"Oh, piffle, Miller!"

"Yes, you did," insisted the captain grimly. "I know it, if you don't. But you try what I tell you to-morrow and see what a jump you'll get on the other fellow. Come around and see me soon, you and Hall."

Andy moved away and Steve hurried on to find a shower before the new crowd claimed them all. He was pretty well fagged out this afternoon, and for once the thought of that swimming class didn't appeal. But after a tepid shower and then a hard rush of ice-cold water over his tired body, he felt different. Coming out of the bath he almost collided with Eric Sawyer. Eric had a nasty cut over his right eye that gave him a peculiarly ugly expression, and it was soon evident that Eric's temper was as ugly as his appearance.

"Hello, fresh," he growled, scowling at Steve and barring his way in the narrow passage. "What call had you to butt in on me to-day?"

"I was playing the game, that's all," replied Steve coolly.

"You think you're a wonder, don't you? Well, you wouldn't have got me if I hadn't slipped. And the next time you interfere with me on the field or anywhere else I'll fix you for keeps. Now you mind that, you fresh young kid."

"You're a wonder at making threats, Sawyer," returned Steve angrily. "Why don't you do something besides talk?"

"I'd give you a good thrashing if you weren't so small," Eric growled.

"Oh, that's all right," replied Steve airily. "We can't all have piano legs, you know."

"Say, you let my legs alone! For two cents I'd tell what I know about you, you cheater, and we'd see how long you'd stay so cocky!"

"What you know about me?" laughed Steve. "You go right ahead and tell anything you want to, Sawyer. Whatever it is, it's a lie, I guess."

"Oh, is it? It's a lie that you swiped Upton's blue-book with his composition in it, I suppose. It's a lie that you were going to use it until Daley went up to your room and found it, I dare say. It's——"

"Yes, it is a lie, and you know it, Sawyer," flamed Steve. "If you tell any story like that around——"

"I'll tell what I please, kid, and you can't stop me." Several fellows came along the passage, viewing the two curiously, and Eric dropped his voice a note. "You stop bothering me, Edwards, or I will tell, and if I do, this place will be too hot for you. We don't like cheaters here——"

Steve sprang at him madly, but Eric stepped aside and Steve's blow went past.

"None of that!" warned Eric in a low, ugly voice. "Ah, you want it, do you?"

Steve hit again and Eric countered and got in a blow on the younger boy's neck that sent him staggering against the wall. Then arms wrapped themselves around Steve and a voice said:

"Here, what's up, Eric? Cut it out, Edwards!"

Steve, struggling, found himself in the firm grasp of Innes, the big first team centre-rush. "He called me a cheat!" he cried angrily. "You let me go, Innes!"

"So he is a cheat," returned Eric contemptuously. "He swiped Carl Upton's French composition and was going to hand it in as his own if Daley hadn't caught him at it!"

"That's a lie!" cried Steve. "Ask Mr. Daley himself! You're saying it because I kept you from making that touchdown, you—you——"

"Hold on, Edwards!" said Innes. "Don't call names." By this time the passage had filled with fellows, among them Andy Miller. Miller pushed forward.

"What's up, Jack?" he asked of the centre. Innes shrugged his big shoulders.

"Oh, just a scrap. Run along, you fellows. It's all over."

"It isn't over!" declared Steve, still trying to detach himself from the big fellow's grasp. "He's got to take it back! He's got to take it back or fight!"

"Cut it out, Edwards!" said Miller sternly. "Don't act like a kid. What's the trouble, Eric, anyway?"

"Oh, this kid got fresh with me," replied Eric with a malevolent glare at Steve. "Said I had piano legs——" There was an audible snicker from some of the audience—"and I told him to shut up and he made a swipe at me and I shoved him away. That's all."

"He said I cheated!" raged Steve.

"So you did. You stole Upton's French comp. out of Daley's room and he found it on your table."

"That's a lie! I don't know how that book got there. Mr. Daley will tell you——"

"Cut it, Edwards! I saw you carry the book out of the room myself! Now what do you say?"

"I say you lie! I say——"

"Stop that, Edwards!" Miller turned to Eric. "You've got no right to say things like that, Eric, and you know it. I don't believe he did anything of the sort. If he had, Mr. Daley would have had him expelled. Now you two fellows stop squabbling. You've been at it all the fall. If you don't, I'll see that you both lose your positions. And that goes!"

"Then tell him to let me alone," replied Eric with a shrug.

"Oh, forget it, Sawyer," exclaimed a voice down the passage. "You're twice as big as he is. Let the kid alone."

"Sure, I'll let him alone," growled Eric with an angry glare in the direction of the speaker. "Only he's got to stop getting fresh with me. I've warned him half-a-dozen times."

"And you'll have to warn me half-a-dozen more times," responded Steve grimly, "if you think I'm going to stand around and be called names. If I were as big as you are, you wouldn't dare——"

"That'll be about all from both of you," said Andy Miller. "Now beat it. If I hear of any more trouble from either of you while the season lasts, I'll have you both out of the game in a wink. If you've got to row, do it after we've beaten Claflin. Move on now! Get off the corner, all of yez!" And Andy good-naturedly pushed the fellows before him down the passage. Innes released Steve, but stepped between him and Eric.

"Come on, Edwards," he said with a laugh. "Be good and get your clothes on. Cap will do just what he says he will, too. You take my advice, kid, and bury the hatchet."

Steve went back to his locker, and with trembling hands dressed himself. Harry Westcott and Tom joined him and asked in low voices about the trouble. But Steve was non-communicative. He was wondering how much of Eric Sawyer's charge the fellows who had heard it were believing. Finally,

"No swimming to-day?" asked Tom.

Steve shook his head. "No," he answered. "Tell the fellows, will you? I'm—I'm too tired. I'm sorry."

"It's pretty late, anyway," murmured Harry. Together the three crossed the room toward the door. Already, as it seemed to Steve, fellows were regarding him suspiciously. Eric was not in sight, having gone on to his bath, for which two at least of the trio were thankful. Harry left them at the corner of Torrence, and Steve and Tom went on in silence to their room. Somehow it seemed difficult nowadays for them to find things to talk about. Steve resolutely sat himself down and drew his books toward him, while Tom, after fidgetting around for a few minutes, announced that he was going over to the office to see if there was any mail, and went out again. Steve was glad when he had gone, for he was relieved then of further pretence of studying. He couldn't get his mind on his books. The encounter with Eric Sawyer had left him irritable and restless, and he couldn't help wondering whether the fellows believed what Eric had said. He was grateful to Andy Miller for the latter's support, but it was doubtful if Andy's words had convinced anyone. And the charge was an ugly one. Steve winced when he considered it. It had seemed to him as he had left the locker room that already the fellows there had looked at him differently. He could imagine them talking about him and weighing Eric's story. Further reflections were interrupted by the reappearance of Tom, an open letter in hand and several newspapers sticking from a pocket.

"Nothing for you but a couple of papers," he said. "What do you suppose those silly fathers of ours are doing now?"

"Fighting a duel?" asked Steve with an attempt at humour.

"Not quite," Tom answered, "but they're getting ready for a law-suit."

"What about?"

"I can't make out," replied the other disgustedly, scanning the letter again. "It's something about some contract for building supplies, though. Gee, they make me tired! Always squabbling!"

"Who's bringing the suit, your father or mine?" asked Steve.

"Mine," said Tom hesitantly.

"Then I don't see that you need to blame my dad for it," retorted Steve.

"It takes two to make a quarrel, though," answered Tom sagely. "I don't believe my father would start anything like that unless—unless there was some reason for it."

"Oh, I suppose my father beat him out on a contract and he got sore," said Steve, with a short laugh. Tom looked across in surprise and puzzlement. The tone was unlike Steve, while never before had they taken sides in their fathers' disagreements. Tom opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and slowly returned the letter to its envelope.

"I guess it'll blow over," he said finally. "I hope so."

Steve shrugged his shoulders. "Let them fight it out," he said. "It may do them good."

The next day it was soon evident to Steve that Eric Sawyer's story of the purloined blue-book was school property. Fellows whom he knew but slightly or not at all observed him doubtfully, others greeted him more stiffly—or so Steve thought—while even in the manners of such close friends as Roy and Harry and one or two more he fancied that he could detect a difference. Much of this was probably only imagination on Steve's part, but on the other hand there were doubtless many fellows who for one reason or another chose to believe the story true. Steve was popular amongst a small circle of acquaintances and well enough liked by others who knew him only to speak to, but, naturally enough, there were fellows in school who envied him for his success at football or took exception to a certain self-sufficient air that Steve was often enough guilty of. These, together with a small number who owed allegiance to Eric Sawyer, found the story quite to their liking and doubtless told and retold it and enlarged upon it at every telling. At all events, Steve knew that gossip was busy with him. More than once conversation died suddenly away at his approach, and he told himself bitterly that the school had judged him and found him guilty. He passed Andy Miller in the corridor between recitations, and Andy, being in a hurry and having a good many things on his mind at that moment, said, "Hi, Edwards!" in a perfunctory sort of way and went by with only a glance. Steve concluded that even Andy was against him now, in spite of his defence yesterday. In the afternoon it seemed that there was a difference in the attitudes of his team-mates on the second, and, so inflamed had his imagination become by this time, he even imagined he detected a contemptuous tone in "Boots'" speech to him! The result was that Steve "froze up solid," to use Roy's phrase, and, secretly hurt and angry, presented a scowling countenance to the world that was sufficient to discourage those who wanted and tried to let him see that they didn't believe Eric's story.

When he got back to his room after the swimming lesson that afternoon, he found Tom nursing a very red and enlarged nose. He had a wet towel in his hand and was gingerly applying it to the inflamed feature.

"What—where——" began Steve.

"Scrap with Telford," replied Tom briefly.

"What about?" demanded Steve.

"Nothing much."

"Let's see your nose."

Tom removed the towel and Steve viewed it. "He must have given you a peach," he said critically. "What did you do?"

Tom smiled reminiscently. "Nothing much," he answered.

"Huh! Let's see your knuckles. 'Nothing much,' eh? They look it! Did faculty get on to it?"

Tom shook his head. "No, it was back of the gym. Just the two of us. It didn't last long."

"Who got the worst of it?"

"That depends on what you call the worst," answered Tom judicially. "I got this and he got one like it and a black eye. At least I suppose it's black by this time. It looked promising."

Steve laughed. Then he said severely: "You ought to know better than take chances like that, Tom. Suppose faculty got on to it. Besides, fighting's pretty kiddish for a Fourth Former!"

Tom viewed Steve amusedly over the wet towel. "Coming from you, Steve, that sounds great!" he said.

"Never mind about me. What I do doesn't affect you. What were you fighting about?"

Tom looked vacant and shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing special, I guess."

"Don't be a chump! You didn't black his eye and get that beautiful nose for nothing, I suppose. What was it?"

"Well, Telford said—he said——"

"You're a wonder!" declared Steve. "Don't you know what he said?"

"I forget. It was something—something I didn't like. So I slapped his face. That was on the gym steps. He said 'Come on back here.' I said 'All right.' Then we—we had it. Then he said he was wrong about it—whatever it was, you know—and we sort of apologised and sneaked off." Tom felt of his nose carefully. "I saw about a million stars when he landed here!"

"That's the craziest stunt I ever heard of!" said Steve disgustedly. "And you want to hope hard that no one saw it. If faculty hears of it, you'll get probation, you chump."

"I know. It won't, though. No one saw us."

"Who's Telford, anyway?" Steve demanded.

"Telford? Oh, he's a Fifth Form fellow."

"What does he look like?"

"Look like?" repeated Tom vaguely. "Oh, he's a couple of inches taller than I am and has light brown hair and—and a black eye!"

"Is he the fellow who goes around with Eric Sawyer?" demanded Steve suspiciously. "Wear a brown plaid Norfolk? The fellow who shoved me into the pool the night we had that fracas with Sawyer?"

"Did he? I don't remember. I didn't see who did that. I—I guess maybe he's the chap, though. I've seen him with Sawyer, I think."

"What did he say?" asked Steve quietly.

"Who say?"

"Telford."

"When?"

"To-day! When you had the row! For the love of Mike, Tom, don't be a fool!"

"I don't remember what he said."

"Was it about—me?"

"You? Why would it be about you?" Tom attempted a laugh.

"Was it?" Steve persisted.

Tom shook his head, but his gaze wandered. Steve grunted.

"It was, then," he muttered.

"I didn't say so," protested Tom.

"I say so, though." Steve was silent a moment. Then, "Look here, Tom, there's no use your fighting every fellow who says things about me," he said. "If you try that, you'll have your hands full. I—I don't care what they say, anyway. Just you keep out of it. Understand?"

"Sure," answered the other untroubledly.

"Of course"—Steve hesitated in some embarrassment—"of course I appreciate your standing up for me and all that, but—but I'll fight my own battles, thanks, Tom."

"You're welcome," murmured Tom through the folds of the towel. "Keep the change. I'll fight if I want to, though."

"Not on my account, you won't," said Steve sternly.

Tom grinned. "All right. I'll do it on my own account. Say, I'll bet Telford's nose is worse than mine, Steve. I gave him a bully swat!"



CHAPTER XXI

FRIENDS FALL OUT

On the eleventh of November Brimfield played her last game away from home. Chambers Technological Institute was her opponent. About every fellow in school went over to Long Island and witnessed a very sad performance by their team. The slump had arrived. That was evident from the first moment of play. Brimfield was outpunted, outrushed and outgeneraled. Chambers ran up 17 points in the first half and 13 more in the last, while all Brimfield could do was to make one solitary touchdown and a field-goal, the latter with less than thirty seconds of playing time left. Williams missed the goal after the touchdown by some ten yards. Not only was Brimfield outplayed, but she showed up wretchedly as to physical condition. It was a warm day and the Maroon-and-Grey warriors seemed to feel the heat much more than their opponents and were a sorry-looking lot by the end of the third period.

The second team attended the game in a body, "Boots" for once relenting, and looked on in stupefied sorrow while their doughty foe was humiliated and defeated.

"Gee, I wish Robey would put us in in the next half," sighed Gafferty to Steve after the second period had reached its sad conclusion. "I'll bet you we'd put up twice the game the 'varsity has."

"I don't see what ails them," responded Steve quite affably. The calamitous drama unfolding before him had for the moment made him forget his role of aloofness and cynical indifference. "Why, even Andy Miller is up in the air! He hasn't caught a pass once, and he's had four chances, and he's missed enough tackles to fill a book!"

"One grand slump," said Gafferty. "That's what it is, Edwards, one wonderful, spectacular, iridescent slump! And the only person who is pleased is Danny, I guess. He's been begging the 'varsity fellows to get stale and be done with it. And now they've obliged him. Too bad, though, they couldn't have slumped the first of the week. It's fierce to be beaten by a tech school!"

In the third period Coach Robey hustled the best of his substitutes on in the hope of stemming the tide of defeat, and, while the new men showed more dash and go, they couldn't stop the triumphant advance of the black-and-orange enemy. To make matters worse, when it was all over, Benson, who played right end, had a strained ligament in his ankle, Williams was limping with a bad knee and Quarter-back Milton had to be helped on and off the cars like a confirmed invalid. There wasn't a regular member of the 'varsity who could have stood up against a hard gust of wind five minutes after the final whistle had blown!

The school returned to Brimfield disgruntled, disappointed and critical. There was scarcely a fellow on the train who didn't have a perfectly good theory as to the trouble with the eleven and who wasn't willing and eager to explain it. As for the game with Claflin, now just a fortnight distant, why, it was already as good as lost! Anyone would have told you that. The only point of disagreement was the size of the score. That ran, according to various estimates, from 6 to 0 to 50 to 3. It was a wonder they allowed Brimfield that 3! But all this was on the way home. Gradually the reaction set in and hope crept back. After all, a slump was something you had to contend with. It happened to every team some time in the season. Perhaps it was lucky it had come now instead of later. Of course, Chambers Tech was only a fair-to-middling team and Brimfield ought to have beaten her hands down, but since she hadn't, there was no use in worrying about it. By the time supper was over that evening, the stock of the Brimfield Football Team had risen to close to par, and anyone who had had the temerity to even suggest the possibility of a victory for Claflin would have been promptly and efficaciously squelched!

The Chambers game resulted in a shake-up. That it was coming was hinted on Monday when only a few of the substitutes on the first were given any work and four of the second team fellows were lifted from their places and shifted over to what represented the 'varsity that day. These four were Trow and Saunders, tackles; Thursby, centre, and Freer, half-back. On Tuesday the first-string 'varsity men were back at work, with the exception of Benson, whose ankle was in pretty bad condition. Thursby was given a try-out at centre and Saunders at left tackle in the short scrimmage that followed practice. Thursby showed up so brilliantly that many predicted the retirement of Innes to the bench. Saunders failed to impress Coach Robey very greatly and he and Freer and Trow went back to the second the next day. The slump was still in evidence and the work was light until Thursday. Benson was still on crutches and his place was being taken by Roberts. Thursby ran Innes such a good race for the position of centre-rush that a substitute centre named Coolidge suddenly found his nose out of joint and faced the prospect of viewing the Claflin game from the bench.

The school held its first mass meeting on Wednesday evening of that week and cheered and sang and whooped things up with a fine frenzy. The discouragement of the Chambers game was quite forgotten. Andy Miller, in a short speech, soberly predicted a victory over Claflin, and the audience yelled until the roof seemed to shake. Coach Robey gave a resume of the season, thanked the school for its support of the team, pledged the best efforts of everyone concerned and, while refusing to say so in so many words, hinted that Brimfield would have the long end of the score on the twenty-fifth. After that the football excitement grew and spread and took possession of the school like an epidemic. Recitations became farces, faculty fumed and threatened—and bore it, and some one hundred and fifty boys fixed their gaze on the twenty-fifth of November and lived breathlessly in the future.

There was a second mass meeting on Saturday, a meeting that ended in a parade up and down the Row, much noise and a vast enthusiasm. Brimfield had met Southby Academy in the afternoon and had torn the visitors to tatters, scoring almost at will and sending the hopes of her adherents soaring into the zenith. To be sure, Southby had presented a rather weak team, but, as an offset to that, Brimfield had played without the services of the regular right end, without her captain and with a back-field largely substitute during most of the game. There was nothing wrong with Andy Miller, but it was thought best to save him for the final conflict. The last fortnight of a football season is a hard period for the captain, no matter how smoothly things have progressed; and Brimfield had had a particularly fortunate six weeks. Andy Miller was not the extremely nervous type, but, nevertheless, he had lost some fourteen pounds during the month and was far "finer" than Danny Moore wanted to see him. So Andy, dressed in "store clothes," saw the Southby game from the side-line, hobnobbing with the coaches and Joe Benson, still on crutches, and with Norton, who, after smashing out two touchdowns in the first period, was also taken out to be saved.

There was no trace of the slump left, and the final score that Saturday afternoon was 39 to 7, and the school was hysterically delighted, which accounts for the added enthusiasm which kept them marching up and down the Row in the evening until the patience of a lenient faculty was exhausted, and Mr. Conklin, prodded into action by a telephone message from the Cottage, appeared and dispersed the assembly.

The second team was to go out of business on Thursday, and several members of it were eager to end the season with a banquet. Freer and Saunders dropped in on Steve and Tom Sunday afternoon to talk it over and win their support. It was a nasty day, rainy and blowy and cold, and most of the fellows were huddling indoors around the radiators. Steve and Tom, on opposite sides of the table, were chewing the ends of their pens and trying to write their Sunday letters when the visitors came. Steve was studiedly haughty, as, to his mind, became one who was unjustly suspected of dishonesty. The visitors seemed puzzled by his manner and presently addressed themselves almost entirely to Tom, who, anxious to atone for his room-mate's churlishness, was nervously affable and unnaturally enthusiastic.

"We don't see," explained Saunders, "why we shouldn't be allowed to have a banquet after we quit training. We deserve it. We've done as much, in a way, as the 'varsity fellows to win from Claflin. We've been the goats all the season and it seems to me we ought to get something out of it. What we want to do is to go to Josh and get him to give us permission to have a blow-out in the village Thursday night."

"Or here," supplemented Freer, "if he won't let us go to the village. What do you fellows think?"

"I think it's a good scheme," answered Tom. "And we might get one over on the 'varsity, too. I mean we'd have our banquet and lots of fun whether we won from Claflin or not, while the 'varsity, if it loses the game, doesn't enjoy its banquet very much, I guess."

"Well, will you fellows come around to Brownell's room to-night after supper? Al is willing enough, but, being captain, he doesn't want to start the thing himself. We're going to see all the fellows this afternoon and then have a sort of a meeting this evening about eight. You'll come, Edwards?"

"Yes, thanks."

"All right. Come on, Jimmy. We've got several of the fellows to see yet."

"There wouldn't be very many of us, would there?" asked Tom. "Now that Robey has pinched Thursby there's only about fifteen left on the team."

"Sixteen, but we thought we'd get Robey to come if he would, and 'Boots,' of course, and maybe Danny. That would make nineteen in all."

"Where would you have it? Is there a hotel in the village?"

"Not exactly, but there's a sort of a boarding-house there; 'Larch Villa,' they call it. They'd look after us all right. They've got a fine big dining-room which we could have all to ourselves. We haven't talked price with them yet, but Al says we could probably get a good feed for about a dollar and a half apiece. That wouldn't be so much, eh?"

"Cheap, I'd call it," said Freer.

"We'd have beefsteak and things like that, you know," continued Saunders enthusiastically, "things that are filling. No froth and whipped cream, you know! And lots of gingerale!"

"Sounds good," laughed Tom. "I wish it was to-night. Do you think Mr. Fernald will let us?"

"I don't see why not. I spoke to Mr. Conklin about it and he said he would favour it if Josh came to him about it. If he won't let us go to the village, we thought maybe he'd let us have our feed here after the regular supper, if we paid for it ourselves. Well, you fellows show up about eight. Don't forget, because we want to get the whole bunch there and talk it all over and appoint a committee to see Josh."

Tom was silent for a minute after the visitors had departed. Then, hesitatingly, "Steve," he said, "what's the good of acting like that with fellows?"

"Like what?" asked Steve.

"You know well enough. Freezing up and talking as if you had a mouthful of icicles. You might be—be decently polite when fellows come in. Freer is a dandy chap, and Saunders is all right, too. But you treated them as if they were—were a couple of cut-throats."

"I wasn't impolite," denied Steve. "As long as those fellows choose to think what they do about me, you can't expect me to slop over with them."

"You haven't any way of knowing what they think about you," said Tom vigorously. "You take it for granted that every fellow in school believes that yarn of Sawyer's. I don't suppose a dozen fellows ever gave it a second thought."

"I know better. Don't you suppose I can tell? Almost every chap I know treats me differently now. Even—even Roy—and Harry—act as if they'd rather not be seen with me!"

"Oh, piffle!" exclaimed Tom indignantly. "That's a rotten thing to say, Steve! Why, you might as well say that I believe the yarn!"

"You?" Steve laughed meaningly. "You wouldn't be likely to."

"Then neither would Roy or Harry. They haven't known you as long as I have, but they know you wouldn't do a thing like that."

"I don't see why not," replied Steve stubbornly. "The book was found on this table. And Sawyer says he saw me with it. I guess it would be natural for them to believe what Sawyer says."

"They don't, though, as I happen to know," replied Tom stoutly. "Even if you did bring the book up here, that doesn't mean that you were going to—to use it. What really happened, I suppose, was that you took it up without thinking and didn't realise you had it when you came back."

Steve stared at him incredulously. "Well, of all the cheek!" he gasped.

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"I mean that that's a fine thing for you to get off," answered Steve indignantly. "You'll be saying next that you saw me bring the book in here that night!"

"I didn't, but—hang it, Steve, the thing was here! You told me so yourself. I thought you confessed that you brought it up without knowing."

"Oh, cut it," said Steve wearily. "I'm willing to be decent about it, Tom, but I don't want to listen to drivel like that."

"Drivel?" repeated the other, puzzled. "Say, what's the matter with you, anyway, Steve? I don't say you meant to cheat with the old book; I know mighty well you didn't; I told Telford so and convinced him of it, too; but I don't see why you need to get so hot under the collar when I—when I simply remind you that you did bring the book up here!"

"So I brought it up, did I?" asked Steve with an ugly laugh.

"Well, didn't you? Who did, then? You know well enough I didn't."

"Do I? How do I know it? Look here, Tom, we might as well have a show-down right now. I did not bring that blue-book into this room. I did not take it out of 'Horace's'. But 'Horace' found it on this table, poked under a pile of books. Now, then, what do you know about it?"

Tom stared in wide-eyed amazement for a moment. "You—you mean to say you think I did it!" he gasped finally.

Steve shrugged his shoulders.

"But—but you were here when I came back from downstairs, Steve! You saw that I didn't have it!"

"I didn't see anything of the sort. I didn't notice whether you had anything in your hands when you came in. Why should I? You might have slipped it under your coat. There's no use trying that game, Tom."

"Then why—why did you tell 'Horace' you took the book yourself if you knew you didn't?"

"Because one of us must have, you idiot."

"Oh, I see," answered Tom thoughtfully. "You wanted to keep me out of it, eh? Look here, Steve, what would I want with Upton's composition? My own was written two days before."

Steve shrugged his shoulders again impatiently. "That puzzled me. I didn't know. You did say afterwards, though, that your own comp. was pretty rotten. I didn't know but what——"

"You have a fine opinion of me, haven't you?" asked Tom bitterly. "You've known me ever since we were kids at kindergarten and you think that of me! Thanks, Steve!"

"Well, what——"

"Now you hold on! I'm going to tell you something." Tom was on his feet now, his hands on the edge of the table, his gaze bent sternly on his chum who was seated across the littered surface. "I didn't even see that blue-book of Upton's. I'll swear it wasn't on Mr. Daley's table when I went down there. I know nothing of how it got into this room. I tell you this on my word of honour, Steve. Do you believe me?"

Steve's gaze met Tom's troubledly, then shifted. "Oh, if you say so, I suppose I'll have to. But if you didn't bring the book up here——"

"That means you don't believe me," said Tom quietly. "Very well. Now, one more thing, Steve." Tom's eyes were blazing now, though his face was white. "Don't you speak to me unless you have to from now on, until you come to me and tell me that you believe what I've told you!"

"But, Tom, you can see yourself that it's mighty queer! If you——"

"You heard what I said! Perhaps you think I owe you something for trying to shield me from Mr. Daley. I don't, though. When you set me down for a cheat you more than squared that account. That's all. After this I don't want you to speak to me."

Steve shrugged his shoulders angrily. "That goes," he said. "When you want me to speak to you, you'll ask me, Tom! And don't you forget it!"

Both boys went back to their letters in silence. After a while Steve put on a raincoat and tramped down the stairs and over to Hensey. He meant to call on Andy Miller, but Andy was out and only the saturnine Williams was in the room. Although Steve had grown to like Williams very well, yet, in his present mood, the right tackle was not the sort of company Steve craved, and after a few minutes of desultory football talk he went on. He would have called on Roy and Harry, but now that he and Tom had quarrelled they would, he thought, side with Tom. In the end he found himself in the gymnasium. Several fellows were splashing about in the tank and Steve joined them. For an hour he forgot his troubles in performing stunts to the envious appreciation of the others in the pool. Applause was grateful to him that afternoon, and when he had dressed himself again and, avoiding the room, had gone across to Wendell to wait for the doors to open for supper, he felt better. Perhaps, he told himself, Tom really didn't know anything about that plaguey book, but even so he needn't get so cocky about it! Besides, someone must have put the book on their table and—well, the evidence was certainly against Tom!

It wasn't much fun eating supper with Tom at his elbow as grim and stiff as a plaster statue. Fortunately, Steve was well into his meal before Tom came in, and meanwhile there were others of the second team to talk to if he wanted. With no Tom to converse with he found it difficult to persist in his role of haughty indifference toward the others. Besides—and it came to him with rather a shock—what they thought of him was no more than he had been thinking of Tom! Hang it, it was all pretty rotten! He'd like to choke Eric Sawyer!

It didn't take the rest of the fellows at the training table long to make the discovery that the two friends were at outs. Trow, a pale-faced, shock-haired chap, took delight in trying to engage them both in conversation at the same time, thereby increasing the embarrassment. Steve was heartily glad when he had finished his supper and could leave the table. Returning to his room under the circumstances was not appealing, but there seemed nowhere else to go. There was the library, of course, but it was a dismal place on a Sunday evening, and he didn't want to read. But, as it proved, he needn't have considered avoiding the room, for Tom didn't return after supper, and Steve finished his letter home in solitude. At eight he went over to Al Brownell's room in Torrence, not because he was especially interested in the project to be discussed, but because he had agreed to attend the gathering and was glad, besides, to get away from Number 12 Billings. Life in Number 12 didn't promise to be very delightful for awhile, he thought dolefully.

In Brownell's room Steve carefully took a position as far distant from Tom as was possible. There was a lot of talk and a good deal of fun, and in the end Steve found himself chosen one of a committee of five to call on the principal and request the permission they desired. At a little after nine he walked back to Billings alone. Tom didn't return until ten and then, with never a word between them, they undressed and went to bed. Steve didn't get to sleep very easily that night. More than once he was sorely tempted to speak across the darkness and tell Tom that he did believe him and that he was sorry. And I think he would have done it, too, in the end if Tom had not fallen asleep just then and announced the fact in the usual melodic manner. Whereupon Steve frowned, punched his pillow and flopped over.

"It isn't bothering him any," he thought. "If he wants me to speak to him, he'll have to say so. Cranky chump!"



CHAPTER XXII

STEVE GETS A SURPRISE

Mr. Fernald was surprisingly complaisant on Monday when the committee from the second team waited on him at the Cottage. He gave them permission to hold their banquet in the village and even said several nice things to them about their share in the development of the 'varsity. He warned them against rowdyism, told them they must be back promptly at nine o'clock and said he hoped they'd have a good time! After which, much surprised and not a little embarrassed, the committee backed out of the room and returned joyfully to spread the tidings. A second committee, headed by Saunders, had already been appointed to arrange for the banquet in case permission was secured and by Tuesday everything was complete. I may say here that the event duly came off on Thursday evening and was a big success. But as neither Steve nor Tom was present, our interest in the banquet is slight.

On Monday the Review came out. The school paper was published on the twentieth of the month, and the December issue contained, among other features, a rather interesting resume of the football season by Mr. Robey and a list of the games played to date. The coach's article was too long to reproduce, but the summary of the season's contests was brief enough to be set down here:

Sept. 30—Brimfield 10; Thacher 3

Oct. 4—Brimfield 10; Canterbury 7

Oct. 7—Brimfield 26; Miter Hill 0

Oct. 14—Brimfield 3; Larchville 17

Oct. 21—Brimfield 0; Benton 0

Oct. 28—Brimfield 27; Cherry Valley 6

Nov. 4—Brimfield 12; Phillips 0

Nov. 11—Brimfield 9; Chambers 30

Nov. 18—Brimfield 39; Southby 7

Brimfield had played nine games, of which she had won six, lost two and tied one, not a bad record, as the Review rather complacently pointed out, for a school whose football history dated back but a few years. But Brimfield didn't waste much time contemplating past performances. Had the team won every game in its schedule by an overwhelming score, the season would still be a dismal failure if it lost to Claflin, just as, if it finally won its big game, the school would rise up and call it blessed even had it lost every other contest of the season. In other words, Claflin was the only foe that really counted, and the Claflin game was the final test by which the Brimfield Football Team stood or fell.

Claflin School, at Westplains, New York, some twelve miles distant from Brimfield, was a larger school in point of enrolment, a very much older school and far more "select." I don't intend to imply by that term that the Claflin students were a finer set of fellows than those at Brimfield. Doubtless they would have averaged up about the same. But Claflin liked to be considered "select" and so I might as well accord her the distinction. Claflin had been educating the youth of New York and surrounding states for almost a hundred years, and nowadays fathers applied for admission for their boys about as soon as the boys were born. The school was in that respect like a club with a long waiting list. If a boy wasn't "entered" by the time he was five or six years old at the latest, he stood small chance of getting in when the time came.

Claflin had won from Brimfield three years on end, or ever since they had been playing together. She had started out by according Brimfield a mid-season date. The following year she had placed the game a week later and last year she had put it last on her schedule, Brimfield having by then proved herself an adversary of real merit. Oddly enough, Claflin had for some time been without a special rival and had gladly bestowed the honour on the Maroon-and-Grey as soon as the latter had shown herself worthy. This fall Claflin had had an unusually successful season, having played seven games and won all but the last, that with Larchville. Larchville, who had defeated Brimfield 17 to 3, had also taken the measure of Claflin to the tune of 12 to 6. Brimfield read of it in the Sunday papers and took comfort. After all, Claflin was not unbeatable it seemed. Her defeat by Larchville, coupled with Brimfield's overwhelming victory over Southby, lent next Saturday's game a roseate glow, viewed from a Brimfield view-point. In fact, by Monday Brimfield was almost confident of at last winning from the Blue, and the question of a proper celebration of the victory was up for discussion. Of course it should be a whopping big bonfire, with a parade and speeches and singing and plenty of music! But Brimfield had never yet celebrated such a stupendous event and consequently there were no precedents to guide them. Neither was it known what attitude faculty would take in regard to such an affair. But a few choice spirits in the upper forms made tentative arrangements to the extent of picking out a likely spot in a corner of the athletic field for the fire and locating such loose material as might come in handy as fuel.

Monday's practice was short and easy. Even the second had an off-day. The 'varsity players were given a blackboard lecture in the meeting-room in the gymnasium after supper and were put through an examination on plays and signals. On Tuesday the practice was as stiff as ever. Coach Robey was not altogether satisfied with the defence, and there were forty-five minutes of the hardest sort of scrimmage in which the second was given the ball at various distances from the 'varsity goal and told to put it over. The field was closed to spectators that day and it was hard hammer-and-tongs football all the way. "Boots" drove the second with whip and spurs and the second responded nobly. But the best it could do was to drop a field-goal over the bar in the third period of the scrimmage, after having been held a half-dozen times by a desperate adversary. Steve played about as well that afternoon as he had ever played in his life. For once he had no worries on his mind. To be sure, there was still his falling-out with Tom and his quarrel with the school at large, but those things seemed rather to lend him a new strength than to bother him. He played with a dash and a reckless disregard for life and limb that made Coach Robey observe him with a new interest. Tom performed with his customary steadiness and more than once put it over on Fowler and on Churchill, who substituted him. They were some three dozen very tired youths who finally straggled back to the gymnasium when the work was over.

On Wednesday the last real practice of the season was to be held, since the Thursday performance was more in the nature of an exhibition for the school than real work, and on Friday afternoon the team was to journey over to Oakdale, on the Sound, and remain there until Saturday forenoon. But the weather proved unkind on Wednesday. In the middle of the forenoon the wind veered around to the south and a drizzle of rain set in. By three o'clock the drizzle had grown into a very respectable downpour and the gridiron was slow and slippery. But Mr. Robey was not to be deterred and, with Danny Moore anxiously hovering about like a hen with a batch of ducklings, the 'varsity was put through a half-hour of signal work, punting and catching. Then the second, wet and muddy, came across to the first team gridiron and the two elevens leaped at each other again. Danny followed close behind, cautioning and scolding, and more than one player was dragged out of the melee and sent off to the gym in spite of the coach's pleas and protestations.

"I'll not have them hurted," reiterated Danny stubbornly. "'Tis no sort of a day for hard work, Coach. I've got 'em through this far an' I'll not be havin' them breakin' their legs an' arms for the sake of a bit of practice, sir."

"Hang their arms and their legs!" fumed Mr. Robey. "They might as well not have any as start the game Saturday half-baked! Give me a chance, Danny!"

"'Tis takin' big chances, sir, playin' 'em on this sort of a field."

"Then we'll take chances!" growled the coach. "Now get in there, first, and rip it up! Show what you can do! You've got six to go on third down; put it over! Wait a minute! Thursby! Get in there for Innes and hold that centre of the line steady."

"Trot all the way in, my boy, and get a good rubbin'," directed Danny to the discomforted Innes. "Hi! Put your blanket on! Are you crazy?"

"Play lower there, Hall! Throw them back, second!" entreated "Boots." "Don't let them have an inch!"

Then the first piled through Brownell for three yards, slipping in the mud, panting, grunting to the accompaniment of thudding feet and the swish of wet canvas. Above the players a cloud of steam hovered as they disentangled themselves. Danny darted into the confusion. Benson was on his back, thrashing his arms.

"Water!" bawled Danny.

A helper raced on with a slopping pail. Danny's fingers went exploring.

"Ankle," groaned Benson, and Danny shot a triumphantly accusing look at Coach Robey. In a minute Benson was being helped off and the game was on again, but Mr. Robey showed a distinct aversion to meeting the trainer's glance. Later, in the gymnasium, it was known that Benson had hurt the bad ankle again and would not be able to play the game through on Saturday, even if he was allowed to get into it at all. Coach Robey accepted the tidings with a shrug and a scowl.

"Fine!" he said sarcastically. "Claflin's left end is the best player they've got. Roberts will stand a fine chance against him! Look here, Danny, I thought you said Benson's ankle was all right?"

"So I did! And so it was all right!" sputtered Danny. "But I didn't say he could go out an' play on a field like that to-day, did I?"

"All right. It can't be helped now. Where's Captain Miller?"

Danny bent his head backward toward the rubbing room. "In there," he answered shortly.

"Heard about Benson?" asked the coach.

Andy, looking a trifle pale and tired, nodded silently as the rubber kneaded his back. Mr. Robey frowned a moment.

"You'll have to change over," he said finally. Andy grunted agreement. "And we'll have to take Turner or Edwards from the second to-morrow and beat him into shape."

"Edwards is the better," said Andy.

"I suppose so. If he played the way he played yesterday and to-day he might have a chance against Mumford. Still——"

"I'd better take that end," said Andy. "Let Roberts start the game at left and then put in Edwards—unless Benson mends enough."

"He won't," said the coach pessimistically. "You can't play end with a sore ankle. He's out of it, Andy. Tough luck, too. I'll find Edwards and tell him to join the squad to-night. He's got to learn signals and plays and——" The coach's voice dwindled into silence and he gloomed frowningly out the window. "I wish now I'd let Danny have his way," he lamented. "We could have run through plays indoors and had a hard practice to-morrow. Well——" He shrugged his shoulders again and his gaze came back to Andy. "How are you?" he asked. "You look a bit fagged."

"I'll be all right after supper," replied the captain. "I'll be glad when Saturday night comes, though." And he smiled a trifle wanly as he slipped off the table.

Mr. Robey grunted. "So will I. Somehow, this year seems to mean more, Andy. Still, there's no use in worrying about it. Much better not think of it any more than you can help."

"I know," agreed Andy as he wrapped a big towel about his glowing body and moved toward the door, "but when you're captain it—it's a whole lot different. There's Edwards over there. Shall I call him?"

The coach nodded. "I think so. He's better than Turner, isn't he? Left end is Turner's position, though."

"Edwards'll take to it quick enough. He's got more bulldog than Turner has, too. I guess he's the man for us. Oh, Edwards! Will you come over here a minute?"

Steve pushed his way through the crowded aisles, past Thursby who winked and grinned and whispered "You're going to catch it!" past Tom who turned his head away as he approached, past Eric Sawyer, a big hulk in a crimson bathrobe, who scowled upon him, and so to where, by the rubbing room door, the captain and coach awaited him. It was Mr. Robey who brusquely made the announcement. The coach was anxious and tired to-day and his voice was harsh.

"Edwards, you join the 'varsity to-night. We may have to use you at left end. Benson's pretty badly hurt, I understand. Be upstairs at eight-fifteen promptly. You've got to learn the signals and about fifteen plays before Saturday. Tell your coach I've taken you, please."

"Yes, sir." Steve's eyes, round and questioning, turned to the captain. Andy smiled a little.

"Rather sudden, eh?" he asked. "Do your best to learn, Edwards. Get the signals and plays down pat. There isn't much time, but you can do it if you'll put your mind on it. You wanted to make the 'varsity, you know, and now you've done it, and here's your chance to make good, Edwards. But you've got to work like thunder, old man!" He laid a hand on Steve's shoulder and his fingers tightened as he went on. "Everyone's got his hands full right now, you see, and there's no one to coach you much. You've got to buckle down and learn things yourself. You can do it, all right. And on Saturday, if you get in—and I can't see how you can help it—you've got to play real football, Edwards. Think you can do all that?"

"Yes." Steve's heart was thumping pretty hard and his breathing was uncertain, as though he had raced the length of the field with a pigskin tucked in the crook of his arm, and his gaze sought the floor for fear those two would read the almost tragic ecstasy that shone in them. "Yes," he repeated, "I'll learn. And I'll—I'll play!"

"All right. You'd better join the 'varsity table to-night. See Lawrence about it. That's all." Coach Robey nodded and turned away. Andy Miller, following, paused and stepped back. One hand clutched the folds of the big towel about him, the other was stretched out to Steve.

"I'm glad, Edwards," he said in a low voice as Steve's hand closed on his. Steve nodded. He wasn't quite certain of his voice just then. "You'll do your best for us, won't you, old man?"

Steve gulped. "I—I'll play till I drop," he muttered huskily.



CHAPTER XXIII

DURKIN SHEDS LIGHT

Steve felt frightfully lonely that evening. He wanted so much to talk over his good fortune with Tom. But Tom, very grave of countenance, sat in frozen silence across the table and never so much as glanced his way. Had he done so he might have caught one of the wistful looks bent upon him and, perhaps, relented. Not being able to discuss the amazing thing which had happened to him, detracted at least half the pleasure, Steve sadly reflected. Of course Tom knew of it, for Steve had sat at the 'varsity training table at supper-time and he could still hear in imagination the buzz of interest that had filled the hall when, somewhat consciously skirting the second team table, he had walked to the corner and sank into a seat between Fowler and Churchill. They had been very nice to him at the 'varsity table. Only Roberts, who might be expected to view his appearance with misgivings, had eyed him askance. Poor Joe Benson was confined to the dormitory. Thursby, himself only a recent addition to the big squad, grinned at Steve from the length of the long table in a way which seemed to say: "They had to have us! I guess we fellows on the second team are pretty bad, what?"

But now, back in his room, with his books spread out before him and his mind in a strange tumult of elation and fear and dejection, he hardly knew whether to be glad of or sorry for his promotion. Study, at all events, was quite out of the question to-night, but luckily he was well enough up in his lessons to be able to afford one hour of idleness. He considered writing home to his father and recounting the story of his good fortune to him, for it seemed that he must talk to someone about it, and he even dragged a pad of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain pen. But, after tracing meaningless scrawls for several minutes, he gave it up. He didn't want to write a letter; he wanted to talk to Tom!

He saw the hands of his watch creep toward the hour of eight, after which he might give up pretence of study, don a sweater and a pair of canvas "sneakers" and go over to the gymnasium. The thought of that and of the next three days put him in a blue funk. What if he couldn't learn the signals, or, having learned them, forgot them in the game? What if he disappointed Andy and Coach Robey when the time came? He had visions of getting his signals mixed, of fumbling the ball at critical moments, of losing the game through his stupidity. There were times when he devoutly hoped that Joe Benson would recover the use of that ankle and get into the contest so that he [Steve] might not be called on to take part!

Then, at last, eight o'clock struck sonorously in the tower of Main Hall, and he closed his books with a sigh of relief, piled them up and went to the closet. When he was ready to go out Tom was still bent over his studies. Steve hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. He wanted Tom to wish him luck. He wondered if Tom guessed how sort of lonesome and scared he felt. But Tom never even raised his eyes and so Steve went out, closing the door softly behind him, and made his way through a dripping rain to the lighted porch of the gymnasium. Only a half-dozen fellows were there when he reached the meeting room. The settees had been moved aside and the floor was empty and ready for them. Steve nodded to the others and perched himself on one of the low windowsills to wait. In twos and threes the players stamped up the stairs, laughing, jostling. Milton and Kendall, entering together, seized each other and began to waltz over the floor. Steve wondered how they could take such a serious business so light-heartedly. Then Joe Lawrence, the manager, a football under his arm, came in with Williams and, glancing at his watch, began calling the roll. In the middle of it Coach Robey and Andy Miller and Danny Moore arrived. More lights were turned on and Mr. Robey swung the blackboard on the platform nearer the front.

"We'll try Number Six," he announced. Very quickly and surely he scrawled the formation on the board, added curving lines and dotted lines, dropped the chalk and faced the room. "All right, Milton. First-string fellows in this and the rest of you watch closely."

"Line up!" chirped Milton. "Formation A!" The players sprang to their places, their rubber-soled shoes patting softly on the boards. "21—14—63—66!" called the quarter. "21—14—63——"

The backs, who had shifted to the left in a slanting tandem, trotted forward, the ball was passed, the line divided and Still slipped through.

"Norton, you were out of position," said Mr. Robey. "Look at the board, please. Your place is an arm's length from left half. You've got to follow closely on that. Try it again, please."

So it went for nearly an hour, the substitutes gradually taking the places of the first-string players. Steve, who had had the signals explained to him earlier, managed to get through without mistakes, but as an end he had little to do in the drill. After the coach had watched them go through some fourteen plays, the settees were dragged out into the floor again, the players seated themselves and the coach drew diagrams and explained them and examined the squad in signals as he went along. It was all over at a little after nine, but not for Steve. Andy Miller took him back to his room with him and for a good half-hour Steve was coached on formations, plays and signals. When, finally, he went back to Billings his head was absolutely seething and it was long after eleven before sleep finally came to him. When it did, it was a restless and disturbed slumber that was filled with dreams and visions.

He awoke earlier than usual the next morning, feeling almost as tired as when he had gone to bed. But, although he strove to snatch a nap before it was time to get up, sleep refused to return to him. His mind was too full. Across the room Tom was snoring placidly, both arms clutched about a pillow and his face almost buried from sight. Steve envied him his untroubled state of mind. Then he began to go over what he had learned the evening before and found himself in a condition of panic because for the life of him he couldn't remember half of the stuff that had been hammered into his tired brain! Steve was not the only fellow at training table that morning who showed a distaste for the excellent breakfast that was served. More than one chap looked pale and anxious and only trifled with the food before him. Steve stumbled through recitations, earning a warning look from "Uncle Sim," managed to observe more or less faithfully the schedule he had set for himself and turned up at dinner table with a very good appetite. After dinner he wrote a notice and posted it on the bulletin board in the gymnasium.

"No Swimming Classes until Monday. S. D. Edwards."

The school turned out to a boy that afternoon and paraded to the field to watch the final practice. Massed on the grand stand, they sang their songs and cheered the players and the team all during a half-hour of signal drill and punting. There was no scrimmage until the first-string men had trotted off the field. Then the 'varsity substitutes and the second team faced each other for fifteen minutes and the second scored a field-goal. Steve played at left end on the substitute eleven, made one or two mistakes in signals and failed at any time to distinguish himself. But the game was slow and half-hearted, for the substitutes were continually warned against playing too hard and so risking injury. When it was over, the second cheered the 'varsity, the subs cheered the second and the spectators formed two abreast again and trailed across the field to the gymnasium and there once more cheered everyone from Captain Miller and Coach Robey down to the last substitute—who was Steve—Danny Moore and Gus, the rubber. It had drizzled at times during the afternoon, but before the final "Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brim-f-i-e-l-d!" had died away, the clouds broke in the west and the afternoon sun shone through. This was accepted joyfully as a good omen and the crowd outside the gymnasium broke into a chorus of ecstatic "A-a-ays!"

Practice was over early, and at half-past four Steve, parting from Thursby at the corner of Wendell, made his way along the Row, half wishing that he had not cancelled the swimming hour to-day. At the entrance to Torrence a voice hailed him from the doorway, and "Penny" Durkin, wild of hair and loose-limbed, stepped out.

"Hello," said Durkin. "Say, I've got the dandiest rug upstairs you ever saw, Edwards. It's a regular Begorra."

"What's a Begorra?" asked Steve with a smile.

"Oh, it's one of those rare Oriental rugs, you know."

"You mean Bokhara," laughed Steve.

Durkin blinked. "Something like that," he agreed. "Anyway, it's a peach. Come up and have a look at it."

"No, thanks. I'm not buying rugs to-day."

"Tell you what I'll do," pursued Durkin, undismayed. "I'll fetch it over to your room and you can see how it looks. It's got perfectly wonderful tones of—of old rose and—and blue and——"

"Nothing doing, Durkin. We don't need any rugs."

"You're missing a bargain," warned the other. "Say, I've still got that shoe-blacking stand I told you about. No, I didn't tell you, did I? I left a note under your door one evening, though. Did you get it?"

"Note? Why, yes, I think so. Yes, we got it. I'd forgotten."

Durkin chuckled. "That was the time I gave Sawyer the scare."

"How?" asked Steve idly.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Sawyer? Not likely." And Steve smiled.

"That's so, I did hear that you and he were scrapping one day. You used to be pretty chummy, though, didn't you?"

"Never," replied Steve with emphasis. Durkin blinked again and looked puzzled.

"Well, he was trying to find you that night. So I supposed——"

"What night?"

"The night I went to tell you about that shoe-blacking stand. It's almost as good as new, Edwards——"

"You say Sawyer was looking for me that night? How do you know? He couldn't have been, because I'd met him earlier in the hall downstairs."

"I don't know. He said he was. Anyhow, he was in your room——"

"Sawyer?" demanded Steve incredulously. "Eric Sawyer?"

Durkin nodded.

"You're crazy," laughed Steve.

"Well, he was," answered the other indignantly. "He came out just as I was tucking that note under the door and fell over me and let out a yell you could have heard half-way to New York. You see, I didn't know there was anyone there. I knocked at first and thought I heard someone moving around in there. Then I tried the door and it was locked——"

"You had the wrong room," said Steve. "We never lock our door except when we go to bed."

"Wrong room nothing! You got the note, didn't you? Well, I didn't leave any notes anywhere else."

"But—now, look here, Durkin. I want to get this right. You say you went to our room and knocked and—— Was there a light there?"

"No. The transom was dark. When I couldn't get in I went back down the corridor to where the light is and scribbled that note. Then I went back and tucked it under the door. I guess I didn't make much noise because I had a pair of rubber-soled shoes on and so Sawyer didn't hear me. Anyway, he opened the door just then and it was fairly dark there and he nearly broke his silly neck on me. Scared me, too, for the matter of that! I didn't think there was anyone in there. Say, is there anything up? You look sort of funny."

"N-no, nothing much. You're sure it was Sawyer who came out?"

"Of course I'm sure. He let out a yell and picked himself up and began to scold. Wanted to know what I meant by it and I said I was sticking a note under your door and he said 'Oh!' and something about wanting to see you and waiting for you. Then he said he guessed you weren't coming back yet and he'd go on."

"What time was this, Durkin?"

"Oh, a little after eight, I suppose; half-past, maybe. I stopped to see Whittaker on the floor below, I remember. He said he'd look at that stand, but he never did. If you want a bargain, Edwards, now's your chance. I'll let you have it for a dollar and a quarter. It cost two and a half. I bought it from——"

"Oh, confound your old stand! Look here, Durkin, will you tell Mr. Daley just what you've told me if I want you to?"

"Eh?" asked Durkin in alarm. "Oh, I don't know. I don't want to get anyone into trouble. I—I'd rather not, I guess. You see, Sawyer——"

"If you will, I—I'll buy your old shoe-blacking stand or your rug or—or anything you like!" said Steve earnestly. "Will you?"

"Why, maybe I might if you put it that way. The rug's two dollars."

"All right," answered Steve impatiently. "Where are you going to be for the next hour?"

"Upstairs, practising. Come and see it any time you like. It really is a peach, Edwards, and it's scarcely worn at all. It—it's a prayer rug, too, and they're scarcer than hens' teeth nowadays!"

But Steve was already yards away and Durkin shrugged his shoulders and turned back into Torrence.

"Wonder what's up," he murmured. "I'd hate to get Sawyer into a scrape. Still, if he will buy that rug——"



CHAPTER XXIV

THE DAY BEFORE THE BATTLE

Tom was attiring himself in his Sunday best. It was almost six o'clock and one of Hoskins' barges was to leave Main Hall at half-past with the members of the second team, for this was the evening of the banquet in the village. Tom didn't feel unduly hilarious, however. He was sorry that the football season was over, for one thing, for he loved the game. And then existence of late had been fairly wearing and mighty unsatisfactory. His quarrel with Steve was a tiresome affair and he didn't see just how it was to end. For his part, in spite of the fact that his chum had hurt him a good deal by his mean suspicion of him, he was ready to make up, only—well, he had some pride, after all, and it did seem as if the first overtures should come from Steve. No, on the whole, Tom wasn't looking forward to the banquet with any great amount of enjoyment. If Steve was going to be there, too——

Someone came hurrying down the corridor, the room door flew open and there stood Steve himself, a radiant and embarrassed look on his face, his gaze searching the room for Tom. His face fell a little as he found the room apparently empty, and then lighted again as his glance discovered Tom at the closet door, Tom half-dressed and with a pair of trousers dangling over his arm. Out went Steve's hand as he turned.

"I'm sorry, Tom," he said simply. "I was a beast."

Tom took the hand that was offered and squeezed it hard.

"That's all right," he stammered. "So was I."

"No, you were right, Tom," answered Steve convincedly. "I hadn't any business suspecting you of a thing like that. And—and I want to tell you first that I knew I was wrong a long time ago, before this happened. You believe that, don't you?"

"Yes, Steve, but—what is it that's happened?"

"It's all clear as daylight," said Steve, grinning happily as he seated himself on the bed and tossing his cap toward the table. "It was Sawyer did it. He put up the whole job. He fessed up when 'Horace' got at him. Durkin met him coming out and——"

"Hold on!" begged Tom. "I don't quite get you, Steve!"

Steve laughed. "Sort of confused narrative, eh? Well, listen, then. Drop those trousers and sit down a minute."

"All right, but the barge leaves at half-past——"

"Never you mind the barge, old man! You're not going in it. I'll come to that later, though."

"Take your time," said Tom, dropping into a chair. "I love to hear your innocent prattle."

"Shut up! It's like this, Tom. I met Durkin awhile ago and he got to talking about that shoe-blacking stand. Remember the note he left here that night?" Tom nodded. "Well, it came out that while he was putting it under our door Eric Sawyer walked out and fell over him."

"Out of here?"

"Right-o! Sawyer said he'd been waiting to see me. Now you remember I'd seen him coming out of Daley's room earlier, eh? Well, it seems that Sawyer saw a chance to put up a game on me. So after I'd gone upstairs again, he sneaked back to 'Horace's' room, got that confounded blue-book of Upton's and waited his chance. After we'd left the room he came up here and slid the thing among some books on the table there. While he was in here Durkin came along and knocked and Sawyer slipped over and locked the door. Then he waited until he thought Durkin had gone and unlocked the door again and came out. But old Durkin had written a note to us down under the light and come back with it and he was putting it under the door when Sawyer came out and fell over him. Of course, when Durkin told me that I had a hunch what had happened and I hot-footed it to 'Horace.' He confessed that it was Sawyer who had told him he'd seen me carrying off the book. So he streaked off after Sawyer, found him somewhere and took him to Durkin's room. Sawyer——"

"Were you there too?" asked Tom excitedly.

"No, he told me to wait in his study for him. He was back in about a half-hour looking sort of worried. Of course Sawyer had to own up. He told 'Horace' that he'd just done it for a joke, but 'Horace' didn't believe him for a cent. And there you are!" Steve ended in breathless triumph. Tom viewed him round-eyed.

"What—what about Sawyer?" he asked.

"I don't know for certain, but I think Sawyer's on pro. Anyway, Tom, I know this much: You don't go to any old banquet to-night."

"I don't? Why don't I?"

"Because I met Lawrence downstairs a few minutes ago. He was looking for you."

"Wh-what for?" asked Tom faintly.

"Robey says you're not to break training, Tom! You're to report at the 'varsity table to-night for supper!" Whereupon Steve, his eyes dancing, jumped from the bed and pulled Tom to his feet. "What do you say to that, old Tommikins?" he exulted.

Tom, dazed, smiled weakly. "Do you mean—do you mean they want me to play?" he murmured.

"Oh, no," scoffed Steve, pushing him toward the bed on which he subsided in a heap. "They want you to carry the footballs and sweep the gridiron! Of course they want you to play, you old sobersides! Don't you see that with Sawyer on pro there's a big hole in the line? I suppose they'll give Churchill the first chance at it, but he won't last the game through. Think of both you and I making the 'varsity, Tom! How's that for luck, eh? Not bad for the old Tannersville High School, is it? I guess we've gone and put Tannersville on the map, Tom!"

"Gee, I'm scared!" muttered Tom, looking up at Steve with wide eyes. "I—I don't believe I'll do it!"

"You don't, eh? Well, you're going to do it! Get your old duds on and hurry up. It's after six."

"I'll have to tell Brownell I'm not going to the feast." Tom gazed fascinatedly at his best trousers draped across the chair back. "Anyway, I wasn't keen on going—without you," he murmured.

"There's only one drawback," said Steve a few minutes later, when they were on their way to supper. "And that is that I promised Durkin to buy a rug from him."

"A rug? We don't need any rug, do we?" asked Tom.

"Not a bit. But this is a genuine Begorra; Durkin says so himself. And I agreed to buy it if he'd tell 'Horace' about Sawyer. Unless—unless you'd rather have the shoe-blacking stand, Tom?"

"I would. If we had that, perhaps you'd keep your shoes decent!"

Steve tipped Tom's cap over his eyes. "Rude ruffian!" he growled affectionately.

There was no practice at Brimfield Friday, for as soon as the last recitation of the day was over the 'varsity team and substitutes piled into two of Hoskins' barges in front of Main Hall to be driven over to Oakdale, some five miles distant. The school assembled to see them off, and there was much hilarity and noise. Joe Lawrence, note-book in hand, flustered and anxious, mounted the steps and called the names of the squad members.

"Benson!"

"Here," responded Benson from where, at the far end of one of the barges, he sat, crutches in hand, looking a bit disconsolate.

"Churchill, Corcoran, Edwards, Fowler, Gleason, Guild, Hall, Harris, Innes—Innes?"

"Coming fast!" shouted a voice from the edge of the throng, and the big centre, suit-case in hand, pushed his way toward the barges.

"Right through!" laughed the fellows. "Hit the line, Innes! A-a-ay!"

"Kendall," continued Lawrence. "Lacey, Marvin, Miller, Milton, McClure, Norton, Roberts, Still, Thursby, Williams!"

"All present and accounted for," announced a voice in the crowd. "Home, James!"

Coach Robey and "Boots" appeared. Danny Moore, who with Gus, the rubber, sat on the driver's seat surrounded with suit-cases, took the bags, Joe Lawrence and Tracey Black, assistant manager, squeezed into the already overcrowded barges, Blaisdell, baseball captain, called for a cheer and, amidst a thunderous farewell, the squad, grinning and waving, disappeared down the drive, through the gate and out on to the road.

Oakdale was fairly deserted at this time of year. Most of the summer cottages were closed, but the little hotel kept open the year around, and when, at four o'clock, the barges pulled up in front of it, fires were snapping in the open fireplaces and everything was in readiness for the squad's reception. Followed a very merry and rather boisterous time while the fellows, bags in hand, sought their rooms to don their togs and report for light practice on the lawn. There was only signal drill to-day, and that was brief. Afterwards the centres practised passing and the kickers limbered up a little, but by five the work was over and the fellows were free to do what they liked. Some gathered around the two big fireplaces in the hotel, others went for strolls along the road, and still others, Steve and Tom amongst the number, sought the little cove nearby where a diminutive and rather pebbly beach curved from point to point and a boat-landing stuck out into the quiet water. The trees and grass went almost to the edge and there were comfortable benches along the bank from which one might look across the Sound to the Long Island shore or watch the boats pass. It had been a fair, mild day and the light still held. Steve and Tom sauntered down to the float and Steve dipped an inquiring hand into the water.

"Say, that isn't a bit cold," he announced. "What do you say to a swim, Tom?"

"Fine, only we haven't any suits."

"Maybe they've got some at the hotel. Let's ask." On the way up they met Norton, Williams and Marvin. "Come on in swimming, fellows," called Steve.

"Can we?" asked Norton. "Who says so?"

"Why not? We're going to see if we can find some trunks or something."

"All right. You'd better ask the coach, though." This from Marvin. "He's in the office, I think. If you find any trunks bring some for us, Edwards."

The clerk was rather dubious at first, but eventually returned with a miscellaneous collection of bathing togs from which the boys finally evolved three pairs of trunks and two suits. Meanwhile Mr. Robey had given hesitant permission.

"If the water's very cold, Edwards, don't try it, please. And, in any case, don't stay in more than ten minutes. That goes for all of you."

There was a bathing pavilion farther along, reached from the little beach by a flight of wooden steps, and to this the five boys proceeded, examining the attire the clerk had provided with much amusement.

"I won't be able to swim a stroke," declared Norton. "I'll just be doubled up laughing at Hath in that blue-striped thing he has there."

"Huh," growled Williams, "I don't think you'll get any prizes for beauty yourself!"

By this time the news of their exploit had gone out and other fellows were hurrying to the hotel to seek bathing suits. A few secured them and the rest followed down to watch. When they met outside, dressed for the plunge, the five went off into gales of laughter. Hatherton Williams in a blue-and-white-striped suit many sizes too small for him cut a ridiculous figure, while Norton, whose faded red trunks had lost their gathering string, held his attire frantically with one hand and implored a pin! Tom's trunks were strained to the bursting point and Steve's were inches too large for him. Only Marvin had fared well, being dressed in what he called "a real classy two-piece suit." The two pieces didn't match in either colour or material, but they nearly fitted and, unlike Hatherton Williams' regalia, were innocent of holes. Norton declared that he was extremely glad it was getting dark, since otherwise if the pin one of the onlookers had supplied him with gave way, he'd have to stay in the water.

Steve and Marvin led the way to the float and they all plunged in. Tom, shaking the water from his head, faced Steve accusingly when he had regained his breath. "Thought you said it wasn't cold!" he shrieked. "It's freezing! Br-r-r!"

"Move around and get warm," advised Norton, striking out. "It isn't bad when you get used to it."

But Tom, accustomed to the tempered water of the school tank, groaned and refused to be optimistic. "Bet it isn't a bit over forty-five," he muttered.

Steve was already well out in the cove, pursued by Norton. Some of the boys who had failed to find suits had launched a decrepit rowboat and, with one broken oar, were splashing about near the float. Far out in the Sound a big white steamer passed eastward, her lights showing white in the gathering darkness and the strains from her orchestra coming faintly across the quiet water. The boys in the rowboat stopped skylarking to discuss what steamer it was, and Marvin, who had swam up behind and laid hands on the gunwale, told them that it was the Lusitania and that if they didn't agree with him he'd tip them over. Discussion ceased at once. The four mariners instantly declared that he was right. Churchill even went so far as to say that he had known it was the Lusitania all the time; that he could always tell her by her funnels. Innes, who was seated in the stern and filling his position to the limit, acknowledged that for an instant—oh, the merest fraction of a second!—he had thought the steamer was the Ne'er-do-well, Berlin to Kansas City, but that he had seen his mistake almost instantly! By which time, the Priscilla, New York to Fall River, had passed out of sight, and Marvin, merely tipping the boat until the water ran in a bit over one side, just as a mark of esteem, swam off before Guild could reach him with the broken oar.

Tom and Williams were paddling about not far off the landing, Tom floating on his back most of the time and complaining about the temperature of the water, when Norton swam up, puffing and blowing.

"Where's Steve?" asked Tom. Norton nodded toward the Long Island shore.

"Somewhere out there," he answered. "He was too much for me. I had to quit. The chump swims like a—a dolphin. I'm going in, fellows. I'm getting cold."

"I guess we'd all better," agreed Williams. "Hello! What's that?"

"Help!" From somewhere beyond the mouth of the little cove the cry came, sharp, imperative, and was repeated again while they listened.

"It's Edwards," muttered Norton uneasily. "I suppose he's only trying to get a rise out of us. He can swim like——"

"Must be," agreed Williams. "Can you see him?"

The cove was dim now and the surface of the water beyond held a sheen of light that confused the vision.

"I'm not sure," muttered Norton. "I thought I did—for a minute."

"Who was that yelling out there?" shouted one of the fellows in the boat.

"Must be Edwards," answered Williams. "Can you see him?"

"No. Do you suppose——"

"Help! This way!" The cry came again, fainter now, and someone in the boat seized the broken oar and began to churn the water with it, sending the crazy craft circling about in its length.

"He's in trouble!" cried Norton. "Cramps, probably. I'm off, Hath. Will you come? Where's Hall?"

"He started a minute ago," answered Williams, striking out with long hard sweeps of legs and arms. "There he is, ahead."

"Come on with that boat, you fellows!" shouted Norton. "And hurry it up!"



CHAPTER XXV

TOM TO THE RESCUE

"We've only got one oar," answered a desperate voice.

"Put it over the stern and scull it," directed someone on the float. There was a splash in reply, and Innes, who had promptly vacated his seat, crawled dripping to the landing. Hatherton, Williams, Norton and Marvin were already swimming desperately toward the mouth of the cove, while several fellows on land were running hard to the point, following the curving shore. The rowboat was at last under way, but making slow progress. Norton was the best swimmer of the trio, or, at least, the fastest, and Williams and Marvin were soon hopelessly in the rear. But Norton, if he could distance the other two, found that he was gaining but slowly on Tom, who, swimming as he had never swam before, as he didn't know he could swim, was already well out toward the mouth of the cove.

His limbs were aching already, and his lungs were hurting as he fought his way through the water and against a slow-coming tide. But the only thought that possessed him was that Steve was in trouble out there, perhaps drowning, and that he must get to him. The water splashed into his eyes and blinded him, for Tom was not an adept swimmer, and not once could he so much as sight Steve. Neither was the appeal for help repeated and Tom's heart sank. Behind him, as he was dimly aware, others were following, and he wished they would hurry. Once, when he was opposite the points, he tried to call, but his lungs were too tired to respond in more than a whisper. Then he was past the gloom of the cove, the water was alight with the afterglow and little choppy waves dashed against him. Gasping, he paused an instant, brushed one arm against his dripping face and looked about him. For a moment nothing met his anxious gaze. Then a darker spot on the darkening water appeared a dozen yards away and Tom went on desperately, panic-stricken for fear that when he reached it it would prove to be only a bit of driftwood.



But it wasn't. It was Steve, Steve on his back, with only his head and shoulders above the water, eyes closed in a dead-white face and his arms weakly moving now and then as though in an unconscious endeavour to keep the helpless body afloat. A great wave of relief and joy almost stopped Tom's heart for an instant. Then his hand went out and caught one of Steve's wrists.

"It's all right, Steve," he gasped weakly. "Don't grab me. They're coming with the boat."

There was no reply from Steve, and Tom, pulling the arm over his shoulder, as he had seen Steve himself do so many times in the tank when illustrating the way to rescue a drowning person, felt the weight of the inert form on his back as he turned and strove to swim slowly back toward the cove. To swim with one arm, even to keep himself afloat so, was no light task for Tom, and now, with the weight of Steve's body bearing him down, he found the struggle too much for him. He relinquished all attempts to swim and centred his efforts in keeping afloat. If only Norton and the rest would come! He listened. There was a splashing somewhere nearby, but it was too dark now to see a dozen feet away. Tom drew all the breath he could find into his lungs and let it out in a weak shout.

"Help!" he gasped. "Here!"

Then there was an answering hail from close by, a mighty churning of the water and a dim form plunged alongside.

"Have you got him?" cried Norton. "Give him to me, Hall. Hath! Over here!"

Tom didn't relinquish quite all his burden, though. He still had one of Steve's arms around his neck when, a minute later, Marvin and Williams having reached them meanwhile, the rowboat appeared out of the darkness. It was no light task to get Steve into the boat, but it was accomplished somehow, and then, Tom dragging astern, hands clutching the gunwale grimly, and the others, too, claiming at least partial support from the boat, the rescuers turned shoreward. Wisely, Churchill, who handled the oar, headed the boat toward the nearer point, and when the keel grounded, eager hands were waiting to lift Steve out and hurry him back to the hotel. Tom crawled out of the water and subsided on the bank, still fighting for breath and feeling rather sick at his stomach. Between Fowler and Milton he was lifted and half carried, weakly protesting that he could walk all right and promptly crumpling up when they allowed him to try.

Steve had been taken up to the room he was occupying, and Danny Moore was administering to him when Tom was brought in and laid on his bed. Steve was already talking weakly and Danny was telling him to keep still.

"Don't be talking," he said. "Fit that bottle to your back and keep covered up. You'll be fine in an hour. An' who've you got there? Well, if it ain't my old friend Jim Hall!"

Tom smiled faintly as Danny bent over him.

"An' so you been tryin' to drown yourself too, have you?" continued Danny. "Well, well,'tis queer tastes you have, the two of you! Drink a bit o' this, Jim, and lie still."

Mr. Robey came in and Danny nodded reassuringly to him. "They'll be fine as fiddles in an hour, Coach. Now you boys scatter out o' here an' leave them have a bit nap."

Tom didn't remember much for awhile after that, for he must have fallen promptly to sleep. When he awoke, the light was turned low and Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed. On a chair beside him was a tray from which appetizing odours curled toward him. Tom blinked sleepily.