"Eight minutes to play," said Remsen. "If we can only keep them from scoring again!" Suddenly there was a murmur from the seats, then a cry of surprise from Remsen's side, then a shout of exultation that gathered and grew as it traveled along the line. And around the corner of the stand came a youth who strove to lace his torn and tattered canvas jacket as he ran. Remsen leaped to his feet, dropping his pipe unnoticed, and hastened toward him. They met and for a moment conversed in whispers.

"It's Joel March!" cried Blair. "He's going to play!" exclaimed a dozen voices. "But he can't," cried a dozen others. "He's on probation." "He is! He is! He's going on! He's going to play!"

And so he was. Whipple had already seen him, and had sunk to the ground nursing an ankle which had suddenly gone lame. "Time!" he cried, and obedient to his demand the referee's whistle piped. "Give your place to Post, Wills!" he commanded, and then, limping to Joel, he led that youth apart.

"Can you play?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes."

"Then get in there at full-back, and, O March, kick us out of this bloody place! I'll give you the ball on the next down. Kick it for all you're worth." He gave Joel a shove. "All right, Mr. Referee!" The whistle sounded.

Forward charged St. Eustace. But, gathering encouragement from the knowledge that back of them stood a full who would put them out of danger if the opportunity were given him, Hillton stood fast.

"Second down, five yards to gain!" cried the umpire.

Again the wearers of bedraggled blue stockings surged and broke against the line. And again there was no gain. Back of Hillton, less than eight yards away, lay the goal-line. Desperation lends strength. Huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, the backs bracing from behind, the crimson-clad youths awaited the next charge. It was "the thin red line" again. Then back went the ball, there was a moment of grinding canvas, of muttered words and smothered gasps, of swaying, clutching, falling, and "Down!" was heard.

"Hillton's ball; first down," announced the umpire.

What a cheer went up from the grand stand! What joy was in Remsen's heart as the St. Eustace full-back went trotting up the field and Greer stooped over the ball! Then came a pause, a silence. Every one knew what to look for. Squarely between the posts and directly under the cross-bar stood Joel March, his left foot on the goal-line. Back came the ball, straight and low into Joel's outstretched hands. The line blocked long and hard. One step forward, an easy, long swing of his right leg, and Joel sent the ball sailing a yard over the upstretched hands of the opposing line and far and high down the field.

There it was gathered into the arms of the St. Eustace full-back, but ere that player had put his foot twice to ground he was thrown, and the teams lined up on St. Eustace's forty-five-yard line. Then it was that the god of battle befriended Hillton; for on the next play St. Eustace made her first disastrous fumble, and Christie, Hillton's right end, darted through, seized the rolling spheroid, and started down the field. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty yards he sped, the St. Eustace backs trailing after him.

"A touch-down!" cried Remsen. "No, the half's gaining! He's got him! No, missed him, by Jove! A-ah!"

The run was over, and Christie lay panting on the ground, with the triumphant St. Eustace half-back sitting serenely on his head; for, although the latter had missed his tackle, Christie had slipped in avoiding him. But cheers for Christie and Hillton filled the afternoon air, and the two elevens lined up near St. Eustace's twenty-five-yard line, yet well over toward the side of the field.

"If it was only in the middle of the field," groaned Blair, "a place-kick would tie the score. How much time is there, Mr. Remsen?"

"About two and a half minutes," answered Remsen. "But I've an idea that, middle or no middle, Whipple's going to signal a kick."

"It can't be done," answered Blair with conviction, "drop or placement! March is only fair at goals, and at that angle—"

"What's the matter with the man?" cried Remsen; "what's he up to?" For the Hillton backs were clustered well up behind the line as though for a wedge attack. And as Remsen wondered, the ball was put in play, the line blocked sharply, and Christie left his place at right end, and skirting behind the backs received the ball by a double pass via right half-back and ran for the middle of the field, the backs helping the end and tackle to hold the St. Eustace right line. Christie gained the center of the gridiron and advanced a yard toward the opponent's goal ere the St. Eustace right half-back reached him. Then there was a quick line-up, and Joel took up his position for a kick.

"Well done, Whipple!" cried Remsen and Blair in a breath.

"But the time!" muttered Remsen, "does he know—"

"One minute to play!" came the ominous announcement.

Then, while a snap of the fingers could have been heard the length of the field, Whipple glanced deliberately around at the backs, slapped the broad back of the center sharply, seized the snapped ball, and made a swift, straight pass to Joel. Then through the Hillton line went the St. Eustace players, breaking down with vigor born of desperation the blocking of their opponents. With a leap into the air the St. Eustace left-guard bore down straight upon Joel; there was a concussion, and the latter went violently to earth, but not before his toe had met the rebounding ball; and the latter, describing a high arc, sailed safely, cleanly over the bar and between the posts! And then, almost before the ball had touched the ground, the whistle blew shrilly, and apparent defeat had been turned into what was as good as victory to the triumphant wearers of the Hillton crimson!

Hillton and St. Eustace had played a tie.

And over the ropes, rushing, leaping, shouting, broke the tide of humanity, crimson flags swirled over a sea of heads, and pandemonium ruled the campus!

And on the ground where he had fallen lay Joel March.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE GOODWIN SCHOLARSHIP.

"But how did it all happen?" asked Outfield West breathlessly.

He had just entered and was seated on the edge of the bed whereon Joel lay propped up eating his Thanksgiving dinner from a tray. It was seven o'clock in the evening, and Dickey Sproule was not yet back. The yard was noisy with the shouts of lads returning from the dining hall, and an occasional cheer floated up, an echo of the afternoon's event. Joel moved a dish of pudding away from Outfield's elbow as he answered between mouthfuls of turkey:

"I was up here studying at the table there when I heard some one coming up stairs two steps at a time. It was Clausen. He threw open the door and cried: 'They're winning, March, they're winning! Come quick! Remsen says we can tie them if you play. It's all right, March. We'll go to the office and I'll tell everything. Only come, hurry!' Well, of course I thought first he was crazy. Then I guessed what was up, because I knew that Eustace had scored—"

"You couldn't have known; you were studying."

"Well, I—I wasn't studying all the time, Out. So up I jumped, and we raced over to the office and found Professor Wheeler there asleep on the leather couch under the window. 'It was Cloud and I, sir, that cut the rope!' said Clausen. 'I'm very sorry, sir, and I'll take the punishment and glad to. But March hadn't anything to do with it, sir; he didn't even know anything about it, sir!' Professor Wheeler was about half awake, and he thought something terrible was the matter, and it took the longest time to explain what Clausen was talking about. Then he said he was glad to learn that I was innocent, and I thanked him, and he started to ask Clausen a lot of questions. 'But St. Eustace is winning, sir!' I cried. He looked at me in astonishment. 'Indeed, I'm very sorry to hear it,' he said. 'But it isn't too late now, sir,' said Clausen. 'For what?' asked 'Wheels.' 'For me to go on the team,' said I. 'You know, sir, you put me on probation and I can't play.' 'Oh,' said he, 'but you were put on probation by the faculty, and the faculty must take you off.' 'But meanwhile Hillton will be beaten!' said Clausen. 'Can't he play, sir? He can save the day!' Wheels thought a bit. 'What's the score?' he asked. Clausen told him. 'Yes,' he said at last, 'run and get to work. I'll explain to the faculty. And by the way, March, remember that a kick into touch is always the safest.'"

"Isn't he a rummy old guy?" exclaimed West. "And then?"

"Then I struck out for the gym, got into my canvas togs somehow or other, and reached the field just about in time. Luckily I knew the signals. And then after I'd kicked that goal that big Eustace chap struck me like a locomotive, and I went down on the back of my head; and that's all except that they brought me up here and Professor Gibbs plastered me up and gave me a lot of nasty sweet water to take."

"And Clausen?"

"From the little I heard I think Cloud cut the rope and made Clausen promise not to tell. And he kept his promise until he saw Hillton getting beaten yesterday, and then he couldn't stand it, and just up and told everything, and saved us a licking."

"Didn't I tell you Cloud did it? Didn't I—" There came a knock on the door and in response to Joel's invitation Professor Wheeler and Stephen Remsen entered. West leaped off the bed—there is a rule at Hillton forbidding occupying beds save for sleep—and upset Joel's tea. Professor Wheeler smiled as he said:

"West, you're rather an uneasy fellow to have in a sick-room. Get something and dry that off the floor there, please.—Well, March, I understand you got there in the nick of time to-day. Mr. Remsen says you saved us from defeat."

"Indeed he did, professor; no one else save Blair could have done it to-day. That goal from the twenty-five-yard line was as pretty a performance as I've ever seen.—How are you feeling, lad?"

"All right," answered Joel. "I've got a bit of a headache, but I'll be better in the morning."

"Your appetite doesn't seem to have failed you," said the principal.

"No, sir, I was terribly hungry."

"That's a good sign, they say.—West, you may take your seat again." The professor and Stephen Remsen occupied the two chairs, and West without hesitation sat down again on the bed.

"March, I have learned the truth of that affair. Bartlett Cloud, it appears, cut the bell rope simply in order to throw suspicion on you. He managed to secure a letter of yours through—hem!—through your roommate, who, it seems, also bears you a grudge for some real or fancied slight. Clausen, while a party to the affair, appears to have taken no active part in it, and only remained silent because threatened with bodily punishment by Cloud. These boys will be dealt with as they deserve.

"But I wish to say to you that all along it has been the belief of the faculty, the entire faculty, that you had no hand in the matter, and we are all glad to have our judgments vindicated. An announcement will be made to-morrow which will set you right again before the school. And now, in regard to Richard Sproule; do you know of any reason why he should wish you harm?" "No, sir. We don't get along very well, but—"

"I see. Now, it will be best for you to change either your room or your roommate. Have you any preference which you do?"

"I should like to change my room, sir. I should like to go in with West. He has a room to himself in Hampton, and wants to have me join him."

"But do you realize that the rent will be very much greater, March?"

"Yes, sir, but West wants me to pay only what I have paid for this room, sir. He says he'd have to pay for the whole room if I didn't go in with him, and so it's fair that way. Do you think it is, sir?"

"What would your father say, West?"

"I've asked him, sir. He says to go ahead and do as I please." The principal smiled as he replied:

"Well, March, then move over to West's room to-morrow. It will be all fair enough. And I shall be rather glad to have you in Hampton House. Digbee is an example of splendid isolation there; it will be well to have some one help him maintain the dignity of study amid such a number of—er—well, say lilies of the field, West; they toil not, if you remember, and neither do they spin. Don't get up in the morning if your head still hurts, March; we don't want you to get sick.—Keep a watch on him, West; and, by the way, if he wants more tea, run over to the dining hall and tell the steward I said he was to have it. Good-night, boys."

"Good-night, sir." Remsen shook hands with Joel.

"March, I hope I shall be able to repay you some day for what you did this afternoon. It meant more to me, I believe, than it did to even you fellows. I'm going Thursday next. Come and see me before then if you can. Good-night."

When the door had closed Outfield shouted, "Hurrah!" in three different keys and pirouetted about the room. "It's all fixed, Joel. Welcome to Hampton, my lad! Welcome to the classic shades of Donothing Hall! We will live on pickles and comb-honey, and feast like the Romans of old! We—" He paused. "Say, Joel, I guess Cloud will be expelled, eh?" Joel considered thoughtfully with a spoonful of rice pudding midway between saucer and mouth. Then he swallowed the delicacy. "Yes," he replied, "and I'm awful glad of it."

But Joel was mistaken; for Cloud was not to be found the next morning, and the condition of his room pointed to hasty flight. He had taken alarm and saved himself from the degradation of public dismissal. And so he passed from Hillton life and was known there no more. Clausen escaped with a light punishment, for which both Joel and West were heartily glad. "Because when you get him away from Cloud," said West, "Clausen's not a bad sort, you know."

Richard Sproule was suspended for the balance of the fall term, and was no longer monitor of his floor. Perhaps the heaviest punishment was the amount of study he was required to do in order to return after Christmas recess, entailing as it did a total relinquishment of Mayne Reid, Scott, and Cooper. And when he did return his ways led far from Joel's. Very naturally that youth had now risen to the position of popular hero, and unapproachable seniors slapped him warmly on the shoulder—a bit of familiarity Joel was too good-natured to resent—and wide-eyed little juniors admired him open-mouthed as he passed them. But Joel bore himself modestly withal, and was in no danger of being spoiled by a state of things that might well have turned the head of a more experienced lad than he. It is a question if Outfield did not derive more real pleasure and pride out of Joel's popularity than did Joel himself. Every new evidence of the liking and admiration in which the latter was held filled Outfield's heart with joy.

At last Joel found time to begin his course in golf, and almost any day the two lads might have been seen on the links, formidably armed with a confusing assortment of clubs, Outfield quite happy to be exhibiting the science of his favorite sport, and Joel plowing up the sod in a way to cause a green-tender, had there been such a person on hand, the most excruciating pain. But Joel went at golf as he went at everything else, bending all his energies thereto, and driving thought of all else from his mind, and so soon became, if not an expert, at least a very acceptable player who won commendation from even West—and where golf was concerned Outfield was a most unbiased and unsympathetic judge.

One afternoon Whipple and Blair, the latter once more free from probation, played a match with Joel and West, and were fairly beaten by three holes—a fact due less, it is true, to Joel's execution with the driver than West's all-around playing. But Joel, nevertheless, derived not a little encouragement from that result, and bade fair to become almost if not quite as enthusiastic a golfer as West. At first, in the earlier stages of his initiation, Joel was often discouraged, whereupon West was wont to repeat the famous reply of the old St. Andrews player to the college professor, who did not understand why, when he could teach Latin and Greek, he failed so dismally at golf. "Ay, I ken well ye can teach the Latin and Greek," said the veteran, "but it takes brains, mon, to play the gowf!" And Joel more than half agreed with him.

Remsen departed a week after Thanksgiving, being accompanied to the train by almost as enthusiastic a throng as had welcomed him upon his arrival. He had consented to return to Hillton the following year and coach the eleven once more. "I had expected to make this the last year," he said, "but now I shall coach, if you will have me, until we win a decisive victory from St. Eustace. I can't break off my coaching career with a tie game, you see." And Christie occasioned laughter and applause by replying, "I'm afraid you're putting a premium on defeat, sir, because if we win next year's game you won't come back." He shook hands cordially with Joel, and said:

"When the election of next year's captain comes off, my boy, it's a pretty sure thing that you'll have a chance at it. But if you'll take my advice you'll let it alone. I tell you this because I'm your friend all through. Next fall will be time enough for the honors; this year should go to hard work without any of the trouble that falls to the lot of captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Remsen," Joel answered. "I hadn't thought of their doing such a thing. I don't see why they should want me. But if it's offered you may be sure I'll decline. I'd be totally unfitted for it; and, besides, I haven't got the time!"

And so, when two weeks later the election was held in the gymnasium one evening, Joel did decline, to the evident regret of all the team, and the honor went to Christie, since both Blair and Whipple were seniors and would not be in school the next autumn. And Christie made a very manly, earnest speech, and subsequently called for three times three for Blair, and three times three for Remsen, and nine times three for Hillton, all of which were given with a will.

As the Christmas recess approached, Joel spent a great deal of valuable time in unnecessary conjecture as to his chance of winning the Goodwin scholarship, and undoubtedly lessened his chance of success by worrying. The winners were each year announced in school hall on the last day of the term. The morning of that day found Outfield West very busy packing a heap of unnecessary golf clubs and wearing apparel into his trunk and bags, and found Joel seated rather despondently on the lounge looking on. For West was to spend his vacation with an uncle in Boston, and Joel, although Outfield had begged him to go along, asserting positively that his uncle would be proud and happy to see him (Joel), was to spend the recess at school, since he felt he could not afford the expense of the trip home. West hesitated long over a blue-checked waistcoat and at length sighed and left it out.

"Isn't it most time to go over?" asked Joel.

"No; don't you be in a hurry. There's a half hour yet. And if you're going to get the Goodwin you'll get it, and there isn't any use stewing over it," replied West severely. "As for me, I'm glad I'm not a grind and don't have to bother my head about such tommyrot. Just sit on the lid of this pesky thing, Joel, will you? I'm afraid that last coat was almost too much for it."

But even suspense comes to an end, and presently Joel found himself seated by West in the crowded hall, and felt his face going red and pale by turns, and knew that his heart was beating with unaccustomed violence beneath his shabby vest. Professor Wheeler made his speech—and what a long one it seemed to many a lad!—and then the fateful list was lifted from the table.

"Senior class scholarships have been awarded as follows," announced the principal. "The Calvin scholarship to Albert Park Digbee, Waltham, Massachusetts." Joel forgot his unpleasant emotions while he clapped and applauded. But they soon returned as the list went on. Every announcement met with uproarous commendation, and boy after boy arose from his seat and more or less awkwardly bowed his recognition. The principal had almost completed the senior list.

"Ripley scholarships to George Simms Lennox, New York city; John Fiske, Brookville, Mississippi; Carleton Sharp Eaton, Milton, Massachusetts; William George Woodruff, Portland, Maine. Masters scholarships to Howard McDonnell, Indianapolis, Indiana; Thomas Grey, Yonkers, New York; Stephen Lutger Williams, Connellsville, Rhode Island; Barton Hobbs, Farmington, Maine; Walter Haskens Browne, Denver, Colorado; and Justin Thorp Smith, Chicago, Illinois."

Joel's hands were cold and his feet just wouldn't keep still. The principal leaned down and took up the upper middle class list. West nudged Joel smartly in the ribs, and whispered excitedly:

"Now! Keep cool, my boy, keep cool!"

Then Joel heard Professor Wheeler's voice reading from the list, and for a moment it seemed to come from a great distance.

"Upper middle class scholarships have been awarded as follows:" There was a pause while he found his place. "Goodwin scholarship to Harold Burke Reeves, Saginaw, Michigan."

West subsided in his seat with a dismal groan. Joel did not hear it. It is doubtful if he heard anything until several minutes later, when the pronouncement of his name awoke him from the lethargy into which he had fallen.

"Masters scholarships to Joel March, Marchdale, Maine—"

"It's better than nothing, Joel," whispered Outfield. "It's fifty dollars, you know." But Joel made no reply. What was a Masters to him who had set his heart on the first prize of all? Presently, when the lists were over, he stole quietly out unnoticed by his chum, and when West returned to the room he found Joel at the table, head in hands, an open book before him. West closed the door and walked noiselessly forward in the manner of one in a sick-room, At length he asked in a voice which strove to be natural and unconcerned:

"What are you doing, Joel?"

The head over the book only bent closer as its owner answered doggedly:

"Studying Greek!"



CHAPTER XV.

THE BOAT RACE.

The balance of that school year was a season of hard study for Joel. It was not in his nature to remain long despondent over the loss of the Goodwin scholarship, and a week after the winter term commenced he was as cheerful and light-hearted as ever. But his failure served to spur him on to renewed endeavors, and as a result he soon found himself at the head of the upper middle. Rightly or wrongly—and there is much to be said on both sides—he gave up sports almost entirely. Now and then West persuaded him to an afternoon on the links, but this was infrequent. The hockey season opened with the first hard ice on the river, and West joined the team that met and defeated St. Eustace in January. There was one result of his application to study that Joel had not looked for. Outfield West, perhaps from a mere desire to be companionable, took to lessons, and, much to his own pretended dismay, began to earn the reputation of a diligent student.

"You won't talk," growled West, "you won't play chess, you won't eat things. You just drive a chap to study!" As spring came in the school talk turned to baseball and rowing. For the former Joel had little desire, but rowing attracted him, and he began to allow himself the unusual pleasure of an hour away from lessons in the afternoon that he might go down to the boathouse with West, and there, in a sunny angle of the building, watch the crews at work upon the stream. Hillton was trying very hard to turn out a winning crew, and Whipple, who was captain of the first eight, toiled as no captain had toiled before in the history of Hillton aquatics.

The baseball season ended disastrously with a severe drubbing for the Hillton nine at the hands of St. Eustace on the latter's home ground. The fellows said little, but promised to atone for it when the boat race came off. This occurred two days before class day, which this year came on June 22d, and very nearly every pupil traveled down the river to Marshall to witness it. The day away from school came as a welcome relief after the worry and brain-aching of the spring examination, and Joel, although he knew for a certainty that he had passed with the highest marks, was glad to obey Outfield's stern decree and accompany that youth to the scene of the race.

They went by train and arrived at the little town at noon. After a regal repast of soup and sandwiches, ice cream and chocolate eclairs, the two set out for the river side. The Hillton crew had come down the day before with their new shell, and had spent the night at the only hotel in the village. The race was to be started at three, and West and Joel spent the intervening time in exploring the river banks for a mile in each direction from the bridge, and in getting their feet wet and their trousers muddy.

By the hour set for the start the river sides were thronged with spectators, and rival cheers floated across the sparkling stream from bank to bank. That side of the river whereon St. Eustace Academy lies hidden behind a hill held the St. Eustace supporters, while upon the other bank the Hillton lads and their friends congregated. But the long bridge, something more than a mile below, was common ground, and here the foes mingled and strove to outshout each other.

The river is broad here below Marshall, and forms what is almost a basin, hemmed in on either side by low wooded bluffs. From where Joel and West, with a crowd of Hillton fellows, stood midway upon the bridge, the starting point, nearly a mile and a half up stream was plainly visible, and the finish line was a few rods above them. West was acquainted with several of the St. Eustace boys, and to these Joel was introduced and was welcomed by them with much cordiality and examined with some curiosity. He had accomplished the defeat of their Eleven, and they would know what sort of youth he was.

While they were talking, leaning against the railing of the bridge, Joel suddenly caught West's arm and drew his attention to a boy some distance away who was looking toward the starting point through a pair of field glasses. West indulged in a long whistle, plainly indicative of amazement.

"Who's that fellow over there?" he asked. One of the St. Eustace boys followed the direction of his gaze.

"Well, you ought to know him. He knows you. That's Bartlett Cloud. He was at Hillton last term, and left because he was put off the Eleven; or so he says."

"Humph!" ejaculated Outfield West. "He left to keep from being expelled, he did. He left because he was mixed up in some mighty dirty work, and knew that, even if they let him stay in school, no decent fellow would associate with him. And you can tell him from me that if he says I know him he's a liar. I don't know him from—from mud! I should think you'd be proud of him at Eustace."

"We didn't know that," answered the St. Eustace boy in perplexity. "We thought—"

"What?" demanded West as the other paused.

"Well, he said that the coach was down on him, and gave his place to your friend here, and—"

"No," answered Joel quietly. "I didn't take his place. He tried to strike me one day at practice, and Remsen, our coach, put him off. That was all. Afterward he—he—But it isn't worth talking about."

"But I didn't know that St. Eustace made a practice of taking in cast-off scamps from other schools," said West. The other lad flushed as he answered apologetically:

"We didn't know, West. He said he was a friend of yours and so—But the other fellows shall know about him." Then there was a stir on the bridge and a voice cried, "There they go to the float!"

Up the stream at the starting point two shells were seen leisurely paddling toward a float anchored a few yards off the right bank. The colors were easily distinguishable, and especially did the crimson of Hillton show up to the eager watchers on the bridge. Every eye was turned toward the two boats, and a silence held the throng, a silence which lasted until sixteen oar-blades caught the water almost together, and the two boats began to leave the float behind. Then cries of "They're off!" were raised, and there was a general shoving and pushing for places of observation on the up-stream side of the structure, while along the banks the crowds began to move about again.

It was Joel's first sight of a boat race, and he found himself becoming very excited, while West, veteran though he was, breathed a deal faster, and talked in disjointed monosyllables.

"Side by side!... No, Hillton's ahead!... Isn't she?... Eh ... You can't... see from here ... which is ... leading.... Get another hold on my ... arm, ... Joel; that one's black ... and blue! ... Hillton's ahead! Hillton's ahead by a half length!"

But she wasn't. Side by side the two shells swept on toward the first half-mile mark. They were both rowing steadily, with no endeavor to draw away, Hillton at thirty strokes, St. Eustace at thirty-two. The course was two miles, almost straight away down the river. The half-mile buoy was not distinguishable from where Joel stood, but the mile was plainly in sight. Some one who held a stop-watch behind Joel uttered an impatient growl at the slow time the crews were making.

"There'll be no record broken to-day," he said. "They're eight seconds behind already for the first quarter."

But Joel didn't care about that. If only those eight swaying forms might pass first beyond the finish line he cared but little what the time might be. The cheering, which had ceased as the boats left the start, now began again as they approached the finish of the first quarter of the course.

"Rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah, Hillton!" rang out from the right bank.

"S, E, A; S, E, A; S, E, A; Saint Eustace!" replied the left bank with a defiant roar of sound that was caught by the hills and flung back in echoes across the water. "Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace!" "Hillton! Hillton! Hillton!"

Then the cheering grew louder and more frenzied as, boat to boat, the rival eights passed the half-mile buoy, swinging along with no perceptible effort over the blue, dancing water.

"Anybody's race," said Outfield West, as he lowered his glasses. "But Hillton's got the outside course on the turn." The turn was no more than a slight divergence from the straight line at the one-mile mark, but it might mean from a half to three quarters of a length to the outside boat should they maintain their present relative positions. For the next half mile the same moderate strokes were used until the half-course buoy was almost reached, when Hillton struck up to thirty-two and then to thirty-four, and St. Eustace increased her stroke to the latter number. It was a race for the position nearest the buoy, and St. Eustace won it, Hillton falling back a half length as the course was changed. Then the strokes in both boats went back to thirty-two, Hillton seemingly willing to keep in the rear. On and on they came, the oars taking the water in unison, and shining like silver when the sun caught the wet blades. And back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were. There was no let up of the cheering now. Back and forth went challenge and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans.

As the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who looked that the real race was yet to come. Hillton suddenly hit up her stroke to thirty-four, to thirty-six, to thirty-eight, and, a bit ragged perhaps, but nevertheless at a beautiful speed, drew up to St. Eustace, shoved her nose a quarter length past, and hung there, despite St. Eustace's best efforts to shake her off.

Both boats were now straining their uttermost, and from now on to the finish it was to be the stiffest rowing of which each was capable. Hillton was ragged on the port side, and bow was plainly tuckered. But St. Eustace also showed signs of wear, and there was an evident disposition the length of the boat to hurry through the stroke. Joel was straining his eyes on the crimson backs, and West was vainly and unconsciously endeavoring to see through the glasses from the wrong end. The three-quarter mark swept past the boats, and Hillton still maintained her lead.

The judges' boat, a tiny, saucy naphtha launch, had steamed down to the finish, and now quivered there as though from impatience and excitement, and awaited the victor. Suddenly there was a groan of dismay from the St. Eustace supporters. And no wonder. Their boat had suddenly dropped behind until its nose was barely lapping the rival shell. Number Four was rowing "out of time and tune," as Joel shouted triumphantly, and although he soon steadied down, the damage was hard to repair, for Hillton, encouraged by the added lead, was rowing magnificently.

But with strokes that brought cries of admiration even from her foes St. Eustace struggled gloriously to recover her lost water. Little by little the nose of her boat crept up and up, until it was almost abreast with Number Three's oar, while cries of encouragement from bridge and shore urged her on. But now Green, the Hillton coxswain, turned his head slightly, studied the position of the rival eight, glanced ahead at the judges' boat, and spoke a short, sharp command.

And instantly, ragged port oars notwithstanding, the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water at every stroke, and St. Eustace, struggling gamely, heroically, to the last moment, fell farther and farther behind. A half length of clear water showed between them, then a length, then—and now the line was but a stone-throw away—two fair lengths separated the contestants. And amid the deafening, frenzied shrieks of their schoolmates, their crimson-clad backs rising and falling like clock-work, all signs of raggedness gone, the eight heroes swept over the line winners by two and a half lengths from the St. Eustace crew, and disappeared under the bridge to emerge on the other side with trailing oars and wearied limbs.

And as they went from sight, Joel, stooping, yelling, over the railing, saw, with the piercing shriek of the launch's whistle in his ears, the upraised face of Green, the coxswain, smiling placidly up at him.



CHAPTER XVI.

GOOD-BY TO HILLTON.

Joel took the preliminary examination for Harwell University in June, and left class day morning for home. He had the satisfaction of seeing his name in the list of honor men for the year, having attained A or B in all studies for the three terms. The parting with Outfield West was shorn of much of its melancholy by reason of the latter's promise to visit Joel in August. The suggestion had been made by Outfield, and Joel had at once warmly pressed him to come.

"Only, you know, Out," Joel had said, "we don't live in much style. And I have to work a good deal, so there won't be much time for fun."

"What do you have to do?" asked West.

"Well, milk, and go to mill, and perhaps there will be threshing to do before I leave. And then there's lots of other little things around the farm that I generally do when I'm home."

"That's all right," answered West cheerfully. "I'll help. I milked a cow once. Only—Say, what do you hit a cow with when you milk her?"

"I don't hit her at all," laughed Joel. "Do you?"

"I did. I hit her with a plank and she up and kicked me eight times before I could move off. Perhaps I riled her. I thought you should always hit them before you begin."

Joel had not seen his parents since he had left home in the preceding fall, and naturally a warm welcome awaited him. Mr. March, to Joel's relief, did not appear to regret the loss of the Goodwin scholarship nearly as much as Joel himself had done, and seemed rather proud than otherwise of the lad's first year at the Academy.

In August Outfield West descended at the little station accompanied by two trunks, a golf-bag, a photograph camera, and a dress-suit case; and Farmer March regarded the pile of luggage apprehensively, and undoubtedly thought many unflattering thoughts of West. But as no one could withstand that youth for long, at the end of three days both Joel's father and mother had accepted him unreservedly into their hearts. As for Joel's brother Ezra, and his twelve-year-old sister, they had never hesitated for a single instant.

Mr. March absolutely forbade Joel from doing any of the chores after West arrived at the farm, and sent the boys off on a week's hunting and fishing excursion with Black Betty and the democrat wagon. West took his camera along, but was prevailed on to leave his golf clubs at the farm; and the two had eight days of ideal fun in the Maine woods, and returned home with marvelous stories of adventure and a goodly store of game and fish.

West was somewhat disappointed in the golfing facilities afforded by the country about Marchdale, but politely refrained from allowing the fact to be known by Joel. Outside of the "pasture" and the "hill-field" the ground was too rocky and broken to make driving a pleasure, and after losing half a dozen balls Outfield restricted himself to the pasture, where he created intense interest on the part of the cows. He found that he got along much more peaceably with them when he appeared without his red coat.

In September, happy, healthy, and well browned, the two boys returned to Hillton with all the dignity becoming the reverend Senior. West had abandoned his original intention of entering Yates College, and had taken with Joel the preliminary examination for Harwell; and they were full of great plans for the future, and spent whole hours telling each other what marvelous things awaited them at the university.

Joel's Senior year at Hillton was crowded with hard work and filled with incident. But, as it was more or less a repetition of the preceding year, it must needs be told of briefly. If space permitted I should like to tell of Joel's first debate in the Senior Debating Society, in which he proved conclusively and to the satisfaction of all present that the Political Privileges of a Citizen of Athens under the Constitution of Cleisthenes were far superior to those of a Citizen of Rome at the Time of the Second Punic War. And I should like to tell of the arduous training on the football field and in the gymnasium, by means of which Joel increased his sphere of usefulness on the Eleven, and learned to run with the ball as well as kick it, so proving the truth of an assertion made by Stephen Remsen, who had said, "With such long legs as those, March, you should be as fine a runner as you are a kicker."

And I should like to go into tiresome detail over the game with St. Eustace, in which Joel made no star plays, but worked well and steadily at the position of left half-back, and thereby aided in the decisive victory for Hillton that Remsen had spoken of; for the score at the end of the first half was, Hillton 5, St. Eustace 0; and at the end of the game, Hillton 11, St. Eustace 0.

Joel and Remsen became fast and familiar friends during that term, and when, a few days after the St. Eustace game, Remsen took his departure from the Academy, no more to coach the teams to glorious victory or honorable defeat, Joel of all the school was perhaps the sorriest to have him go. But Remsen spoke hopefully of future meetings at Harwell, and Joel and West waved him farewell from the station platform and walked back to the yard in the manner of chief mourners at a funeral.

Outfield West again emerged triumphant from the golf tournament, and the little pewter mug remained securely upon his mantel, a receptacle for damaged balls. For some time the two missed the familiar faces of Digbee and Blair and Whipple and some few others. Somers and Cooke still remained, the latter with radiant hopes of graduation the coming June, the former to take advanced courses in several studies. Clausen was a frequent visitor to Number Four Hampton, and both West and Joel had conceived a liking for him which, as the year went by, grew into sincere friendship. Those who had been intimate with Wallace Clausen when he was under the influence of Bartlett Cloud saw a great difference in the lad at this period. He had grown manlier, more earnest in tone and attainments, and had apparently shaken off his old habit of weak carelessness as some insects shed their skins. He, too, was to enter Harwell the coming fall, a fact which strengthened the bond between the three youths.

One resolve was uppermost in Joel's heart when he began his last year at Hillton, and that was to gain the Goodwin scholarship. His failure the year before had only strengthened his determination to win this time; and win he did, and was a very proud and happy lad when the lists were read and the name of "Joel March, Marchdale, Maine," led all the rest. And it is to be supposed that there was much happiness in the great rambling snow-covered farmhouse up north when Joel's telegram was received; for Joel could not wait for the mail to carry the good news, but must needs run at once to the village and spend a bit of his prospective fortune on a "night message."

Despite this fortune of two hundred and forty dollars, Joel elected to spend his Christmas holidays again at Hillton, and Outfield, when he learned of the intention, declined his uncle's invitation and remained also. The days passed quickly and merrily. There was excellent skating on the river, and Joel showed West the methods of ice-fishing, though with but small results of a finny nature.

Cicero's Orations gave place to De Senectute, the Greek Testament to Herodotus, and Plane Geometry to Solid; and spring found Joel with two honor terms behind him, and as sure as might be of passing his final examination for college.

Again in June St. Eustace and Hillton met on the river, and, as though to atone for her defeat on the gridiron, Fate gave the victory to St. Eustace, the wearers of the blue crossing the finish a full length ahead of the Hillton eight. The baseball team journeyed down to Marshall and won by an overwhelming majority of runs, and journeyed home again in the still of a June evening, bringing another soiled and battered ball to place in the trophy case of the gymnasium.

And finally, one bright day in early summer, Joel put on his best clothes and, accompanied by West and Clausen, took his way to the chapel, where, amid an eloquent silence, Professor Wheeler made his farewell address, and old, gray-haired Dr. Temple preached the Valedictory Sermon. Then the diplomas were presented, and, save for the senior class exercises in the school hall in the afternoon, Class Day was over, and Joel March's school days were past. Joel was graduated at the head of the class, an honor man once more; and Outfield West, greatly to every one's amazement, not excepting his own, was also on the honor list. Cooke passed at last, and later confided to West that he didn't know what he'd do now that they wouldn't let him stay longer at Hillton; he was certain he would feel terribly homesick at Harwell. West playfully suggested that he stay at Hillton and take an advanced course, and Cooke seemed quite in the notion until he found that he would be obliged to make the acquaintance of both Livy and Horace.

A lad can not stay two years at a school without becoming deeply attached to it, and both Joel and West took their departures from Hillton feeling very melancholy as the wooded hill, crowned by the sun-lit tower, faded from sight. West went directly to his home, although Joel had tried to persuade him to visit at Marchdale for a few weeks. In July Joel received a letter from Outfield asking him to visit him in Iowa, and, at the solicitation of his parents, he decided to accept the invitation. The West was terra incognita to Joel, and he found much to interest and puzzle him. The methods of farming were so different from those to which he had been accustomed that he spent the first week of his stay in trying to revolutionize them, much to the amusement of both Outfield and his father. He at length learned that Eastern ways are not Western ways, and so became content to see wheat harvested by machinery and corn cultivated with strange, new implements.

He received one day a letter forwarded from Marchdale which bore the signature of the captain of the Harwell Varsity Football Eleven. It asked him to keep in practice during the summer, and, if convenient, to report on the field two days before the commencement of the term. Remsen's name was mentioned and Joel knew that he had him to thank for the letter.

The friends had decided to take a room together, and had applied for one in the spring. Much to their gratification they were given a third floor room in Mayer, one of the best of the older college dormitories. When the time came for going East both West and Joel were impatient to be on the way. Mrs. West accompanied the boys, and the little party reached the old, elm-embowered college town four days before the opening of the term. Agreeably to the request of the football captain, Joel reported on the field in football togs the day after reaching town, and was given a cordial welcome. Captain Button was not there, but returned with the Varsity squad from a week's practice at a neighboring village two days later.

Mrs. West meanwhile toiled ceaselessly at furnishing the boys' room, and the result was a revelation to Joel, to whom luxurious lounges and chairs, and attractive engravings, were things hitherto admired and longed for from a distance. And then, bidding a farewell to the lads, Outfield's mother took her departure for home, and they were left practically rulers of all they surveyed, and, if the truth were told, a trifle sobered by the suddenness of their plunge into independence.

And one warm September day the college bell rang for chapel and the two lads had begun a new, important, and to them exciting chapter of their lives.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE SACRED ORDER OF HULLABALOOLOO.

Picture a mild, golden afternoon in early October, the yellowing green of Sailors' Field mellow and warm in the sunlight, the river winding its sluggish way through the broad level marshes like a ribbon of molten gold, and the few great fleecy bundles of white clouds sailing across the deep blue of the sky like froth upon some placid stream. Imagine a sound of fresh voices, mellowed by a little distance, from where, to and fro, walking, trotting, darting, but ever moving like the particles in a kaleidoscope, many squads of players were practicing on the football field. Such, then, is the picture that would have rewarded your gaze had you passed through the gate and stood near the simple granite shaft which rises under the shade of the trees to commemorate the little handful of names it bears.

Had you gone on across the intervening turf until the lengthened shadow of the nearest goal post was reached you would have seen first a squad—a veritable awkward squad—arranged in a ragged circle and passing a football with much mishandling and many fumbles. Further along you would have seen a long line of youths standing. Their general expression was one of alertness bordering on alarm. The casual observer would have thought each and every one insane, as, suddenly darting from the line, one after another, they flung themselves upon the ground, rolled frantically about as though in spasms, and then arose and went back into the rank. But had you observed carefully you would have noticed that each spasm was caused by a rolling ball, wobbling its erratic way across the turf before them.

Around about, in and out, forms darted after descending spheroids, or seized a ball from outstretched hands, started desperately into motion, charged a few yards, and then, as though reconsidering, turned and trotted back, only to repeat the performance the next moment. And footballs banged against broad backs with hollow sounds, or rolled about between stoutly clad feet, or ascended into the air in great arching flights. And a babel of voices was on all sides, cries of warning, sharp commands, scathing denouncements.

"Straighten your arm, man; that's not a baseball!" "Faster, faster! Put some ginger into it!" "Get on your toes, Smith. Start when you see the ball coming. This isn't a funeral!" "Don't stoop for the ball; fall on it! The ground will catch you!" "Jones, what are you doing? Wake up." "No, no, NO! Great Scott, the ball won't bite you!"

The period was that exasperating one known as "the first two weeks," when coaches are continually upon the border of insanity and players wonder dumbly if the game is worth the candle. To-day Joel, one of a squad of unfortunates, was relearning the art of tackling. It was Joel's first experience with that marvelous contrivance, "the dummy." One after another the squad was sent at a sharp spurt to grapple the inanimate canvas-covered bag hanging inoffensively there, like a body from a gallows, between the uprights.

There are supposed to be two ways to tackle, but the coach who was conducting the operations to-day undoubtedly believed in the existence of at least thrice that number; for each candidate for Varsity honors tackled the dummy in a totally different style. The lift tackle is performed by seizing the opponent around the legs below the hips, bringing his knees together so that further locomotion is an impossibility to him, and lifting him upward off the ground and depositing him as far backward toward his own goal as circumstances and ability will permit. The lift tackle is the easiest to make. The dive tackle pertains to swimming and suicide. Running toward the opponent, the tackler leaves the ground when at a distance of a length and a half and dives at the runner, aiming to tackle a few inches below the hips. A dive tackle well done always accomplishes a well-defined pause in the runner's progress.

Joel was having hard work of it. Time and again he launched himself at the swaying legs, bringing the canvas man to earth, but always picking himself up to find the coach observing him very, very coldly, and to hear that exasperating gentleman ask sarcastically if he (Joel) thinks he is playing "squat tag." And then the dummy would swing back into place, harboring no malice or resentment for the rough handling, and Joel would take his place once more and watch the next man's attempt, finding, I fear, some consolation in the "roast" accorded to the latter.

It was toward the latter part of the second week of college. Joel had practiced every day except Sundays, and had just arrived at the conclusion that football as played at Harwell was no relation, not even a distant cousin to the game of a similar name played at Hillton. Of course he was wrong, since intercollegiate football, whether played by schoolboys or college students, is still intercollegiate football. The difference lies only in the state of development. At Hillton the game, very properly, was restricted to its more primary methods; at Harwell it is developed to its uttermost limits. It is the difference between whist over the library table and whist at the whist club.

But all things come to an end, and at length the coach rather ungraciously declared he could stand no more and bade them join the rest of the candidates for the run. That run was two miles, and Joel finally stumbled into the gymnasium tuckered out and in no very good temper just as the five o'clock whistle on the great printing house sounded.

After dinner in the dining hall that evening Joel confided his doubts and vexations to Outfield as they walked back to their room. "I wouldn't care if I thought I was making any progress," he wailed, "but each day it gets worse. To-day I couldn't seem to do a start right, and as for tackling that old dummy, why—"

"Well, you did as well as the other chaps, didn't you?" asked Outfield.

"I suppose so. He gave it to us all impartially."

"Well, there you are. He can't tell you you're the finest young tacklers that ever happened, because you'd all get swelled craniums and not do another lick of work. I know the sort of fellow he is. He'll never tell you that you are doing well; only when he's satisfied with you he'll pass you on. You see. And don't you care what he says. Just go on and do the best you know how. Blair told me to-day that if you tried you could make the Varsity before the season is over. What do you think of that? He says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that's fit to take the place of Dangfield, who was left-half last year."

"I dare say," answered Joel despondently, "but Durston will never let me stop tackling that dummy arrangement. I'll be taking falls out of it all by myself when the Yates game is going on. Who invented that thing, anyhow?"

But, nevertheless, Joel's spirits were very much better when the two lads reached the room and West had turned on the soft light of the argand. And taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading.

Hazing has "gone out" at Harwell, and so, when at about nine the two boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to West's loud "Come" five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think.

"March?" asked a deep voice.

"Yes," answered Joel with a wondering frown.

"West?"

"Yep. What in thunder do you want? And who in thunder are you?"

"Freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. The maskers had closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid inquisitorial postures between it and the table.

"None of your business," answered West crossly. "Get out, will you?"

"Not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "You are freshies, nice, new, tender little freshies. We are here to initiate you into the mysteries of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. Stand up!" Neither moved; they were already standing, West puzzled and angry, Joel wondering and amused.

"Well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. Joel looked meaningly at Outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. But the latter were prepared. Over went the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the two roommates. The battle was short but decisive, and when it was done, Joel lay gasping on the floor and Outfield sprawled breathless on the couch.

"Will you give up?" asked the first mask.

"Yes," growled West, and Joel echoed him.

"Then you may get up," responded the mask. "But, mind you, no tricks!" Joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "Freshman March will favor us with a song," announced the mask.

"I can't sing a word," answered Joel.

"You must. Hullabalooloo decrees it."

"Then Hullabalooloo can come and make me," retorted Joel stubbornly.

"What," asked the mask in a deep, grewsome voice, "what is the penalty for disobedience?"

"Tossed in the blanket," answered the other four in unison.

"You hear, Freshman March?" asked the mask. "Choose."

"I'll sing, I guess," answered Joel, with a grin. But West jumped up.

"Don't you do it, Joel! They can't make you sing! And they can't make me sing; and the first one that comes in reach will get knocked down!"

"Oh, well, I don't mind singing," answered Joel. "That is, I don't mind trying. If they can stand it, I can. What shall I sing?"

"What do you know?"

"I only know one song. I'll sing that, but on one condition."

"Name it?" answered the mask.

"That you'll join in and sing the chorus."

There was a moment of hesitation; then the masks nodded, and Joel mounted to a chair and with a comical grimace of despair at West, who sat scowling on the couch, he began:

"There is a flag of crimson hue, The fairest flag that flieth, Whose folds wave over hearts full true, As nobody denieth. Here's to the School, the School so dear; Here's to the soil it's built on! Here's to the heart, or far or near, That loves the Flag of Hillton.'"

Joel was not much of a singer, but his voice was good and he sang as though he meant it. Outfield sat unresponsive until the verse was nearly done; then he moved restlessly and waited for the chorus, and when it came joined in with the rest; and the strains of Hilltonians rang triumphantly through the building.

"Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! Hilltonians, Hilltonians, our loyalty we'll prove Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!"

The Knights of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo signified their approval and demanded the next verse. And Joel sang it. And when the chorus came the maskers lost much of their dignity and waved their arms about and shouted the refrain so loud that doors up and down the hall opened and wondering voices shouted "Shut up!" or "More! M-o-r-e!" for two minutes after. As the last word was reached Joel leaned quickly forward toward an unsuspicious singer, and, snatching the mask from his face, revealed the countenance of Louis Whipple.

And then, amid much laughter, the other masks were slipped off, and the remaining members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo stood revealed as Blair, Cartwright, Somers, and Cooke.

And Outfield, joining in the laugh at his own expense, was seized by Cooke and waltzed madly around the table, while the rest once more raised the strains of Hilltonians:

"Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! Hilltonians, Hilltonians, we stand to do or die, Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

VISITORS FROM MARCHDALE.

Despite Joel's dark forebodings, he was at last released from tackling practice. And with that moment he began to take hope for better things. Under the charge of Kent, one of the coaches and an old Harwell half, Joel was instructed in catching punts till his arms ached and his eyes watered, and in kicking until he seemed to be one-sided. Starting with the ball he no longer dreaded, since he had mastered that science and could now delight the coach by leaping from a stand as though shot from the mouth of a cannon.

Signals he had no trouble with. His memory was excellent, and he possessed the faculty of rapid computation; though as yet his brain had been but little taxed, since the practice code was still in use. At the end of the third week both Varsity and scrub teams were at length selected, and Joel, to his delight, found himself playing left-half on the latter. Two match games a week was now the rule for the Varsity, and Joel each Wednesday and Saturday might have been found seated under the fence dividing the gridiron from the grand stand wrapped nearly from sight, if the afternoon was chilly, in a great gray blanket, and watching the play with all the excited ardor of the veriest schoolboy on the stand behind.

One Saturday Prince, the Varsity left-half, twisted his ankle, and Joel was taken on in his place. They were playing Amherst, and Joel has ever since held that college in high esteem, for that it was against its Eleven he made his debut into Harwell football life. And how he played! The captain smiled as he watched him prance down the field after a punt, never content to be there in time, but always striving to get there first, and not seldom succeeding. Once he succeeded too well.

It was in the second half. Blair—it was his first year on the team—was playing full-back. On a first down he punted the ball a long and rather low kick into Amherst's territory. Joel bowled over an Amherst end who was foolish enough to get in the way and started down the field like an Indian warrior on the war path. The Harwell ends were a little in advance but off to the sides, and Joel sprinted hard and easily passed them both. Kingdon, the right half, gave him a good run, but he too was passed, and Joel reached the Amherst full-back just as that gentleman turned for the ball, which had passed unexpectedly over his head. The goal line was but thirty yards distant. Joel saw only the full-back, the ball, and the goal line. He forgot everything else. A small cyclone struck the full, and when he picked himself up it was to see a crimson-legged player depositing the pigskin back of goal and to hear a roar of laughter from the seats!

Then he yelled "Off side!" at the top of his lungs and tore down on Joel, and, much to that young gentleman's surprise, strove to wrest the ball from him. It was quite uncalled for, and Joel naturally resented it to the extent of pushing violently, palms open, against the Amherst man's jacket, with the result that the Amherst gentleman sat down backward forcibly upon the turf at some distance. And again the stands laughed. But Joel gravely lifted the ball and walked back to the thirty-yard line with it. The center took it with a grin, and, as the five yards of penalty for off side was paced, Joel was rewarded for his play with the muttered query from the captain:

"What were you doing, you idiot?"

But too great zeal is far more excusable than too small, and Joel was quickly forgiven, and all the more readily, perhaps, since Amherst was held for downs, and the ball went over on the second next play. But Joel called himself a great many unpleasant names during the rest of the game, and for a long while after could not think of his first touch-down without feeling his cheeks redden. Nevertheless, his manner of getting down the field under kicks undoubtedly impressed the coaches favorably, for when the scrub was further pruned to allow it to go to training table Joel was retained.

One bright October day Joel and Outfield went into town to meet the former's parents at the station; for Mr. and Mrs. March had long before made up their minds to the visit, and the two boys had been looking forward to it for some time. It was worth going a long way to see the pleasure with which the old farmer and his wife greeted the great long-legged youth who towered so far above them there on the station platform. Joel kissed his mother fondly, patted his father patronizingly but affectionately on the back, and asked fifty questions in as many minutes. And all his mother could do was to gaze at him in reverent admiration and sigh, over and over:

"Land sakes, Joel March, how you do grow!"

It must not be thought that West was neglected. Farmer March, in especial, showed the greatest pleasure at meeting him again, and shook hands with him four times before the street was reached and the car that was to carry them to the college town gained. The boys conducted the visitors to their room, and made lunch for them on a gas stove, Outfield drawing generously on his private larder, situated under the foot of his bed. Then the four hunted up a pleasant room in one of the student boarding houses, and afterward showed the old people through the college.

There was a good deal to see and many questions to answer, since Joel's father was not a man to leave an object of interest until he had learned all there was to be told about it. The elms in the yard were fast losing their yellow leaves, but the grass yet retained much of its verdancy, and as for the sky, it was as sweetly blue as on the fairest day in spring. Up one side of the yard and down the other went the sightseers, poking into dark hallways, reading tablets and inscriptions, the latter translated by West into the most startling English, pausing before the bulletins to have the numerous announcements of society and club meetings explained, drinking from the old pump in the corner, and so completing the circuit and storming the gymnasium, where at last Joel's powers of reply were exhausted and Outfield promptly sprang into the breech, explaining gravely that the mattresses on the floor were used by Doctor Major, the director of the gymnasium, who invariably took a cat-nap during the afternoon, that the suspended rings were used to elevate sophomores while corporeal punishment was administered by freshmen, and that the queer little weights in the boxes around the walls were reserve paper weights.

Then the line of march was taken up toward Sailors' Field, where they arrived just in time to see the beginning of the practice game between the Varsity and the scrub. Joel had been excused from attendance that day, and so he took his seat beside the others on the grand stand and strove to elucidate the philosophy of football.

"You see the scrubs have the ball. They must get it past the Varsity down to the end of the field, where they can either put it down over the line or kick it over that cross-piece there. That's center, that fellow that's arranging the ball. He kicks off. There it goes, and a good kick, too. Sometimes the center-rush isn't a good kicker; then some one else kicks off. Blair has the ball. Look, see him dodge with it. He gained ten yards that time."

"Oh!" It was Joel's mother who exclaimed. "Why, Joel, that other man threw him down."

"That's part of the game, mother. He did that to keep Blair from getting the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. He isn't hurt, you see."

"And do you mean that they do that all the time?"

"Pretty often."

"And do you get thrown around that way, Joel?"

"Sometimes, mother; when I'm lucky enough to get the ball."

"Well, I never."

"Football's not a bad game, Mr. March," West was saying. "But it doesn't come up to golf, you know. It's too rough."

"It does look a little rough," answered Mr. March. "Do they often get hurt? Seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little uncomfortable."

West laughed.

"Sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a shoulder-bone bust, or something like that. But it isn't often anything worse occurs."

"Well, I suppose it's all right then. Only when I was a boy we never went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke; you young fellows are tougher than we were, I guess."

"I shouldn't wonder, sir. I believe Joel has been feeling pretty bad for a long time because he's got nothing worse than a broken finger."

"What? Broke his finger, did he? Eh? He didn't write anything about it; what's he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents about it?" West glanced apprehensively at Joel, but the latter had missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of Barton, of the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line.

"Well, it wasn't much of a break, sir. It's all right now, and I think he thought you'd be worried, you know. I'm sure if it had been anything important he would have written at once."

"Humph," grunted Joel's father. "If he's going to break himself in pieces he'd better stop football. I won't have him taking risks. I'll tell him so!"

The fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the tuition of a coach. Suddenly Joel looked down to see Briscom, the scrub captain, climbing the seats. He ducked his bare head to the others and sank into the seat at Joel's side.

"Look here, March, can you help us out the next half? They've taken Webster on the Varsity, and"—he lowered his voice to a confidential roar—"we want to make a good showing to-day."

"Of course," answered Joel, "I'll come at once. Can I get some togs from some fellow?"

"Yes. I'll ask Whitman to find some. I'm sorry to take you away from your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know."

So when the whistle blew Joel was at left half-back on the scrub, attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him. And Mrs. March was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw Joel down as she had seen Blair thrown. Mr. March had not quite recovered from his resentment over his son's failure to apprise him of the broken finger, which, after all, was only broken in West's imagination, and viewed his advent on the field with disfavor.

Outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding Joel's finger was to lead to unpleasant results, when Mr. March relieved his mind somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was trying to make an end run inside Dutton with half the scrub hauling, pushing, pulling, shoving him along.

"Er—isn't that likely to be bad for that finger of his?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered West. "He looks out for his finger all right enough. There, he made the distance. Bully work. Good old Joel."

"Did he do well then, Mr. West?" asked Joel's mother. "Of course he did, mother," answered Mr. March disdainfully. "Didn't you see him lugging all those fellows along with him? How much does that count, West?"

"Well, that doesn't score anything, but it helps. The scrub has to pass that line down there before it can score. What they're trying to do now is to get down there, and Joel's helping. You watch him now. I think they're going to give him the ball again for another try around end." West was right in his surmise. Kicks were barred to-day save as a last resort, and the game was favoring the scrub as a consequence. The ball was passed to the right half-back; Joel darted forward like an arrow, took the ball from right, made a quick swerve as he neared the end of the line, and ran outside of the Varsity right end, Captain Dutton, who had been playing pretty well in, in the expectation of another try through tackle-end hole. As Joel got safely by it is more than likely that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark of Dutton's the week before: "What were you doing, you idiot?"

Joel got safely by Dutton, and fooled the sprightly Prince, but very nearly ran into the arms of Kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six inches. Then the race began. Joel's path lay straight down by the side line. The field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require a punt-out.

"Ain't that Joel?" cried Mr. March, forgetting his grammar and his dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet. "Ain't that Joel there running? Hey? They can't catch him. I'll lay Joel to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. Every day, sir. Hey? What?"

"I think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered West gayly. "Hello, there's Blair leaving the bunch. Tally-Ho!"

"I don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted Mr. March, "he can't—I don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. Eh?"

"Looks like it," answered West, while Mrs. March, with her hand on her husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly."

"Geewhillikins!" cried Mr. March, "Joel's caught! No, he's not—yet—Eh?—Too bad, too bad. Run, Joel, he's got ye!" Suddenly Mr. March, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet.

"Here! Stop that, you fellow! Hi!" He turned angrily to Outfield, his eyes blazing. "What'd he knock him down for? Eh? What's he sitting on my boy for? Is that fair? Eh?"

West and Mrs. March calmed him down and explained that tackling was quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from going on again; for Blair had cut short Joel's triumph fifteen yards from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down the field were slowly settling again in their seats. Mr. March was presently relieved to see Joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming out of water, and trot back to his position.

Another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force the ball over the Varsity's goal line, but without success, and the match was over, and Briscom was happy; for the Varsity had scored but once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. Joel trotted off with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and West conducted his parents back to the gate, where they awaited him. On the way Mr. March confided to West that "football wasn't what he'd call a parlor game, but on the whole it appeared to be rather interesting."

In the evening the quartet went into town to the theater and Joel's mother cried happily over the homely pathos of The Old Homestead, and Outfield laughed uproariously upon the slightest provocation, and every one was extremely happy. And afterward they "electriced" back to college, as West put it, and the two boys stayed awake very, very late, laughing and giggling over the humors of the play and Joel's broken finger.

Mr. and Mrs. March left the next day at noon, and Joel accompanied them to the depot, West having a golf engagement which he could not break. And when good-by had been said, and the long train had disappeared from sight, Joel returned to college on foot, over the long bridge spanning the river, busy with craft, past the factories noisy with the buzz of wheels and the clang of iron, and on along the far-stretching avenue until the tower of the dining hall loomed above the tops of the autumn branches, entering the yard just as the two o'clock bell was ringing.



CHAPTER XIX.

A VARSITY SUB.

Give a boy the name of being a hero and it will stick. Joel was still pointed out by admiring Hillton graduates to their friends at Harwell as "March, the fellow who kicked the winning goal-from-field in the St. Eustace game two years ago." And while Joel had performed of late no doughty deed to sustain his reputation for valor, the freshman class accepted him in all faith as a sort of class hero, off duty for the moment, perchance, but ever ready to shed glory upon the class by some soul-stirring act.

Consequently when it was told through college that Joel March had been taken on to the Varsity Eleven as substitute left half-back no one was surprised, unless it was Joel himself. The freshman class wagged its head knowingly and said: "I told you they couldn't get on without March," and held its head higher for that one of its members was a Varsity player. It is not a frequent thing to find a freshman on the Varsity team, even as substitute, and Joel's fame grew apace and many congratulations were extended to him, in classroom and out. Blair was one of the first to climb the stairs of Mayer and express pleasure at the event. He found Joel seated in the window, propped up with half a dozen crimson pillows, attempting to sketch the view across the yard to send home to his sister. West was splicing a golf shaft and whistling blithely over the task.

"Hello, Sophy," cried that youth, "have you come to initiate us into the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo? Dump those books off the chair and be seated. March is such a beastly untidy chap," he sighed; "he will leave his books around that way despite all I can say!"

"These books, Out," replied Blair, "bear the name of one West on their title pages, and, in fact, on a good many other pages, too. What say you?" A look of intense surprise overspread the face of Outfield.

"How passing strange," he muttered. "And is there a chemistry note-book among them?"

"I think so. Here is one that contains mention of C2H6O, H2SO4, and other mystic emblems which appear very tiresome; it also contains several pages filled with diagrams of the yard and plans of Pompeii before the devastation."

"Yes," answered West, "that's my chem. note-book. It's been missing ever since Tuesday. But those are not diagrams of the yard, my sophomoric friend; they're plans of the golf course."

"Well, just as you say. Catch! Say, March, I've just heard that you've made the Varsity. I'm most splendidly glad, my young friend. You make three Hillton fellows on the team. There's Selkirk, and you, and yours tenderly; and we'll show them what's what when Yates faces us. And I'll tell you a little fact that may interest you. Prince won't last until the Yates game, my lad. He's going silly in his ankle. But don't say I told you, for of course it's a dead secret. And if he gives out you'll get the posish. And then if you can make another one of those touch-downs in the Yates game—"

"Shut up, please, Blair!" groaned Joel.

"Nonsense, you're all right. I heard Button saying last week that nothing short of a ten-story house could have stopped you that day."

"He must think me an awful fool," responded Joel. "The idea of not remembering that I was off-side!"

"Pshaw; why, the first time I played against Eustace at Hillton I tackled the referee in mistake for the man with the ball! And threw him, too! And sat on his head!" West grinned.

"And they did say, Blair, that you were feeling aggrieved against that referee because he had called you down for holding. And I have heard that you weren't such a fool as you looked."

"Nothing in it, my boy," answered Wesley Blair airily. "Mere calumny. Am I one to entertain feelings of anger and resentment against my fellow men? Verily, very much not. But he put me off, did that referee chap. He was incapable of accepting the joke. What is more depressing than a fellow who can't see a joke, March?"

"Two fellows who can't see—et cetera," answered Joel promptly.

"Wrong, very wrong. I don't know what the answer is, but I'm quite certain it isn't that. Well, I must be going. I have studies. I don't waste the golden moments in idleness. I grind, my young and thoughtless friends, I grind. Well, I only came up to congratulate you, Mr. March, of Maine. I have done so. I now depart. Farewell! Never allow the mere fact of being off-side interfere with—"

Blair slammed the door just in front of a whizzing golf ball and clattered downstairs. Presently he appeared on the walk beneath the window and wiggled his fingers derisively with the thumb against a prominent feature of his face. But at the first squeak of the window being pushed up he disappeared around the corner.

Joel's days were now become very busy ones. Every morning he was awakened at seven, and at eight was required to be on hand at the training table for breakfast. The quarters were at Old's, a boarding house opposite the college yard, and here in a big, sunny front room the two long tables were laid with numerous great dishes of oatmeal or hominy, platters of smoking steak, chops or crisp bacon, plates of toast, while potatoes, usually baked, flanked the meat. The beverage was always milk, and tall pitchers of it were constantly filled and emptied during this as well as the other meals. And then there were eggs—eggs hard boiled, eggs soft boiled, eggs medium, eggs poached—until, at the end of the season, the mere mention of eggs caused Joel's stomach to writhe in disgust.

During breakfast disabilities were inquired after, men who were known to have nerves were questioned as to their night's rest, and orders for the day were given out. This man was instructed to see the doctor, another to interview the trainer, a third to report to the head coach. The meal over, save for a half hour of practice for the backs behind the gymnasium the men were free to give all their energies to lessons, and so hurried away to recitation hall or room.

At one o'clock the team assembled again for lunch, with books in hand, and at break-neck speed devoured the somewhat elaborate repast, each man rushing in, eating, and rushing out, with no attempt at sociability or heed to the laws of digestion.

Afternoon practice was at four o'clock. Individual practice was followed by team practice against an imaginary foe, and this in turn gave place to a line-up against the second eleven. Two stiff twenty-minute halves were played. Then again individuals were seized on by captain and coaches and put through paces to remedy some fault or other. And then the last player trots off the field, and the coaches, conversing earnestly among themselves, follow, and the day's work is done. There are still the bath and the rub-down and the weighing; but these are gone through with leisurely while the day's work is discussed and the coaches, circulating among the fellows, inflict an epilogue of criticism and instruction.

There remained usually the better part of an hour before dinner, and this period Joel spent in his room, where with the lamp throwing its glow over his shoulder, he strove to take his mind from the subject of tackling and starting, of punting and passing, and fix it upon his studies for the morrow.

For life was far from being all play that fall—if hard practice and strict training can be called play!—and Joel found it necessary to occupy every moment not taken up by eating, sleeping, and practicing on the gridiron with hard study. It can scarcely be truthfully asserted that Joel's lessons suffered by reason of his adherence to athletics, though a lecture now and then was slighted that he might use the time in pursuing some study that lack of leisure had necessitated his neglecting.

But a clear head, a good digestion, and racing blood render studying a pleasure rather than a task, and Joel found that, while giving less time than before to lessons, he learned them fully as well. One thing is certain: his standing in class did not suffer, even when the coaches were more than usually severe. Joel's experience that fall, and many a time later, led him to conclude that the amount of outdoor athletics indulged in and the capability for study are in direct ratio.

West, too, was a most studious young gentleman that term, and began to pride himself on his recently discovered ability to learn. To be sure, golf was a hard taskmaster, but with commendable self-denial he did not allow it to interfere with his progress in class. Both he and Joel had earned the name of being studious ere the end of the fall term, and neither of them resented it.

Unlike the preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually tabooed. The menu was elaborate. There were soup, two or three kinds of meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. At one end of the table—whether head or foot is yet undecided—sat the captain, at the other end the head coach. Other coaches were present as well, and the trainer sat at the captain's left.

There was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part. When all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling. This is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well studded with suspended disks of crockery. Bread fights—so named because the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes—were extremely popular, and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging vegetable.

His evenings usually belonged to Joel to spend as he wished, though not unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some visiting authority curtailed them considerably. He had always to be in bed by ten o'clock.

But sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held in view for him. And one night he awoke to find Outfield shaking him violently by the shoulder.

"Wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily.

"You," answered Outfield. "You've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for half an hour. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

"The signals," muttered Joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a run around left end by left half-back. And don't forget to start when the ball's snapped. And jump high if you're blocked. And—don't—forget—to—" Snore—snore! "Well," muttered West as he stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all crazy games—"

But West was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to sleep when his head struck the pillow. As a consequence the rest of his remark was never heard.



CHAPTER XX.

AN OLD FRIEND.

"MARCH! Joel March!"

Joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a recitation to Mayer and his room. The familiar tones came from the direction of the library, and turning he saw Stephen Remsen trotting toward him with no regard for the grass. Joel hurdled the knee-high wire barrier and strode to meet him. The two shook hands warmly, almost affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet.

"March, I'm delighted to see you again! I was just going to look you up. Which way were you going?"

"Up to the room. Can't you come up for a while? When'd you arrive? Are you going to stay now?"

"Third down!" laughed Remsen. "No gain! What a fellow you are for questions, March! I got in this morning, and I'm going to stay until after the Yates game. They telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles. Instead of going to your room let's go to mine. I've taken a suite of one room and a closet at Dixon's on the avenue. I haven't unpacked my toothbrush yet. Come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it all over."

So Joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard, traversing the quadrangle in front of University and debouching on to the avenue near where the tall shaft of the Soldiers' Monument gleams in the sunlight. But they did not wait until Remsen's room was gained to "talk it all over." Joel had lots to tell about the Hillton fellows whom he had not lost sight of: of how Clausen was captain of the freshman Eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how West was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how Dicky Sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling along under popular dislike; how Whipple and Cooke were rooming together in Peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and liked by every fellow who knew him; how Digbee was grinding in Lanter with Somers; how Cartwright had joined the Glee Club; and how Christie had left college and gone into business with his father.