paid more attention to these photographs than the others, and Steve, whose patriotism was already strong, read the inscriptions on the lower margins with disfavour.

"Huh!" he grumbled. "'Brimfield 0; Claflin 12'; 'Brimfield 3; Claflin 11'; 'Brimfield 6; Claflin 9.' Bet you next time it'll be some different, Tom!"

"Rather!" said Tom stoutly. "Let's go on down and see the gym."

They tried the chest-weights and tested the bars and experimented with about everything they found down there, and then went into the adjoining compartment and peered into the shower-baths and passed on the merits of the steel lockers.

"The fellow who built this gym knew what he was doing," declared Steve approvingly. "Some of these lockers have got things in them," he continued, peeping into one. "There's a bat in here, and a towel and some clothes."

Tom had wandered through a doorway at the end of the locker compartment and now summoned Steve to join him. There was a high table in the centre of the small room and a set of metal shelves alongside which held numerous bottles and boxes. "It's the rubbing room," said Steve. "Here, get busy, Tom!" And he hoisted himself to the table and stretched out on his back.

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "Where's it hurt you? This the spot?"

And Tom began such an enthusiastic manipulation of Steve's ribs that the latter set up a howl and precipitately tumbled off the table. It was at that moment that an unpleasant voice startled them.

"Beat it, you fresh kids! You've got no business in here!"

The speaker was a heavy-set youth of perhaps nineteen years of age. He had closely-cropped ashy-brown hair over a round face from which a pair of pale-blue eyes glowered upon them. He was standing in the doorway and his hands were thrust into the pockets of a pair of very wide-hipped knickerbockers. Somehow, standing there with his sturdy, golf-stockinged legs well apart and his loose trousers pulled out at the sides, he reminded Tom of a clown at a circus, and Tom made the mistake of grinning. The big youth caught sight of the grin and stepped into the rubbing room with a deepening scowl on his face.

"Wipe it off!" he said threateningly.

Steve and Tom looked at the table.

"Wipe what off?" asked Tom, at a loss.

"Wipe that grin off your ugly face," answered the other. "And get out of here, both of you, and stay out. If you don't, I'll throw you out!"

This somewhat astounding threat caused an exchange of surprised glances between the culprits. Neither Steve nor Tom were quarrelsome, nor had they had more than a boy's usual share of fist battles, but the bullying speech and attitude of the round-faced youth was so uncalled for and exasperating that Steve's temper got the better of him for the moment.

"We weren't doing any harm here," he declared indignantly. "And we'll get out, but we're not afraid of you, even if you have got piano legs!"

The big fellow pulled his hands from his pockets with an angry growl and, clenching his fists, strode toward the boys. But at that instant footsteps sounded in the locker room, and the bully's hands dropped and he turned his head toward the door just as a small, red-haired and freckle-faced little Irishman came into sight.

"Hello, Eric the Red," he said jovially. "An' what might you be doin' down here, me boy?"

"I'm telling these fresh kids to get out of here," replied the youth. "Any objections?"

The little Irishman seemed surprised, and he smiled, but the boys noted that his small and rather greenish eyes narrowed.

"None at all, at all, me boy. If I had I'd very soon tell you, d'ye see? But what harm are they doin'? Sure, if I don't mind them bein' here, why would you?"

"They haven't any business in this room, and you know it, Danny. They're too fresh, anyway."

"Well, that's what we all are at some time. Let the boys be. Was you wantin' anything, boys?"

"No, we were just looking around the place. This door was open and we came in. We didn't know there was any harm in it," concluded Steve.

"No more there was," said Danny soothingly.

"They were rough-housing all over the place," growled the big fellow. "If you can stand it I can, though. Only"—and he turned a wrathful gaze on Steve—"if you ever get fresh with me again you'll get the licking that's coming to you, kid." He turned away toward the locker room. "Say, Danny, got a key to my locker? I've lost mine and I want to get into it a minute."

"I have not," replied Danny cheerfully. "You'll have to have one fitted, me boy."

"Hasn't anyone a master-key?" demanded the other.

"They have not. Find Patsy; he'll fit one for you in ten minutes."

"That's a funny state of things," grumbled the big fellow. "They ought to have duplicates on hand. Somebody's always losing a key, and——"

The rest was lost as the youth disappeared into the further room. Danny winked gravely at the two boys.

"Who is he?" asked Steve curiously.

"Him? His name's Sawyer, Eric Sawyer. He is sufferin' from a terrible complaint, boys, an' it makes him that cross a bear would run away from him, I'm thinkin'!"

"What's the trouble with him?"

"He has what the doctors do be callin' an ingrowin' grouch," replied Danny soberly. "'Tis due to over-exposure of the ego, they tell me, resultin' in an inflamed condition of the amoor proper, that same bein' French an' maybe beyond your comprehension."

The boys laughed and Danny swung himself to the table and patted it invitingly. "Sit down, boys, an' tell me all about it," he said. "Who may you be, now?"

"His name is Hall and mine is Edwards," replied Steve, as he and Tom followed Danny's example and swung their feet from the table. "We're new boys."

"I suspected as much," replied Danny drily. "An' where might be your place of residence?"

"Tannersville, Pennsylvania."

"Think o' that now!" marvelled Danny. "Sure, you're a long ways from home. Is this place you say anywhere near Philadelphia?"

"Oh, no, it's a long ways from there. It's out in the western part of the state."

"I was in Philadelphia once to see the games at the college over there," pursued Danny. "It's a fine town."

"Would you mind—telling us who you are?" asked Tom.

"I would not. I have no unseemly pride. My name is Mister Daniel Parnell Moore, and I have the extraordinary honour of bein' the trainer at this institution o' learnin' and Fine Arts, the Fine Arts bein' athletics, football, baseball, hockey an' tinnis. An' now you know!"

"Thank you," said Tom politely. "I hope you didn't mind my asking you."

"Not a bit! You may ask me anything you like, Jim."

"My name isn't Jim," replied Tom, with a smile.

"It ain't?" The trainer seemed surprised. "Sure, he said your last name was Hall, didn't he? An' I never seen a Hall whose front name wasn't Jim."

"I'm sorry," laughed Tom, "but mine isn't; it's Tom."

Danny Moore shook his head sadly. "An' you," he said, turning to Steve, "maybe you'll be tellin' me next your name ain't Sam?"

"It's Steve."

"It might be," agreed Danny doubtfully. "But all the Edwardses I ever knew was Sams. But I'm not disputin' your word, d'ye mind! 'Tis likely you know, me boy. An' what do you think o' this rural paradise o' knowledge?"

"I guess we like it pretty well, what we've seen of it," answered Steve. "Have you been here long?"

"Two years; this is my third. It's a nice schools, as schools go. I never had much use for them, though. In the Old Country we never held with them much when I was a lad. I dare say you boys'll be tryin' to play football like all the rest of them?"

"We're going out for the team," said Steve, "although I guess, from what a fellow told us last night, we don't stand much show. He said that most of the last year's players were back this fall."

"That's so. We lost but four by graduation. They were some o' the best in the bunch, though. 'Tis queer how the ones that is gone is always the best, ain't it? Who was this feller you was talkin' to?"

"His name is Miller. Do you know him? I suppose you must, though."

"Miller? Do you mean Andy Miller?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell us his other name."

"The initials were A. L. M., though," reminded Tom.

"That's right. Is he a pretty good player?"

"He does fairly well," answered Danny Moore carelessly. "Not that I pay much heed to him, though. I see him around sometimes. I wouldn't think much of what he tells you, though. I don't. If you see him I'd be obliged if you'd tell him that."

But there was a twinkle in Danny's eye and Steve resolved to tell Miller no such thing. "What position does he play?" he asked.

Danny frowned thoughtfully. "It might be end, right or left. I forget. I pay no heed to the likes o' him. He's only the captain, d'ye see?"

"Captain!" exclaimed the two boys startledly, eyeing each other in amazement.

"Sure," said Danny. "An' why not?"

"Er—there's no reason," replied Steve, "only—he didn't say anything about being captain."

"And why would he be after incriminating himself?" Danny demanded.

The boys digested this news in silence for a moment. Then,

"Does that fellow who was just in here play?" asked Tom.

"He does. He plays right guard, and he plays it well. I'll say that for him. Well, it's catchin' no fish I am sittin' here gassin' with you fellers. Make yourselves to home. I must be gettin' on."

"I guess we'll go, too," said Steve.

They followed the trainer up the stairway to the hall above. There he pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the big front door for them. "Now, look at that, will you?" he exclaimed in amazement as he turned a small key over between his fingers. "I wouldn't be surprised if that key would fit them lockers down there. Ain't that a pity, an' him wantin' it all the time?"

The boys smiled and agreed gravely that it was. Danny sighed, shook his head and dropped the keys back into his pocket. "If you have trouble with him," he said to Steve, "hit for his head, boy, for you'll make no impression on the body of him."

"Thanks, but I don't expect he will bother me again."

"I know. I'm only tellin' you. A word to the wise, d'ye mind? Good luck to you, boys."

"Thanks. We're much obliged to you, Mr. Moore."

"Mr. Moore! Help! Listen." And Danny bent confidentially. "I won't be mindin' if you call me Mister Moore when we're by ourselves, d'ye see; but don't be doin' it in the presence of others. Them as didn't know might think I was one of the faculty, d'ye see. Call me Danny an' save me self-respect!"

When the door had closed behind them on the grinning countenance of Danny, Steve looked at his watch and exclaimed startledly.

"Nearly ten o'clock!" he said. "And we promised to telegraph to the folks this morning. Let's see if the trunks have come and then hustle to the telegraph office."



CHAPTER IX

BACK IN TOGS

Brimfield Academy was in full swing. The term was a day old and one hundred and fifty-three youths of various ages from twelve to twenty had settled down, more or less earnestly, to the school routine. In 12 Billings trunks had been unpacked and the room had taken on a look of comfort and coziness, although several things were yet lacking to complete its livableness. For instance, an easy-chair of some sort was a crying necessity, a drop-light would help a lot, and a cushion and some pillows on the window-seat were much needed. Tom argued that if the window-seat was furnished they would not require an easy-chair, but Steve held out for the added luxury.

Both boys, Steve by a narrower margin than he suspected, had made the Fourth Form, and this afternoon, as they expeditiously changed into football togs, their glances more than once stole to the imposing piles of books on the study table, books which hinted at many future hours of hard work. Steve, pulling on a pair of much worn and discoloured canvas trousers, sighed as his eye measured again the discouraging height of his pile. It was almost enough to spoil in advance the pleasure he looked forward to on the gridiron!

The athletic field lay behind the school buildings and was a fine level expanse of green turf some twelve acres in extent. There were three gridirons, a baseball diamond, a quarter-mile running-track and a round dozen of tennis courts there. A well-built iron-framed stand, erected in sections, and mounted on small wide-tread wheels could be moved about as occasion required, and at present was standing in the middle of the south side of the football field. On the whole Brimfield had reason to be proud of her athletic equipment, field and gymnasium, as well as of her other advantages.

The scene along the Row as the two friends clattered out of Billings was vastly different from that presented the afternoon of their arrival. Now the walk was alive with boys, heads protruded from open casements and wandering couples could be seen lounging along the gate drive or over the sloping lawn that descended to the road. First practice had been called for four o'clock and the big dial in the ivy-draped tower of Main Hall pointed its hands to three-forty when Steve and Tom turned into the path between Torrence and Wendell leading to the gymnasium and the field beyond. Already, however, the fellows were turning their steps that way, some in playing togs but more in ordinary attire, the latter, yielding to the lure of a warm September afternoon, bent on finding an hour's entertainment stretched comfortably at ease along a side line or perched on the stand.

"That's pretty, isn't it?" asked Tom, as they looked across the nearer turf to where the broad expanse of playing ground, bordered on its further side by a wooded slope, stretched before them. The early frosts had already slightly touched the trees over there, and hints of russet-yellow and brick-red showed amongst the green. Nearer than that, more colour was supplied by an occasional dark red sweater amongst the groups loitering about the edge of the gridiron.

"It surely is pretty," agreed Steve. "I wonder if Miller's there yet. He told us to look him up, you know."

"Maybe he will give us a send-off to the coach," suggested Tom. "He could, you know, since he is captain. I guess it won't do us any harm—me, anyway—to have someone speak a word for us, eh?"

"Wonder what the coach is like," said Steve, nodding agreement. "Miller seemed to think he was pretty good. That's a dandy turf there, Tom; level as a table. They haven't marked the gridiron out yet, though."

"I suppose they don't need it for a day or two," replied the other, trying not to feel self-conscious as he neared the crowd already on hand. "I don't see Miller, do you?"

Steve shook his head, after a glance about him, and, rolling his hands in the folds of his sweater, not because the weather was cold but because that was a habit of his, seated himself at the bottom of the stand. Tom followed him and they looked about them and conversed in low voices while the throng grew with every minute. So far neither had made any acquaintances save that of Andy Miller—unless Eric Sawyer could be called such!—and they felt a little bit out of it as they saw other boys joyously hailing each other, stopping to shake hands or exchange affectionate blows, or waving greetings from a distance. They had made the discovery, by the way, that the proper word of salutation at Brimfield was "Hi"! It was invariably "Hi, Billy"! "Hi, Joe"! and the usual "Hello" was never heard. Eventually Steve and Tom became properly addicted to the "Hi"! habit, but it was some time before they were able to keep from showing their newness by "Helloing" each other.

The stand became sprinkled with youths and the turf along the edge of the gridiron held many more. A man of apparently thirty years of age, wearing a grey Norfolk suit and a cap to match, appeared at the corner of the stand just as the bell in Main Hall struck four sonorous peals. He was accompanied by three boys in togs, one of them Captain Miller. The coach was a clean-cut chap with a nice face and a medium-sized, wiry figure. He had sandy hair and eyebrows that were almost white, and his sharp blue eyes sparkled from a deeply tanned face upon which, at the moment, a very pleasant smile played. But even as Steve and Tom watched him the smile died abruptly and he pulled a black leather memorandum book from a pocket and fluttered its leaves in a businesslike way.

Miller had predicted that this fall some eighty candidates would appear, but he had evidently been over-sanguine. Sixty seemed nearer the correct number than eighty. But even sixty-odd looked a good many as they gradually gathered nearer the coach. Steve and Tom slipped from their places and joined the throng.

"Last year's first and second team players take the east end of the field," directed Mr. Robey. "All others remain here. I'm going to tell you right now, fellows, that there's going to be a whole lot of hard work this fall, and any of you who don't like hard work had better keep away. This is a good time to quit. You'll save your time and mine too. All right now! Take some balls with you, Milton, and warm up until I get down there. Now, then, you new men, give me your names. Where's Lawrence? Not here yet? All right. What's your name and what experience have you had, my boy?"

One by one the candidates answered the coach's questions and then trotted into the field where Eric Sawyer was in command. Andy Miller and Danny Moore stood at the coach's elbow during this ceremony, and when, toward the last, Steve and Tom edged up, they were greeted by both.

"Here's the fine lad," said Danny, who caught sight of Steve before Miller did. "Mr. Sam Edwards, Coach, a particular friend of mine."

Steve, rather embarrassed, started to say that his name was not Sam, but Miller interrupted him.

"So here you are, Edwards? Glad to see you again. I've been looking for you and Hall to drop in on me. How are you, Hall? Robey, these two have had some experience on their high school team and I think they'll bear watching. Shake hands with Mr. Robey, Edwards."

"Glad to know you," said the coach. "What's your position, Edwards?"

"I've been playing end, sir."

"End, eh? You look fast, too. We'll see what you can do, my boy. And you,—er——"

"Jim Hall," supplied Danny. "Another close friend o' me boyhood, sir, an' a fine lad, too, be-dad!"

"Tackle, sir, mostly," replied Tom.

"It's a relief to find a couple who aren't bent on being backs," said the coach with a smile to Miller. "All right, fellows. We'll give you all the chance in the world. Report to Sawyer now."

Steve and Tom, with the parting benediction of a portentious wink from Danny Moore, joined the thirty-odd candidates of many ages and sizes who, formed in two rings, were passing footballs under the stern and frowning regard of Eric Sawyer. They edged their way into one of the circles and were soon earnestly catching and tossing with the rest. If Sawyer recognised them as the boys who had aroused his ire in the rubbing room the day before, he showed no sign of it. It is probable, though, that their football attire served as a sufficient disguise. Sawyer apparently took his temporary position as assistant coach very seriously and bore himself with frowning dignity. But it was not at all beneath his dignity to call erring candidates to order or to indulge in a good deal of heavy satire at the expense of those whose inexperience made them awkward. Neither Steve nor Tom, however, fell under the ban of his displeasure.

Falling on the ball followed the passing, and, in turn, gave place to starting and sprinting. For this they were formed in line and Sawyer, leaning over a ball at one end of the line, snapped it away as a signal for them to leap forward. By that time the warmth of the day and the exertion had tuckered a good many of them out and Sawyer found much fault with the performances.

"Oh, get moving, you chap in the black shirt there! Watch the ball and dig when I snap it! That's it! Go it! Hard! All right for you, but about a dozen of you other chaps got left entirely. Now get down there and throw your weight forward. Haven't any of you ever practised starts before? Anyone would think your feet were glued down! Get in line again. Ready now! Go, you flock of ice-wagons!"

Fortunately for the softer members of the awkward squad, practice was soon over to-day, and Steve and Tom somewhat wearily tramped back with the rest across to the gymnasium, determined to have the luxury of a shower-bath even if they would have to get back into their togs again after it.

"We'd better see about getting lockers," said Steve. "I wonder where you go."

"They cost a dollar a year," answered Tom, who knew the contents of the school catalogue by heart, "and if we don't make the team we won't need the lockers."

"Sure we will. If we use the swimming pool we'll need a place to keep our clothes. And even if we don't make the big teams we'll play with the Hall, probably. Wish we had them now and didn't have to go back to the room to change. I'm tired, if you care to know it!"

"So am I," panted Tom. "Sawyer worked us hard for a warm day."

"Yes, and did you notice that fat fellow? There he is ahead there, with the striped stockings. He was just about all in and puffing like a locomotive."

"He was probably tender," said Tom.

"Yes, he—Tender! That'll do for you!" said Steve indignantly, aiming a blow at Tom's ribs which was skilfully evaded. "Let's stop at the office in here and see if we can get lockers."

They could. Moreover, Mr. Conklin, the physical director, informed them, to their deep satisfaction, that the charge of one dollar each would be placed on their term bill if they wished. They wished with instant enthusiasm and departed, keys in hand, to find their lockers. They found the room thronged with fellows in various stages of undressing, while from the baths came deep groans and shrill shrieks and the hiss and splash of water. Their lockers were side by side at the farther end of the last aisle; and, after making certain that the keys fitted them, they began to get out of their clothes, only to make the discovery when partly disrobed that they had no towels.

"I'm going to ask someone to lend me one," said Steve. "You can use an end of it if I get it. I'm going to have that shower or bust."

A cheerful-faced youth draped in a frayed bathrobe came up at that moment and Steve sought counsel of him.

"Towel? I'd lend you one in a minute, but mine are all soiled. You can see for yourself." He nodded toward the open door of his locker on the floor of which lay a pile of what were evidently bath towels. "I forgot to send them to the wash before I went away in the spring. If you ask Danny he might let you have one. I guess he's around somewhere."

Steve found the trainer leaning against the doorway of the rubbing room. "'Tis Sam Edwards!" greeted Danny. "An' how did it go to-day, me boy?"

"Pretty good, thanks. Could you lend me a couple of towels, Mister—er—Danny?"

"I doubt have I got any, but I'll look an' see," and Danny disappeared into the room behind him.

"Here you are, Sam," he said in a moment. "They're small but select. Fetch 'em back when you're through with 'em, if you please. They're school property, d'ye mind, and it's me that's answerable for them."

Steve promised faithfully to restore them and bore them back in triumph to where Tom had paused in his undressing to await the result of the errand. A minute later they were puffing and blowing in adjoining baths, with the icy-cold water raining down on their glowing bodies. A brisk drying with the borrowed towels, a return to their uninviting togs and they were ready to be off. Steve couldn't find Danny, but he left the towels on the table in the rubbing room and he and Tom climbed the stairs again. In the hall above there was a large notice board and Tom stopped to glance at some of the announcements pinned against it.

"Here a minute, Steve," he said. "Look at this." He laid a finger on a square of paper which bore in almost illegible writing this remarkable notice: "What Will You Give? Dirt Cheap! Terms Cash! One fine oak Morris chair, good as new. Three cushions, very pretty. One pair of skates. Eight phonograph records. Large assortment of bric-a-brac. Any fair offer takes them! Call early and avoid disappointment. Durkin, 13 Torrence."

"Is it a joke?" asked Steve doubtfully.

"No, there are lots of them, see." Sure enough, the board held fully a dozen similar announcements, although the others were not couched in such breezy language. There were chairs, cushions, tables, pictures, golf clubs, rugs and all sorts of things advertised for sale, while one chap sought a purchaser for "a stuffed white owl, mounted on a branch, slightly moth-eaten. Cash or exchange for books."

Steve laughed. "What do you know about that?" he asked. "Say, why don't we look at some of the things, Tom? Maybe we could save money. Let's call on Mr. Durkin and look at his Morris chair, eh?"

"All right. Come ahead. Anything else we want?"

"I don't suppose we could pick up a cushion that would fit our window-seat, but we might. I'll write down some of the names and rooms."

"We might buy the white owl, Steve. Ever think you'd like a white owl?"

"Not with moths in it, thanks," replied Steve. There was pen and ink on the ledge outside the window of the physical director's office and Steve secured paper by tearing a corner from one of the notices. When he had scribbled down the addresses that sounded promising they set off for Torrence Hall. Number 13 was on the second floor, and as they drew near it their ears were afflicted by most dismal sounds.

"Wha-what's that?" asked Tom in alarm.

"Fiddle," laughed Steve. "Wonder if it's Mr. Durkin."

The wailing sounds ceased as Steve knocked and a voice called "Come in!" When they entered they saw a tall, lank youth standing in front of a music-rack close to the window. He held a violin to his chin and waved his bow in greeting.

"Hi!" he said. "Sit down and I'll be right with you. I've got one bit here that's been bothering me for an hour." He turned back to his music, waved his bow in the air, laid it across the strings and drew forth sounds that made the visitors squirm in the chairs they had taken. One excruciating wail after another came from the tortured instrument, the lank youth bending absorbedly over the notes in the failing light and apparently quite oblivious to the presence of the others. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, he laid his bow on the ledge of the stand, stood his violin in a corner of the window-seat and turned to the visitors.

He was an odd-looking chap, tall and thin, with a long, lean face under a mop of black hair that was badly in need of trimming. His near-sighted eyes blinked from behind the round lenses of a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles and his rather nondescript clothes seemed on the point of falling off of him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said politely, "but it's getting dark and I did want to get that thing before I quit. Want to buy something?"



CHAPTER X

"CHEAP FOR CASH"

"Yes, we saw that you had a Morris chair," replied Steve. He glanced perplexedly around the room. There was no Morris chair in sight, nor were any of the other articles advertised to be seen. "That is, if you're Durkin."

"That's me. The chair is downstairs in the storeroom. It's a corking chair, all right, and you're sure to want it. I'm sorry, though, you didn't get around before it got so dark, because the light down there isn't very good."

"Well, we could come again in the morning," said Steve. "There's no hurry."

"I think you'd better see it now," said Durkin with decision. "It is a bargain and if you waited someone might get ahead of you. We'll go down."

"Er—well, how much is it?"

"All cash?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so."

"It makes a difference. Sometimes fellows want to pay part cash and part promise, and sometimes they want to trade. If you pay cash you get it cheaper, of course."

"All right. How much for it?"

Durkin looked the customers over appraisingly. "Let's have a look at it before we talk about the price," he said. "If I said five dollars now, when you haven't seen it, you might think I was asking too much."

"I surely would," replied Steve firmly. "If that's what you want for it I guess there's no use going down to see it."

"I didn't say that was the price," answered Durkin. "I'll make the price all right. You fellows come and see it." And he led the way out into the corridor. Steve glanced questioningly at Tom, and Tom smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, all right," said Steve. "Let's see it."

Durkin led the way to the lower hall and then down a pair of dark and very steep stairs to the basement. "You wait there," he instructed, "until I switch the light on. Now then, this way."

Durkin took a key from a nail and unlocked the door of a room partitioned off in a corner of the basement. The boys waited, and Durkin, having disappeared into the gloom of the storeroom, presently reappeared, dragging after him a very dusty brown-oak chair with a slat back, broad arms and a much-worn leather seat.

"There you are," he said triumphantly, pushing the object into the faint gleam of light which reached them from the foot of the stairs. "There's a chair that'll last for years."

"But you said it was a Morris chair," exclaimed Tom. "That's no Morris chair!"

"Oh, yes, it is," Durkin assured them earnestly. "I bought it from him myself last June."

"Bought it from whom?" asked Steve derisively.

"From Spencer Morris, of course. Paid a lot for it, too. Have a look at it. It's just as good as it ever was. The leather's a little bit worn at the edges, but you can fix that all right. It wouldn't cost more than half a dollar, I suppose, to put a new piece on there."

"Look here," said Steve disgustedly, "you're a fakir! What do you suppose we want with a relic like that? You said you had a Morris chair and now you pull this thing out to show us. Is that all you've got?"

"Oh, no, I've got a lot of good things in there," answered Durkin cheerfully, peering into the gloomy recesses of the storeroom. "How about some pictures, or a pair of fine vases, or——"

"Have you another arm-chair?" asked Steve impatiently.

"No, this is the only one. I've got some dandy cushions, though, for a window-seat. Let me show you those." And Durkin was back again before Steve could stop him. Tom was grinning when Steve turned an indignant look upon him.

"Morris chair!" growled Steve. "Silly chump!"

"Here you are!" Durkin came proudly forth, heralded by a cloud of pungent dust, and tossed three cushions into the chair. "Look at those for bargains, will you? Fifty cents apiece and dirt cheap."

"We don't want cushions," growled Steve disgustedly. But Tom was examining them and presently he looked across at his chum. "We might buy these, Steve. They're not so bad."

Steve grudgingly looked them over. Finally, "We'll give you twenty-five cents apiece for them," he said.

"Twenty-five! Why, they're worth a dollar!"

"All right, you keep them."

Durkin hesitated and sighed. Finally, as the boys showed a strong inclination to seek the stairway, "Give me a dollar for the lot," he said. Steve questioned Tom with his eyes and Tom nodded.

"All right," said Tom, "but it's more than they're worth."

"You'd have to pay a dollar and a half if you bought them new," said Durkin. "Honest! Now, about that chair——"

"Nothing doing!" interrupted Steve decisively.

"It's a good chair, and comfortable—say, sit down and just try it, will you?" Durkin removed the cushions and Steve, with a shrug, seated himself. When he got out Tom took his place. It was comfortable.

"How much?" asked Steve carelessly.

"Three-fifty, and dirt——"

"Give you a dollar and a half."

Durkin looked so pained that Tom quite pitied him. But he only said patiently: "You don't want to buy, you fellows; you're looking for gifts. That chair at three dollars is a real, genuine bargain, and——"

"You said three and a half before," Tom corrected.

"Did I? Well, it ought to be three and a half, but you may have it for three, even if I lose money on it."

"No fear," grunted Steve. "We'll split the difference and call it two."

"Make it two-fifty and it's yours."

"Couldn't do it. Two or nothing."

"All right," said Durkin placidly. "Take it along. Now let me show you——"

"No, sir!" laughed Steve. "You don't show us another thing, Durkin. Pile the cushions on here, Tom, and take hold."

"Wait till I lock this door and I'll give you a lift," said Durkin.

Between them they got the chair upstairs and outdoors. Then Steve paid three dollars to Durkin and the transaction was completed.

"Thank you," said Durkin. "And, say, if you want anything else, you come and see me. I've got a lot of good stuff down there. And if you want to sell anything any time I'm your man. I'll pay you good prices, fellows. So long."

The two boys felt rather conscious as they carried the chair along the Row, but although they passed a good many fellows on the way, no one viewed their performance with more than mild interest. As they were about to lift their burden through the entrance of Billings, however, the door opened from inside and a tall boy with a 'varsity football cap on the back of his head almost ran into them. Drawing aside to avoid them, his eyes fell on the chair and he stopped short.

"Back again!" he exclaimed delightedly. "Good old article. Where'd you find it, fellows?"

"Bought it from a fellow named Durkin, in Torrence," replied Steve.

"So 'Penny' had it?" The chap lifted the cushions heaped on the seat of the chair and viewed it interestedly. "Well, you got a chair with a history," he said. "That belonged to me three years ago. I bought it from a fellow named Lansing, and he got it second-hand from a shop in White Plains. I sold it to Spencer Morris and I suppose Penny got it from him. And the old article looks 'most as good as new! Do you mind telling me how much you paid for it?"

"Two dollars," said Steve. "He wanted three at first."

The tall chap laughed. "Two dollars! What do you know about that? I paid a dollar and a half for it and sold it to Morris for a dollar. I'll bet Penny didn't give Spencer more than fifty cents for it. He's a wonder, he is! Those cushions aren't bad. I'll give you a half for the red one."

"We don't want to sell, thanks," said Steve.

"Well, if you do, let me know. I'm in 4. My name's Fowler." And he nodded and went on. Up in their room, when they had set the arm-chair down and placed it to their liking, Steve said:

"Think of that long-haired idiot getting two dollars out of us for this thing. I've a good mind to go back and tell him what I think of him."

"What's the difference?" asked Tom. "It's a perfectly good chair, and if we hadn't met that Fowler chap we'd never known we'd been stung. It's worth two dollars, anyway, no matter what Durkin paid for it."

"I suppose it is," granted Steve. "And it is comfortable. Look here; we'll have to have another one now, or we'll be scrapping to see who gets this!"

"Not if we can find a cushion for the window-seat," said Tom. "We might see some more of those fellows you have on your list."

"To-morrow," said Steve. "It's almost supper time. I guess we didn't do so badly for three dollars. Wasn't it funny, though, we should have run into a fellow who used to own it? Wonder who Fowler is."

"I saw him at the field this afternoon," replied Tom. "I guess he's on the first team. We could have made sixteen cents if we'd sold him the cushion he wanted."

"You're as bad as Durkin!" laughed Steve. "Wonder why he called him 'Penny,' by the way. The fellow had a regular second-hand shop down there, didn't he? Do you suppose all that truck in there belonged to him?"

"I don't know. I know one thing, though, and that is that I'm mighty glad I don't room with Durkin and have to listen to that fiddling of his!"

"That's not much worse than your snoring," replied Steve unkindly.

The next day further search revealed a cushion which just fitted the window-seat, not surprising in view of the fact that the window-seats throughout the dormitories were fairly uniform in size. The cushion cost them two dollars. It was covered with faded green corduroy and in places was pretty well flattened out by much service. But it answered their purpose and really looked quite fine when in place. Tom cast doubts on the positive assertion of the seller that it was filled with genuine hair, but Steve said that didn't matter as long as it was comfortable. They piled their three pillows on it and stretched themselves out on it, one at a time, and voted it good enough for anyone. There was a good deal of dust in it, but, as Steve said, if they were careful about getting up and down they wouldn't disturb it! By this time Number 12 began to look quite sumptuous. They had placed several framed pictures and many photographs and trinkets against the walls and had draped the tops of the chiffoniers with towels. They had also made up a list of things to bring back with them after the Christmas holidays, a list that included all sorts of articles from a waste-basket to an electric drop-light. The latter they had not been able to find in their bargain-hunting and could not purchase in the village even if they had sufficient money. Their pocketbooks were pretty lean by the time they had been there a week, for, beside the expenditures for furnishings, they had, between them, paid two dollars for a year's subscription to the school monthly, and had made quite an outlay for stationery. Tom, in fact, was practically bankrupt and had sent an "S. O. S.," as he called it, to his father.

Meanwhile, every afternoon save Sunday they donned their togs and toiled on the gridiron. Mr. Robey was already bringing order out of chaos and the sixty-odd candidates now formed a first, second and third squad. Steve and Tom both remained in the latter for the present, nor did Tom entertain much hope of getting out of it until he was dropped for good. Steve had made something of a reputation as a player at home, and his former team-mates there firmly expected to hear that he had made the Brimfield 'varsity without difficulty and was showing the preparatory school fellows how the game ought to be played. Tom, too, expected no less for him, and perhaps, if the truth were known, Steve entertained some such expectations himself! But Tom wasn't deceived as to his own football ability and was already wondering whether, when he was dropped from the 'varsity squad, he would be so fortunate as to make his hall team.

But there was a surprise in store for both of them. The first cut came about ten days after the opening of school, and the candidates dwindled from sixty-odd to a scant fifty. Steve's surprise lay in the fact that he was not promoted to the second squad, Tom's to the even more startling circumstance that he survived the cut!

Eric Sawyer had been relieved from his superintendence of the awkward squad and had gone to his old position of right guard on the first team. The third squad was now under the care of a youth named Marvin, a substitute quarter-back on last year's second team. He was a cheerful, hardworking little chap and the "rookies" took to him at once. He was quick to find fault, but equally quick to applaud good work, and under his charge the third squad, composed now of some fourteen candidates, began to smooth out. A half-hour session with the tackling dummy was now part of the daily routine and many a fellow who had thought rather well of himself suffered humiliation in the pit. Steve was one of these. Tackling proved to be a weak point with him. Even Tom got better results than he did, and every afternoon Steve would scramble to his feet and wipe the earth from his face to hear Marvin's patient voice saying: "Not a bit like it, Edwards. Don't shut your eyes when you jump. Keep them open and see what you're doing. Once more, now; and tackle below the knees." And then, when the stuffed figure had been drawn, swaying crazily, across the square of spaded turf once more, and Steve had leaped upon it and twisted his arms desperately and convulsively about it, "That's a little better," Marvin might say, "but you'd never stop your man that way."

Steve was getting discouraged about his tackling and a little bit incensed with Marvin. "He takes it out on me every time," he confided to Tom one afternoon after practice. "Lots of the fellows don't do it a bit better and he just says 'Fair, Jones' or 'That's better, Freer,' and that's all there is to it. When it comes my turn, he just makes up his mind I'm not going to do it right and then rags me. Didn't I do it just as well as you did to-day, Tom?"

Tom, intensely loyal though he was, had to shake his head. "Maybe you did, Steve; I don't do it very well myself, but you—you don't seem to get the hang of it yet. You will, of course, in a day or two. I don't believe Marvin means to rag you, though; he's an awfully decent fellow."

But Tom's day or two stretched into a week or two, and one by one fellows disappeared from the awkward squad, some to the private walks of life and the consolation of hall football and some, fewer in number these, to the squad ahead. Brimfield played its first game of the year one Saturday afternoon with Thacher School, and came through with flying colours. But Thacher presented a line-up considerably younger and lighter than Brimfield's, and the victory brought no great glory to the Maroon-and-Grey. Steve and Tom watched that contest from the side-line, Tom with absorbed interest and Steve rather disgruntedly. His visions had not included any such situation as this!

That evening Steve made his first big mistake.



CHAPTER XI

"HOLD 'EM, THIRD!"

The term was a fortnight old when Thacher went down in defeat, 10 to 3, and by that time both Steve and Tom had made acquaintances here and there, and so when, after study hour that Saturday night, Steve announced carelessly that he was "going around to Hensey to see a fellow," Tom took it for granted that his chum was off to look up some new friend. Perhaps, since they usually made calls together, he wondered a little that Steve didn't ask him along, but he didn't mind being left out on this particular occasion since he was having a good deal of trouble just then with trigonometry and wanted to put in more time on Monday's lesson.

When Steve entered Hensey he passed into the first corridor and knocked on the door of Number 7. The card there held the names: "Andrew Loring Miller—Hatherton Williams." A voice bade him enter and Steve walked in. Andy Miller and his room-mate were both in, Andy sprawled on the window-seat, which was much too short for his long body, and Williams seated at the study table. Andy jumped up as the visitor entered.

"Glad to see you, Edwards," he said cordially. "Shake hands with Williams. Hat, this is Edwards of the fourth. Sit down, won't you?"

Williams, who was a heavy, dark-complexioned youth of eighteen with a flat nose and a broad mouth, shook hands politely, murmuring something that Steve took to mean that he was pleased to meet him, and sank back to his seat. Steve took the easy-chair that Andy pushed forward.

"Well, how are you?" asked the football captain genially. "Haven't run across any more confidence-men, I hope."

Steve smiled none too heartily and cast a glance toward Williams. But the latter's blank expression showed that the allusion meant nothing to him and proved that, as far as Williams was concerned, Miller had kept his promise of secrecy.

"No, not yet," answered Steve. "I thought I'd just drop in a minute and call."

"Of course. Glad you did. How's your friend?"

"Tom! He's fine, thanks. I—he wasn't through studying, so I didn't wait for him."

"And how's football going?" asked Andy. "Getting on pretty well?"

"I think so. Not so very well, though. I—I don't seem to please Marvin very well with tackling."

"Oh, you'll get onto that all right," said Andy cheerfully. "Fact is, I don't think a fellow ever really learns much at the dummy. It's dumping a chap in real playing that shows you what's wanted. Don't you think so, Hat?"

"Dummy practice is a good thing," answered Williams morosely.

He sat tilted back on the chair, hands in pockets, staring at the floor. He seemed a gloomy sort of fellow, Steve thought, and was relieved when Williams added: "Guess I'll run over to Johnny's for a minute," and, muttering something about being glad to have met the visitor, found a cap and wandered out.

"I suppose," said Steve, when the door had closed, "it's necessary for a fellow to learn how to tackle, but it seems to me that if you aren't awfully good at it you might get a chance to show what you can do besides that."

"I guess I don't quite understand what you mean," responded Andy.

"I mean that if I can't tackle the dummy well enough to please Marvin," answered Steve a trifle bitterly, "I do as well as lots of other fellows, and—and it doesn't seem fair to keep me back just for that. Lots of fellows have been taken on to the second squad that can't play as well as I can, Miller."

"Oh! I see." Andy's eyes narrowed a little and he looked at Steve more intently. "You mean that you aren't getting a fair show, Edwards?"

"It doesn't seem so to me. I played with my high school team for two years at left end and—and did pretty well. Of course, I don't say that I'm as good as some of the fellows here, but I do think that I'm as good as—as a lot of them; and a heap better than three or four that have gone to the second squad lately. I don't get a chance to show what I can do where I am now, Miller. Marvin doesn't even let me into signal drill more than half the time, and then he puts me at half or tackle and I've never played either of those places. And when I told him so the other day he just laughed and said that one place was as good as another on the third! And he rags me every day about my tackling and—and I don't think it's fair! If he will give me a chance I'll pick up tackling all right. You say yourself that a fellow learns it more from playing than from dummy work."

"So I did," said Andy thoughtfully. Then, after a moment: "Look here, Edwards, I think you've got a wrong idea in your head. If Marvin isn't satisfied with your tackling, it's because you don't do it right. Marvin's a good man and he knows football. Now, if you expect to play end you ought to know how to tackle, Edwards. What's the good of getting down the field, no matter how fast you may be, if you can't stop the man with the ball when you get there?"

"I can stop him! I've played for two years and——"

"What you've done before, Edwards, isn't any criterion with us. You may have been a regular wonder in—what's the place? Tannerstown——"

"Tannersville. I don't say I was a wonder, but——"

"Just a minute! You may have been a star on your high school team and yet not worth a copper cent to us, Edwards. I never saw your team play, but it's pretty likely that their brand of football and ours are different."

"I think we play as good football as you fellows played to-day," said Steve.

"Maybe. I'm not especially proud of the game we put up this afternoon. But that isn't the sort of football we play in mid-season, my friend. I'm sorry you think you aren't getting a fair deal, Edwards, but you mustn't expect me to interfere with Marvin. I couldn't do it. The most I can do is give you a little piece of advice which you won't care for probably. It's this: Do as you're told to do, Edwards, and do it as hard as you know how! Just as soon as you show Marvin that you are ready to go into the second squad, you'll get there. And don't get it into your head that Marvin has it in for you or doesn't know what he is doing. Marvin's a particularly bright young man. If he wasn't he wouldn't have the third squad to weed out, for that's a job that requires a whole lot more patience and brains than any other job I know of on a football field."

Andy paused, and Steve, who was gloomily regarding a scarred knuckle, made no reply.

"Use your head, man," continued the captain in a lighter tone. "You don't suppose, do you, that we are letting anything good get by us as long as we've got eyes to see with? Not much! You probably have an idea that Marvin is keeping you off the second. He isn't. You're keeping yourself off. Mull that over, Edwards. And don't—don't do this again."

Steve looked a question.

"I mean don't come to me or to Mr. Robey with any hard-luck stories. It isn't done. If I didn't know you a little, Edwards, I'd think you were pretty poor stuff. But I guess you didn't stop to consider how it would look. As you have done it, I'm glad you came to me instead of Mr. Robey. He wouldn't have liked it a bit." After a pause: "How's Hall getting on?"

"Pretty well, I guess," replied Steve. He stood up and frowned at the green globe of the reading lamp for a moment. Then, "I'm sorry I said anything, Miller," he remarked. "I guess it wasn't quite a fair thing to do. Only I thought—maybe——"

"You thought," said Andy cheerfully, "that perhaps I'd give you a lift. Didn't you, Edwards?"

"I suppose so."

"In other words, you wanted me to advance you over the next man on the strength of our acquaintance. Sounds as though you had rather a punk impression of me, Edwards."

"I haven't! I—I suppose, though, I didn't stop to figure it out much. It seemed to me that Marvin wasn't giving me a fair show, and here it is the last of September already, and I'm just where I started——"

"That's your fault, not Marvin's," responded Andy with a smile. He walked over and laid a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "Brace up, Edwards," he said kindly. "Don't waste your time looking for favours. Don't want them. Buckle down and grit your teeth and just show Marvin and the rest of us that you're so good he can't keep you on the third! That's your line, old man. And now, just as a bit of encouragement, I'll tell you that Robey and I have noticed your work in the field and we've liked it. You carry yourself like a veteran and you follow the ball well, and we both expect big things from you some day. Perhaps you won't make good this year, but there's next year and the year after. Put your nose back on the grindstone, Edwards, grin hard and tell Marvin to turn faster!"

"All right," laughed Steve. "Thanks. I guess you're right. And—and I'm not sorry now I came."

"Good! Now sit down again and let's have a chin. How do you like the school? Have you met many of the fellows yet?"

"You're making the same mistake, Edwards," said Marvin the next Monday afternoon. He spoke a trifle wearily. "Get your body in front of the runner and not at one side. Bind his legs together with your arms, then block him with your body and lift him back. If you do that he's got to stop, and when he falls he will fall towards his own goal and not yours. Try it over now."

And when Steve had tried it over, Marvin glanced at him sharply. It seemed to him that for almost the first time the candidate had really tried! He hadn't made a clean tackle, but he had profited by the instruction that had been heaped upon him for two weeks, and little Marvin mentally patted himself on the back and was very pleased with himself, for Marvin, although he would probably never play through a big game, and knew it, was as unselfishly devoted to the interests of the team as any fellow there.

"That's a heap better, Edwards," he said eagerly. "Now see if you can't do it just right the next time."

After that it seemed to Marvin that Steve tried harder and it seemed to Steve that the little quarter-back was more appreciative. On Tuesday, as the squad jogged away from the tackling pit, Marvin said:

"Edwards, let me see you after practice, will you?"

Steve, assenting, examined Marvin's face doubtfully. A week ago he would have expected trouble from such a request, but to-day Marvin's face held only good-will and a sort of eager friendliness, and while Steve wondered more than once during the remainder of practice what Marvin wanted of him he had no unpleasant forebodings.

There was to be a game on the morrow, the only mid-week contest of the season, and the first squad was released early. That gave Coach Robey a chance to give undivided attention to the second and third and he made the most of it. He and Andy Miller, the latter trailing a grey blanket after him, joined the third squad when the first team and substitutes had trotted away to the gymnasium and at once displayed a flattering but embarrassing interest. The Third was practising signals, eleven men in the line-up and two or three more following and watching. Marvin was driving them from a position at the rear, occasionally darting into the line, to correct a fault or illustrate a play. Unfortunately, Carmine, who was at quarter, noticed the coach's advent and immediately got flustered. When two plays had gone wrong Mr. Robey said:

"Marvin, you get in there and play quarter for a minute and give that man a chance to remember his signals. You come back here and look on, son."

After that the squad ran through plays with vim and snap. Now and then there was a mix-up, but the signals went pretty well. After each play the coach or Captain Miller, or sometimes both, criticised and explained. The plays were few and simple; straight plunges by the backs with an occasional forward pass; but almost every time the critics found some fault to correct. Steve was playing at left tackle, fighting valiantly against an imaginary opponent, and once, trotting back to his position after a short charge over the turf, he caught the eyes of Andy and Mr. Robey fixed on him speculatively. He hoped as he settled down again and listened for the signals that Captain Miller had not told the coach of that visit on Saturday night! He wanted to forget that himself and he wanted Andy Miller to forget it.

"That'll be all, Marvin," said Mr. Robey presently. He clapped his hands. "Everyone in, please!" he called. The players flocked to the bench and picked up sweaters and blankets, while Mr. Robey and Andy conversed over the coach's little black book. Finally: "We'll have a short scrimmage, fellows," he announced. "Second squad take the east goal and kick off to the third. Pick out your men, Brownell. You too, Marvin. Who do you want to start?"

It was the first scrimmage for the third squad fellows and they raced on eagerly. Steve was sent in as left tackle again and Tom beside him at guard. The pigskin soared away from the toe of a second squad forward, was gathered in by a third squad half-back near the twenty-yard line and was down five yards further on. "Line up, Third!" piped Carmine shrilly. "Give it to 'em hard now!"

There wasn't the finished skill displayed by the 'varsity team, but there was enough enthusiasm to almost make up for the lack of science. Back came the ball, the forwards sprang together, a half darted past right tackle, spinning like a top, faltered, went on, was stopped short by the Second's backs and borne back, grunting "Down! Down!" with all the breath left in his body.

"Second down!" proclaimed Joe Lawrence, the manager, jumping into the melee. "Six to go."

Mr. Robey and Andy Miller followed the teams closely, watching and shouting directions, the coach on the third squad side and Andy behind the second.

"Good work, you fellow!" applauded Andy, darting up to slap the half on the back and send him back to his place breathless but grinning. "That's the way to do it! Now, then, once more. You've got six to go. Let me see you get it. Play lower, you fellows in the line! Get down there! Lift 'em and throw 'em back! That's the ticket!"

But the gain was scant and Carmine walked back to kick.

"Get through and block this!" panted the second's quarter, dodging back and forth for a likely opening.

"You fellow on the end there!" cried Andy. "Play back further and stop that tackle!"

"Watch for a forward pass!" warned a second squad back. "Spread out, Billy!"

"Hold 'em!" shouted Carmine.

Then came the signals, back sped the ball—a poor pass—the second came tearing through, Carmine dropped the ball and swung his leg and away it floated. A second squad back caught it near the side-line, tucked it under his arm and started back. The third squad's right end had been blocked and now, eager to make up for lost time, he overran and missed his tackle entirely and the second's back came speeding up the field near the side-line, a hastily-formed interference guarding him well. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty, and then Carmine wormed through and brought the runner to earth.

"That's one on you, right end," said Andy sternly. "You got boxed to the king's taste that time. Now, third, see what you can do on the defence."

"Draw your line in, Carmine," called Marvin. "Look where you are, man! The ball's almost on the twenty yards! Peters, close up there! Now push 'em back, third!"

"Who's that right end, Dick?" asked Andy of Marvin.

"Chap named Holt. He isn't very good."

"How would it do to try Edwards there? He looks clever."

"That's his position, Andy, but the kid can't tackle. I'll give him a try, though. That's rotten, third! Blaisdell, where were you then? For the love of mud, man, watch the ball! Five yards right through you! Now get back there and stop them!"

"Second down, five to go," called Lawrence. "You left end on the second, you were off-side then. Next time I'll penalise you. Watch out for it."

"Same formation!" piped the second's quarter. "Make it good, fellows! Let's score now!"

"Hold 'em, third! Don't give 'em an inch. Get down there, Peters!"

"Third down!" called Lawrence a moment later. "You've got three and a half to go, second!"

"That's the stuff!" cried Carmine jubilantly, dealing blows of approval on the bent backs of the forwards. "That's the way to stop 'em! Now once more, third!"

Then, "Fourth down and a yard and a half to go," announced Lawrence.

"Kick formation!" called the attacking quarter. "Simmons back!"

"Block this! Block it! Get through now, fellows!"

"Hold hard there, second!" There was a moment of silence. Then the ball shot back. Simmons caught it waist-high, dropped it, kicked and went down under the charge of the desperate second squad players. But the ball sailed over the cross-bar and the second had scored.

"That'll do, Holt," said Marvin. "Edwards, you play right end. Saunders!" A substitute struggled out of his sweater and came racing on. "Go in at left tackle, Saunders. Pearse, you'd better kick off."

The game went on, the second squad bringing the pigskin back twelve yards on the kick-off and then hammering through for fifteen more before the third forced them to punt. Carmine caught on his thirty-five yards, made a short gain and was downed. Twice the third got through for a yard or two and then Carmine again fell back to kick. This time the pass was a good one and Carmine got off an excellent punt that went over the head of the opposing quarter-back and bobbed along toward the goal. The left half scuttled to his assistance and, when the ball was in the quarter's arms, threw himself in front of the first of the foe. But that particular adversary was canny. He twisted aside, leaped over the stumbling half and dived for the runner. It was a poor tackle and the man with the ball struggled on for three yards after he was caught, but the ball was down on the second's twenty-seven yards, and Steve, picking himself up from the recumbent enemy, heard Marvin shouting: "A rotten tackle, Edwards, but fine work down the field!" And, "Good stuff, you end!" approved the coach, while Tom, beaming, patted him ungently on the back.

The scrimmage was over a minute later, and, although the second had triumphed by that goal from the field, the third trotted back to the gymnasium feeling very well pleased with themselves. They had had their baptism by fire and had acquitted themselves well. Steve and Tom, panting but happy, had almost reached the gymnasium when Steve recollected his engagement with Marvin.

"I've got to go back," he said in dismay. "I promised Marvin to see him after practice."

"There he comes now," said Tom, nodding toward where the little quarter was approaching with Mr. Robey and Andy Miller. Steve stopped beside the path and Tom fell back to wait for him.

"I forgot you wanted me to wait, Marvin," said Steve apologetically, as the trio came up.

"Oh, that's all right, Edwards. I forgot myself. Another day will do just as well. I didn't know we were to have scrimmage to-day."

"You keep up that stuff you showed to-day, Edwards," said Mr. Robey, "and we'll have you on the second the first thing you know." Then his glance passed Steve to Tom. "You too, Hall. I watched you. You're doing well. Keep it up."

The three went on, and Steve and Tom silently followed. Neither spoke until they reached the steps. Then,

"I'm awfully glad," said Tom.

"So am I," replied Steve heartily. "Bet you you'll make the second before the week is out."

"I meant about you, Steve," said Tom simply.



CHAPTER XII

CANTERBURY ROMPS ON—AND OFF

But existence at Brimfield Academy wasn't all football, by any means, nor all fun. There was a lot of hard work mixed up with the play, and both Steve and Tom found that an immense amount of study was required of them. They each had thirty recitations a week, and in both Greek and Latin their preparation at high school had, not unnaturally, been deficient. That meant hard sledding for a while. Tom realised the fact before Steve would, and so spared himself some trouble. Steve resented the extra study necessary and for the first fortnight or so trusted to luck to get him through. And for a time luck stood by him. He had a way of looking wise in class that imposed for a while on "Uncle Sim," as Mr. Simkins was called, but after Steve had fallen down three or four times the instructor scented the truth of the matter and then Steve's life became a burden to him. Mr. Simkins took delight, it seemed, in calling on him at the most unexpected moments until, one day, in sheer desperation, Steve gave utterance to the answer "not prepared." That was to Uncle Sim what a red rag is to a bull! There was a scathing dressing-down then and there, followed by a visit that evening from Mr. Daley. Steve was secretly uneasy, for more than one story of summary justice on the part of the Greek and Latin instructor had reached him, but he presented a careless front to the Hall Master. Mr. Daley was plainly eager to help, but, as usual, he was embarrassed and nervous, and Steve, who had taken a mild dislike to him, resented his interference.

"The stuff's too hard," he said in answer to Mr. Daley's inquiries. "Look at the lesson we had to-day, sir; all that and this, over to here; sight reading, too. And two compositions so far this week! I just didn't have time for it last night, and so when he called on me to-day I told him I wasn't prepared. And then he—he ragged me in front of the class and gave me a page and a half to write, beside to-morrow's lesson. I can't do it, and that's all there is to it!"

"Er—yes, yes, I see. I'm sorry, Edwards. Now, let us have a look at this. Yes, there's quite a lot of it. You—ah—you didn't have much Latin before you came here, I take it?"

"Had enough," growled Steve, "but nothing like this. I've had Caesar and some Cicero. I never had any luck with Latin, anyway." And Steve viewed the open book with distaste.

"It's the quantity, then, you find—ah—difficult," said Mr. Daley. "As far as grammar is concerned, I take it you are—ah—well grounded, Edwards?"

"I suppose so. But look at the length of the lesson we have!"

"Yes. Very true. But, of course, to complete a certain amount of work in the year it is—ah—necessary to do quite a good deal every day. Now maybe you—ah—haven't been really setting your mind on this. I know in my own case that I very often find myself—ah—skimping, so to speak; I mean going over a thing without really getting the—ah—the meat out of it. I'm almost certain that if you really settled your mind on this, Edwards, that you'd get along very well with it. Suppose now that you give twice as much time to it to-night as you usually do. If some other study must suffer, why, let it be your French and I will let you by to-morrow if you aren't well prepared. And—ah—I wish when you've been over this you'd come down and let me—ah—go over it with you lightly. I think—I think that would be an excellent idea, Edwards."

"Oh, I'll try it," grumbled Steve, "but it isn't any use. And look at what I've got to translate for him!"

"Yes, yes, I see. Well—ah—bring your book down after awhile and we'll see what can be done. How are you getting on, Hall?"

"Pretty well, sir. I find it a bit stiff, too, but maybe after awhile I'll get the hang of it."

"That's the way to talk!" exclaimed the instructor approvingly. "That—ah—that is the right attitude, Hall. Make up your mind that it will come and it will come. We all have our—our problems, and the only way to do is to—ah—face them and ride straight at them. So often, when we reach them, we find them—ah—we find them so very much more trivial than we had supposed. They're like—like hills seen from a distance that look terrifically steep. When we—ah—reach them we find them easy grades after all. You see what I mean? Yes, yes. Well, I shall expect you in my study later, Edwards. I want you—both of you, that is—to realise that I am very eager to be of assistance at any time. Possibly I can't help very much,—but—ah—I am most willing, boys."

"Silly chump," growled Steve when the door had closed behind Mr. Daley. "I wish—ah—he'd—ah—mind his own—ah—business!"

But Tom didn't smile. "I think the chap means to be awfully decent, Steve," he said thoughtfully. "The trouble is, I guess, he's scared to death of the fellows. You can see that in class."

"He's a regular granny," replied Steve. "Wish he had this stuff to do. I guess he wouldn't be so light and airy about it!"

"You'll go down and let him help you, though, won't you?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Oh, I suppose so. He can do the whole thing if he wants to. Where is my dictionary?"

With Mr. Daley's help, freely offered and grudgingly accepted, Steve weathered that crisis. And secretly he was grateful to the Hall Master, though he still pretended to believe and possibly did half believe that the latter was a sort of mollycoddle. Tom told him indignantly once that since Mr. Daley had been so awfully decent to him he ought to stop poking fun at him. To which Steve cheerfully made answer that even a mollycoddle could be decent at times!

Brimfield played Canterbury High School on a Wednesday afternoon in early October and had a good deal of a scare. Canterbury romped on to the field like a bunch of young colts, and continued to romp for the best part of three ten-minute periods, long after Brimfield had decided that romping was no longer in good taste! Led by a small, wiry, red-headed quarter-back, who was likewise captain, and directed from the side-line by a coach who looked scarcely older than the big youth who played centre for them, the Canterbury team took the most astounding liberties with football precedents. They didn't transgress the rules, but they put such original interpretations on some of them that Mr. Conklin, who was refereeing, and Mr. Jordan, instructor in mathematics, who was umpiring, had their heads over the rules-book nearly half the time! Now and then they would march to the side-line and consult the Canterbury coach. "Where do you get your authority for that play?" Mr. Conklin would ask a trifle irritably. Thereupon, silently but with a twinkle in his eye, the coach would gravely take the book, flip the pages, lay a finger on a section and return it.

"Hm," Mr. Conklin would say. "Hm; but that seems to be in direct contradiction of another rule over here!"

"Quite likely," the coach would reply indifferently. "There are quite a few contradictions there. Of course, you may accept either rule you like, gentlemen."

Disarmed in such wise, the officials invariably decided the play to be legal, and Quarter-back Milton, of Brimfield, would protest volubly and get very, very red in the face in his attempt to carry his point and, at the same time, omit none of the respect due a faculty member! It was hard on Milton, that game, and several times he nearly had apoplexy.

Then, too, Canterbury did the most unexpected things at the most inopportune moments. When Brimfield expected her to rush the ball she was just as likely to get off a kick from close formation. When the circumstances indicated an attack on the short side of the field Canterbury's backs swung around the other end. When a close formation was to be looked for she swung her line half across the field, so confusing the opponents that they acted as though hypnotised. The forward pass was to Canterbury a play that afforded her infinite amusement. She used it in the most unheard of locations; in midfield, under the shadow of her own goal, anywhere, everywhere and almost always when least expected. At the end of the second period Brimfield trotted away to the gymnasium dazed and tired of brain, with the score 7 to 0 against her.

The surprising thing about the visitors was that they played as though they were just having an afternoon of good fun. They romped, like boys playing leap-frog or follow-my-leader. They romped up the field and they romped down the field and, incidentally, over and through and around their opponents. And the more care-free and happy Canterbury became, the more anxious and laboured grew Brimfield. The Maroon-and-Grey reminded one of a very staid and serious middle-aged party with a grave duty to perform trying to restrain the spirited antics of a small boy with no sense of decorum!

When the second half began, Canterbury added insult to injury. Instead of booting the pigskin down the field in an honest and earnest endeavour to obtain distance, she deliberately and with malice aforethought, dribbled it on the bias, so to speak, toward the side-line. Benson, right end, should certainly have got it, but he was so perplexed that he never thought of picking it up until a Canterbury forward had performed the task for him and had raced nearly twenty yards down the field! It was an unprecedented thing to do, or, at least, unprecedented at Brimfield, and the audience voiced its disapproval strongly. But as the ball had gone the required ten yards there was nothing to do but smile—a trifle foolishly, perhaps—and accept the situation. And the situation was this: Canterbury had kicked off and gained over thirty yards without losing possession of the ball! But in one way that play was ill-advised. Brimfield had stood all sorts of jokes and pranks from the enemy with fairly good grace, but this enormity was too much. Brimfield was peeved! More than that, she was really angry! And, being angry, she forgot that for twenty minutes she had been outplayed and started in then and there to administer a licking to the obstreperous small boy.

Even then, however, Canterbury continued to romp and enjoy herself. She found hard sledding, but she worked down to Brimfield's eight-yard line before she was finally halted. Then her right half romped back for a try at goal and joyously booted the ball. But, to the enormous relief of the onlookers, the ball went under the bar instead of over, and Canterbury romped back again. That third period was very evenly contested, Brimfield, smarting under a sense of wounded dignity, playing well together and allowing Canterbury no more opportunities to attempt scores. The visitors, still untamed, sprang strange and weird formations and attacks. A favourite trick was to start a play without signals, while one of her men was ostensibly tying a shoe-lace yards away or requesting a new head-guard near a side-line. It invariably happened, though, that the shoe-lace was tied in time to allow the youth to get the ball on a pass and attempt a joyous romp around the opponent's end. There was no scoring in the third period, but the whistle blew with the pigskin down on Canterbury's twenty-five yards and Brimfield with four to go on third down.

As there was no practice that afternoon, Steve and Tom saw the game from the grand stand, with two cronies named Draper and Westcott. Draper's first name was Leroy and he was called Roy. He was a tow-haired youngster of fifteen with very bright blue eyes and a tip-tilted nose that gave him a humorously impertinent look. He, like Steve and Tom, was a Fourth Former. His home was in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and, while Pittsburg was a good hundred miles from Tannersville, the fact that they were citizens of the same glorious commonwealth had drawn he and Steve together. Harry Westcott was a year older and came from a small town in Connecticut. He was Roy's room-mate in Torrence. He had a slim, small-boned body and a good-looking face with an aquiline nose and a pair of very large soft-brown eyes. His dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and was always very slick. Harry was what Roy called "a fussy dresser" and affected knickerbockers and golf-stockings, negligee shirts of soft and delicate hues of lavender or green or blue and, to quote his disrespectful room-mate once more, "symphonic ties." Harry was the embodiment of aristocratic ease and always lent a "tone" to any gathering. He maintained an air of what he probably considered well-bred composure and tabooed enthusiasm. Harry never declared that a thing was "bully" or "fine and dandy"; he mildly observed that it was "not half bad." This pose amused him, doubtless, and entertained his friends, and underneath it all he was a very normal, likable chap. It was Roy Draper who broke the strained silence that had endured until the whistle put an end to the third period.

"I wouldn't give a cent for Canterbury's chances in the next period," he said. "Look at Andy's face, fellows. It has the 'blood-lust' on it. When Andy looks that way something has just got to happen!"

"He looks annoyed," assented Harry.

"You'd be annoyed if you had your lip cut the way his is," chuckled Roy.

"Do you think we'll beat them?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Nothing can save them," replied Roy conclusively. "Andy has his dander up."

"It took him long enough to get it up," grumbled Steve. "He let those fellows run rings around us in the first half."

"That's his foxy way. Now he's got them all tired out and we'll go in and rip 'em up. You watch!"

"There's Marvin going in for Milton," announced Tom. "Say, those chaps haven't made a change in their line-up yet."

"One," corrected Harry. "They put in a new right guard last period. They're a funny lot, seems to me. You'd think they were having the time of their lives."

"I like that, though," said Roy. "After all, you know, this thing of playing football is supposed to be amusement."

"It's a heap more like hard work, though," replied Harry. "Not that I ever played it much."

"Did you ever play at all?" asked Roy.

"Once or twice at grammar school. It was too fatiguing, though."

"I'll bet it was," chuckled Roy. "I'd like to see you playing, old thing."

"I did, though; played right half-back. A fellow stuck his elbow into my face and I knocked him flat. Captain said it was part of the game, you know, and I shouldn't have done it. I said that any fellow who bumped my nose would have to look for trouble. Then the umpire put me off and the game lost a real star."

"Here we go," said Steve. "Now let's see if they can carry it over."

They didn't, however, just then. Canterbury held finely in the shadow of her goal and Marvin's forward pass to Captain Miller went out at the twelve-yards. But Canterbury was forced to punt a moment later, and Brimfield took up the march again. On the adversary's thirty-yard line, with six to go on the third down, Norton, full-back, attempted an impossible drop-kick—he was standing over forty yards from the cross-bar—and made it good.

"What did I tell you?" demanded Roy, digging Steve with his elbow.

"That's only three points, though," answered Steve doubtfully. "We couldn't make a touchdown."

"It isn't over yet," said Roy confidently. "We're getting better all the time."

Canterbury gave the ball to Brimfield for the kick-off and Fowler booted it down to the opponent's fifteen yards. Andy Miller was under it all the way and upset an ambitious Canterbury back before he was well started. Canterbury tried two plunges and then punted from her twenty-five-yard line to Brimfield's fifty. Marvin caught and brought the stand to its feet by reeling off twelve yards across the field before he was downed. Then Brimfield found herself and went down the gridiron by steady plunges, plugging the Canterbury line for good gains from tackle to tackle. Norton, at full-back, was the hero of that period. Time after time he took the pigskin and landed it for a gain. Marvin, cool and heady, ran the team beautifully, and when four minutes of playing time remained, Brimfield was again knocking at Canterbury's door, the pigskin on the latter's eighteen yards.

"First down!" proclaimed Roy triumphantly. "Here's where she goes over, old thing!"

"Let her go," replied Harry. "I'm watching."

"I hope they don't try another silly field-goal," muttered Steve.

"Not on first down, they won't. Bully work, Norton! Did you see it? Three yards easily!"

Then Marvin himself cut loose for four around left end and the Canterbury coach hustled three substitutes on. But Brimfield was not to be denied now. It was first down on Canterbury's seven yards, and, with the spectators yelling like Indians, Kendall, right half, took the ball on a delayed pass, found an opening outside right tackle and slipped through and over the line for six more points.

Captain Miller kicked goal and the score stood 10 to 7. Another minute of play followed, with Brimfield again pushing the high school team before her, and then the game was over and the quartette on the stand thumped each other elatedly—all save Harry—and ambled down to join the throng that spread over the field on its homeward way.

"What did I tell you?" asked Roy. "You can't fool your uncle!"

"You hate yourself, don't you?" drawled Harry. "Come on over to the room, you fellows."

Canterbury, having cheered the victor wholeheartedly, romped home.



CHAPTER XIII

SAWYER VOWS VENGEANCE

Miter Hill School followed Canterbury the next Saturday and was an unexpectedly weak opponent. The contest was slow and lifeless and dragged its weary length along until almost twilight. Miter Hill's players were in poor physical condition and, since the afternoon was warm and close, made a poor showing. The weather affected Brimfield, too, although she was not as susceptible to injury as the other team. Miter Hill was forever getting hurt, it seemed, and the audience which had braved a remorseless sun and a horde of blood-thirsty midges soon began to grumble.

The game was further slowed down in the last two periods by the substitution of half the members of the second and third squads for the Maroon-and-Grey. Even Tom had a three or four-minute experience on the 'varsity, something which he had long ceased hoping for, while Steve played nearly all of the fourth period at right end. He did very well, there, although Miter Hill was too weak in all departments of the game to afford any of her opponents a fair test. Toward the last the contest degenerated into more or less of a farce, Miter Hill tuckered and played out, and Brimfield, with a line-up of third and fourth substitutes, fumbling and mixing signals and running around like a hen with her head off!

By that time those who had remained so long began to view the game as what it really was, a comedy of errors, and got lots of fun out of it. When Peters, at centre, passed the ball at least two feet above the upstretched hands of Harris, who wanted to punt, and at least nine youths raced back up the field in pursuit of it, shoving, tripping, falling, rolling, and when it was Peters himself who finally dropped his one hundred and seventy-odd pounds on it, the onlookers rocked in their seats and applauded wildly. Later on another dash of humour was supplied when Carmine poised the ball for a forward pass only to discover that no one of his side was in position to take it. The quarter-back shouted imploringly, running back and across the field, dodging two or three of the enemy and by some miracle holding the ball out of harm's way all the while. When, at last, thoroughly desperate, he heard someone shout from across the field to throw the ball, he threw it, and not until the catcher had reeled off twenty yards or more toward Brimfield's goal did Carmine discover that he had been cruelly deceived by the Miter Hill right end! Even Mr. Robey, who had been viewing the game rather grimly, had to swing on his heel to hide a smile at that fiasco. But, if the subs didn't do much in the way of attack, they at least held the enemy from crossing their line, and the weird contest at last came to a close with the one-sided score of 26 to 0.

On Monday there was a fine shake-up, for the Miter Hill game, if it had not held any thrills, had at least shown up many faults, individual and otherwise. Several second squad men went to the first as substitutes, Fowler was shifted from left tackle to left guard on the first and two members of the third squad were advanced to the second. These latter were Freer, half-back, and Hall, guard. Tom was both surprised and delighted, while seriously doubting the coach's wisdom. Later, when he found that Steve had not secured promotion as well, most of his delight vanished.

"I don't see why they put me on the second," he said, "and left you on the third. I don't play half the game you do, Steve."

Steve tried hard to be gracious, but only partly succeeded. "I dare say they want guards and don't want ends," he replied. "Of course you've been doing good work, Tom, and deserve promotion and I'm awfully glad you've got it, but, just the same, I don't think I'm getting a square deal."

"I don't either! I wish they'd left me alone and taken you on. Peters says Robey will be disbanding the third squad in a week or so, too. Of course they'll put you on the second before that, though."

"I don't believe they will," replied Steve morosely. "I dare say I'll be dropped entirely. I thought I was getting on pretty well, but Marvin evidently doesn't think so. I'm getting kind of sick of it, anyway, Tom. I wish I'd stayed at home. I could have if I'd made a good hard kick."

That was a hard week for the 'varsity, for Coach Robey had every man on the team, with the possible exceptions of Miller and Innes, guessing. Men came in from the second squad, were tried out and usually let go again. All sorts of shifts in the line and back-field were tried. On Wednesday, Eric Sawyer, who had been looked on as a fixture at right guard, found himself ousted by Gafferty, from the second, and a member of the "bench brigade." Sawyer didn't like that at all. It was a terrific blow to his pride and self-esteem, and for many days he was like a bear with a sore head. As a matter of fact, although Sawyer didn't suspect it, his deposal was in the nature of a taste of discipline. Sawyer had been too certain of his place and had grown careless. At the end of a week he went back again, with the warning that he would have to show more than he had been showing if he was to stay there. It was while he was still decorating the bench, however, that Steve again fell foul of him.

The unseasonably warm weather held well into the middle of October, and it was one evening a day or two after Sawyer's removal from the regular line-up that Steve and Tom, rather fagged from an hour's study in a close room, picked up Roy and Harry and went over to the gymnasium for a dip in the tank. The swimming tank was a favourite resort of the younger fellows between eight and ten at night, but, for some reason, the older boys seldom appeared there in the evenings. To-night, though, when the quartette, having changed into swimming trunks, reached the tank they found five upper-class fellows swinging their bare legs from the side of the pool and amusing themselves by criticising the antics of the youngsters. There was Eric Sawyer, Jay Fowler and three others whom neither Steve nor Tom knew save by sight. The tank was well populated, for the warmth of the evening made the thought of cool water very agreeable, and there was much noise and splashing going on.

Steve and Harry went in from the spring-board at the deeper end of the pool, while Tom and Roy dived from the floor. A couple of tennis balls were flying around in the tank and the newcomers were soon taking their parts in the fun. Presently the group of older fellows, having grown tired of guying the "kids," dived into the water. Getting possession of one of the balls, they tried to keep it to themselves, and soon there was a merry and good-natured battle on between the five big chaps on one side and the younger occupants of the tank on the other. The echoing room rang with laughter and excited cries as the contending sides swam and floundered for the possession of the tennis ball. The big chaps had their hands full, for they were outnumbered four to one, but age and strength counted for them and not infrequently a youngster, rather than undergo a ducking at ungentle hands, yielded the ball and swam away with squeaks of terror. But there were others who fought valiantly enough, taking punishment laughingly when it came and pressing the older fellows closely. Steve was one of the more daring of the enemy and never hesitated to dispute the possession of the ball with anyone. Once when it came skipping along half the length of the tank, he went after it hand over hand, only to miss it when Eric Sawyer reached it an instant ahead of him. Sawyer, grinning, drew back the hand holding the tennis ball.

"Want it, kid?" he asked.

Steve, guessing what was coming, dived, but he was not quick enough and the ball landed with a round smack on his right ear. A wet tennis ball, thrown from the distance of a few feet, is capable of hurting considerably, and Steve, dashing the water from his face, felt very much as though he had been kicked by a mule and had difficulty in keeping the tears from his eyes.

"Get it?" laughed Sawyer.

"Yes, and so will you," gasped Steve. The ball lay bobbing about a yard away and he grabbed it. Sawyer turned and struck out across the tank, only his head above water. Steve, thoroughly angry, aimed at him, changed his mind and swam after him, to the awed delight of the others. Sawyer, thinking he had removed himself from danger, turned at the side of the tank to look back. The next thing he knew the ball struck him fairly on the nose, and, with a howl of pain and surprise, he disappeared under the water.

"Swim, Edwards!" shrieked the youngsters. "He'll get you!"

Steve did turn away, but it seemed too much like running and so he paused, treading water there, while the angry face of Sawyer popped into view again. The ball had bounded away and been captured by one of the youngsters, but Sawyer didn't look for it. With a leap he started toward Steve. The latter realised that Sawyer meant to wreak vengeance, and that the matter had got past the stage of fun. Here, it seemed, was a time when discretion was the better part of valour, and Steve dived.

Fortunately, he was a good swimmer. Turning quickly under water, he raced toward the far end of the tank. Dimly he heard shouts and laughter above, but he didn't come to the surface until twenty long strokes had taken him far away from where Sawyer, at a loss, was casting about the middle of the tank for him. His reappearance was heralded by shouts of applause from the younger fellows, many of whom, scenting real trouble, had scrambled out of the water. Sawyer, warned of Steve's whereabouts, looked down the tank, saw him and started pell-mell after him. Again Steve went under, swam cautiously toward the side until he could see the white tiles within reach and then edged back the way he had come. He tried to reach the shallow end of the tank before taking breath, but the effort was too great, and when he stuck his head out for an instant he found that those at the edge of the tank had been following his under-water progress and were shouting and laughing down at him from above. More than that, however, their interest had appraised Sawyer of his whereabouts, and even as Steve, blinking the water from his eyes and replenishing his lungs, looked about him, his pursuer almost reached him.