Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed

                          RIGHT HALF HOLLINS

THE FOOTBALL ELEVEN BOOKS

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

  LEFT END EDWARDS
  LEFT TACKLE THAYER
  LEFT GUARD GILBERT
  CENTER RUSH ROWLAND
  FULL-BACK FOSTER
  QUARTER-BACK BATES
  LEFT HALF HARMON
  RIGHT END EMERSON
  RIGHT GUARD GRANT
  RIGHT TACKLE TODD
  RIGHT HALF HOLLINS

[Illustration: Once more Bert gave an imitation of a corkscrew]

                              RIGHT HALF
                                HOLLINS

                                  BY

                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

                               AUTHOR OF

                           LEFT END EDWARDS,
                           FULL BACK FOSTER,
                        RIGHT TACKLE TODD, ETC.

                            ILLUSTRATED BY
                             LESLIE CRUMP

                           GROSSET & DUNLAP
                       PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK

                 Made in the United States of America

                           Copyright, 1925,
                    By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER                                PAGE
      I TOMMY PARISH, CRITIC               1
     II BERT REFUSES AN INVITATION        16
    III AN HUMBLE MEMBER                  28
     IV THE MANAGER GIVES A PARTY         42
      V TOMMY MAKES A PREDICTION          56
     VI MOONEY’S                          68
    VII BERT GOES THROUGH                 82
   VIII EXPERT ADVICE                     94
     IX SUBS VS. SCRUB                   108
      X CHICK MISSES A FORWARD-PASS      125
     XI A SHAKE-UP                       136
    XII THE EDITOR CALLS                 149
   XIII AROUND THE END                   161
    XIV DEVORE COMES TO COLLECT          175
     XV FUMBLES                          192
    XVI PEANUTS AND CONVERSATION         209
   XVII BERT IS SENT FOR                 225
  XVIII MR. CADE RECEIVES                236
    XIX TOMMY ISSUES AN ULTIMATUM        253
     XX THE NIGHT BEFORE                 266
    XXI ALTON CELEBRATES                 276

ILLUSTRATIONS

 Once more Bert gave an imitation of a corkscrew          _Frontispiece_

                                                                    PAGE
 From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that out!”        52

 On the next attempt Nip put the ball over the cross-bar             126

 “Who did it? How did it happen?”                                    238

RIGHT HALF HOLLINS

CHAPTER I

TOMMY PARISH, CRITIC

“Put some glue on your hands, Chick!” advised Tommy Parish in a clear,
carrying voice from his seat in the front row of the stand. The sally
gained a ripple of laughter from the somewhat apathetic audience. Bert
Hollins, huddled under a blanket on the players’ bench, a few yards
away, turned a mildly indignant countenance toward Tommy and was met
with a wide grin and a jovial wink. Across the field, Chick Burton,
right end, captured the trickling pigskin and tossed it disgustedly
toward the referee. The disgust was natural, for Chick had just missed
his third forward-pass in that quarter.

Alton Academy was playing its first game of the season, with Southport
School, and the third period was well along. Southport had scored a
field-goal in the first quarter and Alton a touchdown in the second.
Nip Storer had failed to kick the goal after the latter event. It had
been drizzling ever since noon, and a wet ball and a slippery field
were not making for brilliant playing. For that matter, however, even
had the weather conditions been of the best it is doubtful if either
team would have put up a good game, for both were slow and ragged,
missing numerous opportunities to score and plainly badly in need of
practice. Perhaps Chick Burton was no worse than the others, but that
was a matter of opinion, and Tommy Parish’s opinion was to the effect
that Chick was the principal offender of the afternoon. If Chick had
caught just one of the throws from Jim Galvin, Alton would be in
possession of twelve points instead of six. At least, so Tommy thought.

Tommy sat with his knees hunched up almost to his chin and munched
peanuts. Tommy was usually munching something. He was a short, heavy
youth with a round face and a liability to boils on the back of his
brief neck. Indeed, it was quite an unfamiliar sight to see Tommy
without at least one protective arrangement of gauze and plaster
between his collar and the edge of his pale brown hair. Because his
seat was in the front row of the grand-stand, he was able to perch
his feet on the edge of the barrier and so form a sort of trough
between legs and stomach for the accommodation of his bag of peanuts.
When not dipping into the bag or deftly detaching the shells from
their contents he snuggled his hands under the edge of his thick blue
sweater. Since Tommy never wore a hat at school--whatever he did at
home--a fact which may account to some extent for the faded tone of
his hair, he presented a rather damp and bedraggled appearance. Drops
trickled down his somewhat button-like nose, encircled his slightly
protrusive ears and quivered on his round chin as it moved ceaselessly
and rhythmically during the process of mastication. But if moist, he
was quite happy. Give Tommy something to eat and something to look
on at and weather conditions meant nothing in his young life. His
was a cheerful disposition, and if those who smarted under the frank
expressions of his judgment frequently wanted very, very much to murder
him, Tommy cared not a whit. He believed in being outspoken, in giving
candid publicity to his opinions; in short, Tommy hewed to the line and
let the chips fall wherever they blame pleased!

The game went on, Southport capturing the ball after Fitz Savell,
playing at half, had let it ooze from his arms. Tommy set his
strong, white teeth on a particularly attractive peanut and observed
reproachfully, “Why don’t you hand it to him, Fitz, ’stead of making
him pick it up that way? Where’s your manners, boy?”

Homer Johnson, two rows back, reached a long leg across the intervening
seat and placed a foot against the back of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s head
went suddenly forward with a jerk and two peanuts fell to the wet
boards, a total loss. “Cut out the merry quips, Tommy,” advised Homer.
“You weary me.”

Tommy turned his head cautiously. As a matter of fact he happened to be
free from boils at the moment, but affliction had taught him caution
in the matter of moving his neck and it had become second-nature. He
observed Homer without rancor. “Hello,” he said. “Great game, isn’t it?”

“The game’s bad enough, Tommy, without any help from you,” answered
Homer coldly.

“Oh, no, Homer, you’re wrong,” responded Tommy affably. “Nothing’s so
bad it can’t be helped. Constructive criticism, Homer, old timer, is
never inopportune, never _mal venu_.” Tommy delighted in French phrases
which he pronounced with a fine New England accent. He knew just how
far he could go with Homer Johnson without getting into trouble, and it
is doubtful if he would have risked that “old timer” had they not been
separated by a row of seats and their occupants. Homer was a senior
and Tommy still no more than a sophomore, although others who had been
his classmates last year were now juniors. Homer frowned but contented
himself with “Shut up, Tommy!” delivered sharply. Tommy smiled
placidly and slowly returned his gaze to the peanut bag.

“Crazy kid,” commented Freeman Naughton, grinning as soon as Tommy’s
head was turned away. “I’ve wanted to kill him fifty times since I’ve
been here!”

“He’d have been dead long ago if I’d yielded to my desire,” chuckled
Homer. “Tommy bears a charmed life, I guess. Gets away with stuff that
would get another fellow kicked from here to State street. Did you hear
what he got off on Jonas the other day? He and another fellow were
passing in front of Upton and the ball got away from him just as Jonas
came along and Tommy yelled, ‘Thank you, Jonas!’ Well, you know the way
Jonas moves when he isn’t playing football. He ambled along and picked
up the ball and looked at it and finally tossed it back, and Tommy
yelled, ‘Say, listen! I want to ask you something! Is your name Jonas
Lowe or is it Jonah Slow?’ I guess Jonas wanted to slaughter him, but
he let him live.”

Naughton--he went by the name of “Naughty,” naturally enough--chuckled.
“The cheekiest thing he ever did, though, was in our freshman year. I
guess I told you.”

“About Kincaid?”

“Yes. Kincaid had wandered off the lesson, the way he does, and was
telling the class something he’d seen in Rome or some place; something
about some ruins; and Tommy pipes up with: ‘Mr. Kincaid, haven’t those
ruins been there a long time?’ ‘Why, yes, Parish,’ says Kincaid, ‘some
thousands of years.’ ‘Then,’ says Tommy sweetly, ‘maybe they’ll keep,
sir, if we go on with the lesson.’”

The quarter came to an end with the score still 6 to 3, the teams
changed goals and Mr. Cade, the coach, familiarly known as Johnny,
hustled a set of bedraggled substitutes from the bench and sent them
trotting in to report. Jake, the trainer, wrapped the deposed ones in
dry blankets and circulated an already soiled towel about on which they
wiped their wet faces. The game started off on its final period with a
new backfield, save for Galvin, at full, and two new linemen. Southport
introduced two fresh ends, but made no other changes. Southport made a
determined drive for the Alton goal and got the pigskin as far as the
twenty-eight yards, where, after two attempts at the Gray-and-Gold’s
line had yielded scant returns, and a short forward-pass had gone
wrong, her left half dropped back and tried to duplicate his feat of
the first quarter. But this time he was hurried and the ball slanted
off to the left and passed well beyond the goal post. Storer punted on
second down and Southport got the pigskin again on Alton’s forty-six.
Once more she tried desperately to reach a point from which to score by
kicking. A wide sweep gained but two yards and a smash straight at the
center of the line was good for as many more. Then, however, a puzzling
double pass sent a back inside Dozier, at left tackle, and the runner
dodged and twirled to the thirty-three before he was nailed by Ball,
the Alton quarter-back.

Again Southport tried the ends, first one and then the other, and the
ball went out of bounds on the second play. With about twenty-eight
to go on a third down and the ball well to the side of the gridiron,
a place-kick looked unpromising, and when the visitor set the stage
for it Alton was incredulous. Warnings of a forward-pass were cried,
but when the ball went back it sped straight to the kneeling quarter
and was set to the ground. The kicker was deliberate and Chick Burton,
slipping past the defense, almost blocked the ball, but it passed him
safely, sailed up and over the cross-bar and added another three points
to Southport’s score and tied the game.

Alton didn’t have a chance to better her figures during the few minutes
that remained. Southport, evidently as pleased with results as if she
had won, set herself on the defensive and held the enemy safely away
from her goal. The stand was almost empty by the time the last whistle
blew. In the front row of seats, however, Tommy Parish still huddled,
arising at last with a sigh of repletion and a deluge of peanut shells
to the ground. Then, sinking his neck into the collar of his sweater
and his moist hands into the pockets of his baggy breeches, he turned
from the scene of conflict and made his way back across the soggy field
toward Upton Hall. Ahead, the tired players plodded along by twos and
threes, blankets trailing, subdued and disgruntled. Toward the end of
the procession Coach Cade’s short, thick-set figure walked beside that
of Captain Lowe. Jonas was almost six feet tall and correspondingly
broad, and walked with a lumbering pace that added to the contrast
between him and Johnny. The gymnasium swallowed them up and Tommy went
on, passing within smelling distance of the kitchens in Lawrence Hall
and sniffing the air eagerly. This was a Saturday, and generally on
Saturdays the evening meal was extremely satisfactory. Tommy almost
regretted those peanuts. Still, nearly an hour must elapse before he
would be allowed to assimilate more food, and Tommy’s recuperative
powers were of the best. He reached the walk between Borden and Upton,
turned to the right and presently disappeared into the latter dormitory.

Up in Number 30 Tommy removed his outer garments, swathed his rotund
form in a garish blanket dressing-gown and subsided on the window-seat,
piling the several silken pillows behind his head. The view was not
cheerful just now. Through the mist-covered panes Tommy looked across
the Yard, damply green of turf, to Academy street and the white
residences beyond. There were few persons in sight. Up the middle
path came a figure in a shining yellow oil-skin coat, snuggling a
package under an arm; one of the fellows returning from a shopping
expedition, apparently. Tommy wondered whether the contents of the
package were edible. A few forms moved along Academy street, citizens
with umbrellas these. To the right, near the Meadow street side of the
Yard, a light appeared in Doctor McPherson’s house. (“Mac” was the
principal.) Occupying a corresponding position across the wide expanse
of maple dotted turf, Memorial Hall emitted two fellows carrying books
from the school library. Tommy watched them idly as they followed
the walk which led them to the front of Academy Hall. As they passed
Upton he recognized the taller of the two and had half a mind to raise
the window and exchange insults. But the effort was too great and he
contented himself with tapping a pane with the seal ring he wore.
Evidently the sound didn’t carry, for the youths disappeared from his
range of vision without looking up.

At Alton Academy the dormitories form a line across the top of the
campus: Haylow first, near Meadow street, then Lykes, then--with
Academy Hall intervening--Upton and Borden. Back of Academy is
Lawrence, which is the dining hall, and well over toward River street,
hiding behind Borden, is the Carey Gymnasium. The land descended gently
each way from the dormitory row, in the front toward Academy street and
the town, in the rear toward the open country. On the latter slope, a
slope too gradual to really deserve the name, was the athletic field,
with the quarter-mile track, diamonds, tennis courts and sufficient
territory besides for the accommodation of such mildly important bodies
as the soccer and lacrosse teams. Like many New England preparatory
schools, Alton possessed an appearance of age out of proportion with
fact, an appearance largely due to the maples that shaded the walks and
the ivy that grew almost to the eaves of the older buildings. Not that
Alton was a new school, for it was not, but it was younger than many;
younger, even, than its principal rival, Kenly Hall, over at Lakeville.

Tommy was getting quite drowsy now and would probably have fallen
comfortably asleep if Billy Pillsbury hadn’t selected the moment
for his homecoming. Billy, generally called “Pill” was sixteen, a
sophomore--although, unlike Tommy, he was new at it--and held the proud
and important position of Second Assistant Football Manager. Pill was
a slight, pink-cheeked, trim-looking youth, with dark hair swept back
from a classic brow and held swept by some fragrant concoction that
Tommy found particularly nauseating--or pretended to. Pill entered with
the aspect of one wearied by the weight of authority imposed on him and
sank into a chair. Tommy viewed him without enthusiasm.

“Gee, what a day!” sighed Pill.

“Yes, rotten,” responded the other, carefully misunderstanding.
“Doesn’t look much like clearing, either.”

“Oh, the weather!” Pill put that aside with a wave of a slender hand.
“I meant the--the work. And that game! Say, wasn’t that criminal,
Tommy?”

“Sure was. Every fellow on the team deserves hanging.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Pill. “They’re all right. Trouble is,
they haven’t had enough practice, Tommy.”

“Why not? Ten days ought to give them some idea of the game!”

“They weren’t any worse than Southport.”

“What of it? Last year we licked Southport something like 23 to 0. And
the year before by-- Well, I forget what it was.”

“I don’t,” returned Pill triumphantly. “It was 6 to 6, the same as
to-day. And that year we licked Kenly, and last year we didn’t! So you
can’t prove that the team’s going to be rotten that way!”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be rotten,” answered Tommy placidly. “All
I say is that it was rotten to-day. Look at the way Burton played, for
instance. He had three chances with forward-passes and missed every one
of them. Touched them all, too. Why, we’d have had a touchdown any time
if he could have frozen onto just one of them!”

“Chick was sort of out of tune,” acknowledged Pill. “He’s been that way
ever since work started. Looks to me as if he was still sore about the
captaincy.”

“Think so?” Tommy looked interested. “Say, I’ll bet you’re _tres_
right! I thought he and Jonas Lowe weren’t acting awfully thick!”

“Oh, they get on all right,” said Pill. “Still, I do think that Chick
was awfully disappointed last winter. Maybe you can’t blame him,
either. Why, I’d have bet my shirt that they’d make him captain, Tommy!”

“Yes, so would I, I guess. The trouble with Chick Burton is that he’s a
mighty pleasant guy, and most every one likes him a lot and all that.
But when it comes to choosing a leader, why, Chick doesn’t--er--inspire
confidence. That’s the way I get it, and I guess that’s the way the
team felt last December. It was a surprise, though, when they elected
Lowe. Guess Jonas was as surprised as any one, even Chick. Think he
will make a good captain, Pill?”

“Jonas?” Pill looked frankly dubious. “Gee, I don’t know, Tommy. He’s a
corking old scout, and the fellows like him well enough; and he knows
a lot about football; his own position and the other chap’s; but it
doesn’t seem to me that he’s what you’d call a born leader.”

“Huh, neither is Chick.”

“Yes, he is, too! Chick’s the--the slap-bang, hit-or-miss sort that--”

“Mostly miss to-day,” interpolated Tommy.

“--that fellows take to. He may be wrong, but he makes you think he’s
right. And he has--well, dash, you know; and a jolly way of banging
into everything; sort of a ‘Come on, gang, let’s go!’ fashion that
wins the crowd. What I think about Chick is that if he had made the
captaincy he’d have been a poor leader, Tommy, but every one would have
forgiven him and, if we’d lost to Kenly, would have said: ‘Well, it
wasn’t Chick Burton’s fault! It was just rotten luck!’”

“He’s sure got a pal in you,” said Tommy. “I didn’t know you two were
so _amical_.”

“Your French is rotten, as usual. We aren’t very friendly, either, for
that matter. I mean, I don’t know him very well. Say, that’s a funny
thing about Chick Burton. He gets on finely with every one, but you
never see him chummy with a soul. Ever notice that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What about Hollins? He and Chick look to be pretty
thick.”

“Well, they room together, you know, and I heard they were pals before
they came here. But outside of Bert Hollins he doesn’t take up with any
fellow, so far as I see.”

Tommy chuckled reminiscently. “You ought to have seen the pained look
on Bert’s face this afternoon when I razzed Chick once for missing a
throw! Say, that poor nut thinks Chick invented football, I guess.”

Pill, having finally set about the task of removing his damp clothing,
chuckled as he kicked off a shoe. “I’ll bet! Bert thinks Chick is just
about all right, I guess. Talk about Damon and Pythias!”

“Well, I fancy it’s a bit one-sided,” replied Tommy pessimistically.
“Friendships generally are.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Chick’s a senior and could have gone into Lykes this
fall if he’d wanted to. But he stayed here in Upton so’s he could be
with Bert. That looks like he thought a good deal of him, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe and peradventure,” Tommy yawned. “Hurry up and get dressed. I’m
starved. I see Bert’s still trying to play football. This is his third
season, isn’t it?”

“Second. He’s a junior. I dare say he will make the team this year. He
told me the other day that he’d put on seven pounds since last fall.
He isn’t a bad player. He might have got placed last fall if he hadn’t
been so light. Johnny had him in a few minutes to-day, at the last.”

“Well, I’d like to see him make it,” said Tommy reflectively. “He’s
sure tried hard and long, and I’m strong on the nil desperandum stuff,
Pill. Who do we play next week?”

“Banning High. Bet you you’ll see a different game next Saturday,
Tommy.”

“If I don’t,” responded the other, “I’ll ask for my money back! Say,
_pour l’amour de Michel_, do we eat or don’t we?”

CHAPTER II

BERT REFUSES AN INVITATION

“Want to play some pool?” asked Chick.

Bert leaned back in the chair and caressed the end of his straight nose
with the rubber tip of his pencil. “Depends,” he replied. “If you mean
at that evil-smelling dive you dragged me into last week the answer is
no, Chick.”

“What’s the matter with Mooney’s?” demanded the other. “He’s got the
best tables in town.”

“I know, but the smoke’s so thick there you could cut it with a knife,
and it makes my eyes smart. That’s why you beat me last time.”

“Shucks, a little smoke won’t hurt you. Come on. Besides, when a fellow
can’t smoke himself a little of the aroma of the weed isn’t so bad.”

“Maybe, but I noticed the last time that it sort of made you
absent-minded, Chick.”

“How do you mean? Oh, that! Shucks, one cigarette at this stage of the
game doesn’t matter. We weren’t really in training last Saturday, any
way.”

Bert Hollins smiled and shook his head. “That’s a punk alibi, Chick.
Suppose some one had happened to look in? There’d been the dickens to
pay.”

“Some one being Johnny Cade?” asked Chick, grinning. “Johnny doesn’t
frequent that part of town, old son. Don’t look so blamed virtuous
or I’ll punch your head. Anyway, I’m off the things until we quit
training.”

“Which being so,” said the other, “you’d better get rid of the box in
your top drawer. They might tempt you, Charles, beyond your power of
resistance.”

“Say, how come you’ve been snooping through my chiffonier? Hang it,
Bert, you’ve got a cheek!”

“Wait a minute! Did you or didn’t you ask me to get you a handkerchief
one day and drop it out the window to you? And was or wasn’t said
handkerchief in said top drawer of said--”

“Oh, shut up,” said Chick, grinning. “All right, old son. Say no more.
But trust you to see the fags! As to getting rid of them, that would be
rotten extravagance, Bert. No, but I’ll stick ’em out of sight where I
won’t see ’em. How’ll that do? But, listen. Will you shoot some pool,
or won’t you, you poor fish?”

“Won’t,” answered Bert. “That is, I will if you’ll play in a
respectable place, but I don’t like the atmosphere of Rooney’s--”

“Mooney’s.”

“Looney’s, then. And I’m not referring entirely to the tobacco smoke.
A lot of the gentlemen who frequent that dive are the sort that my
Sunday school teacher expressly warned me against, Chick.”

“Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled the older boy. “Come on, won’t
you? You don’t have to pay any attention to the others. I’ll give you a
handicap of--”

“No, thanks, old man, I really had rather not. Anyway, I’ve got some
math here that will stand an hour’s work.”

“Do it later. Great Scott, don’t you know this is Saturday night?”

“Sure, but I sort of feel in the mood for math, Chick. A--a kind of
mental alertness possesses me, and although--”

“Oh, go to thunder!” said Chick shortly, and pulled a cap on his head.
“The next time I ask you, you’ll know it, you blamed Miss Nancy.”

“Them’s hard words,” murmured Bert. “What time you coming back?”

“Some time before ten. Why?”

“Just wondered if you recalled the fact that you’re supposed to be in
bed by that hour.”

“_What?_ Who said so? Johnny hasn’t started that stuff yet, has he?”

“Even so, Chick. He specifically mentioned his wishes no later than
yesterday. Every one in bed by ten sharp, were his words.”

“Well, he’s got a crust,” Chick declared. “That’s mid-season stuff.
How’s he get that way?”

“I really can’t say, but, joking aside, Charles, do try to be home by
nine-thirty or thereabouts, eh? These late hours--”

“Oh, shut up!” With his hand on the door, Chick made a final and
pathetic appeal. “Be a good guy, Bert, won’t you? Listen, we’ll go to
that place on West street, if you can’t stand Mooney’s.”

Bert waved the pencil in dismissal. “Run along to your disreputable
acquaintances, Chick. Fact is, I’m not feeling lucky to-night. Besides,
I got a slam on the shin this afternoon that tells me I wouldn’t enjoy
tramping a couple of miles around a table. Some other time, O Wizard of
the Cue.”

“Honest, you make me sick!” The door shut with some force, leaving
Bert smiling at it. He rather enjoyed ragging Chick, and Chick, while
he sometimes became exasperated, never lost his temper. Not with Bert,
that is. For one thing, they had known each other ever since they had
begun to walk; or, at least, since Bert had, for Chick, who was a full
year older, had probably found the use of his legs first. They had
grown up together in Watertown, adventured together, gone to school
together, had been practically inseparable for some fifteen years.
Chick had a temper, although it was pretty well governed, but save in
the very earliest years of their acquaintance he had never been really
angry with Bert. Perhaps his year of seniority had something to do
with it, for, although Bert could be trying at times, Chick considered
that the other’s youth excused him. Each of the boys made a good deal
of that thirteen months of difference in their respective ages. Chick
had always assumed an elder brother attitude, Bert had always accepted
the position of junior unquestioningly, crediting Chick with superior
wisdom and all the advantages popularly supposed to accrue to those of
great age and experience. Always, that is, until very recently. Within
the last year, it seemed, the matter of age had become less important.
Possibly, as sometimes happens, Bert had matured more in that time
than Chick had. Whereas a year back the older boy had held the rôle of
mentor, now it was Bert who sought to guide Chick’s steps. Sometimes a
slightly puzzled look would come into Chick’s countenance, indicating
that he was sensible of a difference in their relations and hadn’t yet
fathomed it.

In general appearance the friends were not unalike. Both were fairly
tall, well-proportioned youths, Bert slimmer and lighter than Chick but
not destined to remain so much longer. Both were dark of complexion,
Chick with gray eyes and Bert with brown. On the score of good looks
the older boy held an advantage, for his features were regular, while
Bert’s, with the single exception of a straight nose, were decidedly
haphazard. Still, expression counts more than features, as a general
thing, and both scored there, although in different fashions. Chick’s
face told of high spirits and vivacity and thirst for adventure, and
a ready, careless smile won friendship easily. On occasion that smile
could be a bit supercilious. Bert’s countenance was normally rather
grave, although if one looked closely there was generally a glint of
laughter lurking in the brown eyes. It was a friendly countenance, but
not an ardent one. Bert’s smile was slow to appear, but it was very
genuine and was usually followed by a rather infectious laugh.

Before Chick’s footfalls had entirely died away beyond the closed
door that smile had faded to an expression of uneasiness. Bert had
joked about Mooney’s and the frequenters of Mooney’s, about the
cigarettes and the ten o’clock bed hour, but those things were really
threatening to cause him some concern. Chick was different this fall,
he reflected now, jabbing tiny holes in a blotter with the sharp point
of the pencil. Perhaps being a senior made you that way. Football,
which had been an all-absorbing interest to Chick last year and the
year before that, now seemed to have small appeal for him. Of course,
Chick had felt badly about missing the captaincy last winter; had, in
conversation with Bert, been rather bitter about it; but this present
careless, don’t-give-a-whoop attitude toward the team and his job on
it was unexpected. Last year, for instance, Chick wouldn’t have smoked
a cigarette during the season if some one had offered him cigarette,
match and a thousand dollars! Nor would he have protested against the
ten o’clock bed rule. And--Bert shook his head at this reflection--he
wouldn’t have played as listlessly as he had played this afternoon.
To Bert, who had been trying two seasons for a position on the team,
the honor of being selected from among some four hundred fellows to
represent Alton Academy on the football field was something to work for
and make sacrifices for and, if won, to be mighty proud of!

Perhaps Chick was too sure of his position, Bert reflected. Last
year he had played a rather remarkable game toward the latter part
of the season and had been largely instrumental in securing the
lone touchdown which, with a field-goal by Nip Storer, one of the
half-backs, represented Alton’s earnings in the disastrous Kenly Hall
contest. Chick had been wonderful on defense and had spoiled more than
one Kenly dash in the direction of the Alton line. On attack he had
performed his share, too, for it was his catch of a long forward-pass
that had made it possible for Jim Galvin, substituting for the
first-string full-back in the second quarter, to smash his way across
the Cherry-and-Black’s line. Chick had been a fine and gallant warrior
that day, and Bert warmed toward him at the recollection until his
present shortcomings seemed of no importance. It had been Chick, too,
who had swooped down on a loose ball in the last few minutes of the
game and raced off up the long field, dodging, side-stepping, twirling,
to the enemy’s twelve yards before he was pulled down from behind.
That Alton had failed lamentably to gain a foot on the next four plays
detracted not at all from Chick’s heartening performance. Indeed, that
brief threat had somehow made the pill of defeat less bitter to the
Gray-and-Gold that drizzling November evening. Kenly Hall had won that
contest by 16 to 9 with a team that was a better all-around eleven than
Alton’s. The latter had shown fine moments, feats of brilliance, daring
plays, but Kenly had been steady, machine-like, irresistible, and
the victory had been hers deservedly. Bert brought his thoughts back
from that thrilling battle, in which he had taken part for just three
minutes and forty seconds at the tag-end, thereby winning the privilege
of wearing the “Big Gold A,” and resolutely drew his book toward
him. Mr. Hulman, the mathematics instructor, was a new member of the
faculty, and seemed set on emulating the new broom and sweeping clean.
Bert laid his pencil aside, placed elbows on desk and hands against
cheeks and set out to discover what it was all about.

After a while the pencil came into play again, and still later Bert
closed the book with a sigh of relief, pushed it away from him and
glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes after eight! There was
still time to pick up some fellow along the corridor and get to the
movie theater for the big picture, but after a tentative start toward
the closet to get his cap he shook his head and sank into an easy
chair. Saturday evening was no time to find an agreeable companion. All
the fellows save those Bert didn’t desire as companions would be out.
He decided to write a letter home instead, performing a task usually
done on Sunday. He began to think what he would write, and that was
fatal, for half an hour later he was still in the chair, his thoughts
a long way from the letter. In the end, he found a book which he had
started to read away back in August, undressed, went to bed and read.
He was still reading when Chick returned.

“Hello,” said Bert, “what time is it?”

Chick frowned. “For the love of Pete, cut that out,” he protested.
“Honest, Bert, you’re getting to be an awful nagger!”

“Sorry,” said Bert. “I asked only because I’ve been reading and haven’t
any idea what time of night it is.” He sat up and looked at the little
clock on the nearer chiffonier. It was four minutes past ten according
to the clock, but as the latter was frequently wrong he didn’t accept
the evidence as conclusive. He laid back again, yawned, dropped
the book to the floor and clasped his hands under his head. Chick,
undressing, whistled cheerfully; almost too cheerfully Bert thought.
“Have a good game?” the latter asked presently.

“Corking. I certainly made the old balls do tricks to-night. Played
three games of fifty points and won two of them. Had to go some to get
the last one, though. That’s why I’m sort of late.”

“Who did you play with?” asked Bert.

“Fellow named Devore.”

“Devore? Guess I don’t know him. Not in school, is he?”

“No, he’s a guy lives in town. Works with the railroad, I think. Pretty
decent sort and a clever lad with a cue. If I hadn’t been going mighty
well to-night I wouldn’t have got a game, I guess. Gosh, that place was
crowded, Bert!”

“Rooney’s?”

“No, Mooney’s, you coot!” Chick disappeared into the corridor in
slippers and dressing-gown. Bert stared at the ceiling a moment and
then got out of bed and consulted his watch. The little clock for once
was right to a minute. When Chick returned from the lavatory Bert was
apparently asleep and Chick turned out the light and got into bed.
Silence reigned for a minute or two. Then Chick asked softly: “Asleep,
Bert?”

“No, are you?”

“Sure! No, listen. Who do you suppose I met over on Meadow street,
coming home?”

“Prince of Wales?”

“No; Johnny.”

After a moment Bert asked: “Did he see you?”

“Of course he did,” replied the other impatiently. “Didn’t I say I met
him? Ran right into him, almost, in front of that laundry over there.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing but ‘Ah, Burton!’ or something like that.”

“What time was it, Chick?”

“Ten, or nearly. The clock struck when I got to West street. Talk
about rotten luck! Why the dickens he was prowling around over there
at that time of night, goodness only knows! If he had stopped I’d have
given him a stall, but he just said ‘Ah, Burton’ in a kind of a funny
tone and kept right on. I think he had something in his hand; a bag, I
guess.”

“Maybe he’s going home over Sunday. There’s a train about ten-twenty, I
think.”

“That’s so.” Silence fell again in Number 21 and continued for several
minutes. Then Chick’s voice came once more. “Sort of wish I hadn’t run
into him, Bert.”

“Me and you both,” agreed Bert.

“Of course it’s blamed poppycock, that ten o’clock bed rule, but he’s
acting kind of snorty this fall and he may get on his ear about it. If
he does, by gosh, I’ll tell him I’m no kid freshman to have to go to
bed with the chickens!”

“Sure! That will make it all right with him,” answered Bert. “He will
like that, Chick.”

“Oh, well, hang it, a fellow’s got to have some fun! What’s the good of
going to bed at ten, anyway? You don’t get to sleep.”

“Not if you keep on talking,” said Bert, yawning.

“Gosh,” grumbled the other, “you could go to sleep at seven, I guess.
How long have you been in bed?”

“Couple of hours.”

“What, didn’t you go out at all?”

“Uh-huh--I mean no! Say, for Pete’s sake, Chick, shut up and go to
sleep! How do you think I’m going to keep my schoolgirl complexion if
you go on jabbering?”

“All right. But, just the same, I wish I’d come home by State street!”

“Or started earlier,” murmured Bert.

Chick glared resentfully across through the darkness but could think
of no appropriate retort. Then came unmistakable indications that his
room-mate was asleep.

AN HUMBLE MEMBER

Chick--his full name, by the way, was Charles Sumner Burton--concluded
on Monday that Coach Cade’s preoccupation in the matter of getting to
the station in time for his train Saturday night had kept him from
realizing the other’s offense. Of course, being a trifle late into bed
was no hanging matter, but Johnny had been more than usually strict
during the ten days or so of school, and Chick had no wish to be called
down. Johnny was mild-mannered and soft-spoken enough when things went
right, but when they didn’t he could be decidedly caustic. He was about
thirty years of age, a short, solidly-built, broad-shouldered and
deep-chested man with the blackest of black hair that reminded one of
the bristles on a shoe-brush. His countenance presented the not unusual
contrast of a smiling mouth and a fighting chin. Tradition had it that
some ten years before Johnny Cade had been a very difficult man to stop
when he had the ball in his arms and his head down! Chick believed
it, and it was far from his plan to interpose any sort of opposition
between Johnny and his desires.

Besides, Chick liked Mr. Cade a whole lot. In a way of speaking, Johnny
had made a football player of Chick during the last two years. Of
course Chick didn’t give all the credit to the coach; he felt that he
himself had contributed largely to the result; but he did acknowledge a
considerable obligation and was correspondingly grateful. Chick liked
him for other reasons, too, which were the reasons that swayed most of
those who knew Johnny. The coach was acknowledgedly square, quite as
prompt and generous with praise as with blame; if he worked his charges
hard, he set the pace himself; he was easy of approach, liked a joke
and never took advantage of his authority, which was that of a faculty
member. In short, he was, in school parlance, a “white man.” He had
been in charge of the Alton teams for a number of years and had turned
out winning elevens in most of them. There was a rumor current this
fall to the effect that the end of the present season would likewise
be the end of Johnny’s coaching career, but the report lacked official
confirmation and the School hoped it wasn’t correct.

That Monday afternoon was largely given over to the first principles of
football, which was one way of informing those who had taken part in
the Southport game that their labors had not been wholly satisfactory.
About sixty fellows had reported since the beginning of the term and
these were divided into three squads at present: Squad A, which
consisted of nineteen players who had served on the First Team last
year; Squad B, which contained the members of the former Second Eleven
and a few fellows who had shown promise on the various scrub teams, and
Squad C, composed of those whose ambition excelled their experience and
a half-dozen or so who had entered school this fall and who were as yet
unknown quantities. But to-day, whether you were a Squad A or a Squad
C man, you tackled the dummy until you were thoroughly covered, even
impregnated, with the still-damp loam of the pit, passed and caught and
fell on the ball in the most rudimentary manner and, if you happened to
be a candidate for a line position, duck-waddled and, with your head
and shoulders thrust into the charging harness, did your best to drag
two restraining youths with you over the slippery turf. If you happened
to have to set your heart on holding down a backfield position you were
spared the harness but worked just as hard at starting and at various
other tasks cunningly devised to teach celerity, accuracy and the rest
of the football virtues.

There are always those who resent what, in class room, would be termed
review work. To a fellow who had played against Kenly Hall for two
seasons, being returned to the drudgery of kindergarten stuff was
a ridiculous imposition in the judgment of several of the Squad A
members. Chick was among those who resented the imposition, but he
showed his resentment less than most of the others. He had a hunch that
it might be just as well not to court the limelight this afternoon,
that if he could survive practice without coming to the notice of the
coach he would not be likely to awaken memories, memories dating back
to Saturday night at some four minutes to ten o’clock! So Chick, albeit
his soul revolted, ground his face into the dirt and filled his ears
with it at tackling practice and maintained a cheerful countenance,
abstaining, even when at the end of the waiting line farthest from Mr.
Cade, from joining in the grumbles and sarcasms delivered in guarded
tones.

To an unbiased onlooker it might have appeared that the smiling,
shock-haired man in the faded and torn sweater and the old khaki
trousers had some reason for trundling the stuffed effigy along the
wire for the benefit of Squad A, because, after all, quite a few
members of that coterie performed extremely poorly at the task of
wrapping their arms about the dummy and dragging it to earth, and not
much better at throwing their bodies in front of it in blocking. In
fact, those who appeared to have really mastered these sciences were
to be counted on the fingers of two hands, omitting the thumbs! Even
Captain Jonas Lowe, who, with Andy Dozier, left tackle, towered inches
above all the others and looked the perfect football lineman, failed
to win commendation to-day; a fact which aided Chick considerably to
endure the indignity put upon him. Chick had not yet forgiven Jonas for
winning the captaincy over his head, something which, of course, Jonas
wasn’t in the least to blame for, although if you had charged Chick
with harboring resentment at this late day he would have denied the
allegation indignantly. He would probably have felt rather insulted.
Certainly he would have reminded you that he had himself put the motion
to make Jonas’s election unanimous, and he would have pointed out that
he and the new captain were the best of friends. The latter assertion
would, however, have been only negatively true. That is to say, he and
Jonas were friends merely to the extent of never being unfriendly,
which constitutes a relationship somewhat different from that implied
by Chick. Whether Jonas realized that Chick still begrudged him the
leadership of the team, would have been hard to say, but it was
perfectly apparent that if he did realize it he was not in the least
troubled about it. There was something rather Jovian about the big,
cumbersome, placid Jonas. You got the impression of one gazing calmly
down from Olympus, untroubled by petty mortals and their affairs.

Of those who did win a word of praise from Johnny Cade this afternoon
one was Bert Hollins. There were quite a few things in the line of
football essentials that Bert was good at, and tackling, whether of
the dummy or a hard-running enemy, was one of them. Bert’s relation to
the team was somewhat peculiar. Last season, after trying very hard
to make the Second until well into October, he had succeeded only in
getting hurt in his third scrimmage. He had attended practice with a
crutch under his left arm for a week and watched it from the bench for
nearly a week more. Then, almost before he had limbered that injured
knee up again, there had come a demand from the First for a light,
fast backfield man and Mr. McFadden, coach of the Scrubs, had sent
Bert across on approval. That had been a big moment in the boy’s life,
that sudden elevation to the First Team, and he had tried desperately
hard to make good. In a manner he had succeeded, for he had shown
about everything except weight and experience. One without the other
might have served, but together they kept him in the background. He
played in two of the late-season contests and won good words, and, as a
reward, was sent in by the coach near the end of the big game to earn
his letter. There had been no opportunity for a signal display of
brilliancy. He had not seized the ball and dashed sixty or seventy or
eighty yards down the field for a touchdown and consequent victory.

None of the thrilling, dramatic feats which story tellers love to
relate, and which sometimes really are performed, fell to his portion.
As a matter of unromantic fact, he had the ball but once and lost
better than two yards in an ill-advised attempt to knife through inside
tackle. Better men than he had repeatedly failed at that play already.
He emerged from that fray with no more glory than he had entered, but
he had at least emerged a full-fledged member of the Alton Academy
Football Team, with the right to wear a big golden-yellow A on his
gray sweater, a tiny yellow football on his cap and a gray-gold-gray
ribbon on his straw hat in summer. There were other privileges and
benefits, too, although of secondary importance. For instance, he could
reserve four seats in the center of the stand for the Kenly games, he
could cast a vote in the election of captain--a prerogative he had
subsequently exercised--and his countenance, together with some thirty
other countenances, would grace the wall of the gymnasium for posterity
to gaze upon with awe--or boredom.

Bert was mighty proud of his membership, but his satisfaction was
dulled by the suspicion that he didn’t really deserve the honor. There
were fellows--he could think of half a dozen, perhaps--who played
better football than he did and who had not won the coveted A. In
short, Bert secretly looked on himself as a Letter Man in name only!
But he meant to correct all that. This fall he was going to deserve
the prize he had won. He was going to try so blamed hard that success
simply wouldn’t be able to escape him! He had added several pounds
since last winter and at least an inch of height, and he had handled
a football nearly every day during the summer, generously obeying Mr.
Cade’s injunction to the members of the squad. If all the milk he had
drunk and all the eggs he had eaten could have been mixed together the
result would have been an omelet as big as--well, I don’t know how
big. But I do know that in August Bert’s mother had to call the family
physician in to advise a bilious boy to omit eggs from his diet for
the rest of the summer. Perhaps what had kept Bert from attaining the
height of Captain Jonas and the rotundity of Lum Patten by the middle
of September was the fact that when he wasn’t throwing or kicking a
football around he was playing tennis or swimming.

No matter how he figured it, Bert couldn’t make himself out better
than a third-choice substitute half-back. Storer, Ness, Savell, Keys
and Tyron were the mainstays, and then there were at least three
other backfield candidates who, in Bert’s estimation at least, were
held in higher esteem than he. And goodness only knew who else might
suddenly spring into the spot-light before the season was over! Well,
if hard work and the most determined efforts would avail he meant
to land considerably nearer the head of the list than he was now.
What he feared more than all else was a repetition of last fall’s
catastrophe. He was light and so subject to rude handling, and last
season’s experience had proved how surprisingly easy it was to get
hurt. Why, he had merely stumbled over some fellow’s legs and been out
of the game for almost a fortnight with a wrenched knee! Even as late
as early summer the silly thing had twinged him occasionally, although
he had been careful not to mention the fact. He believed it to be as
good as ever now, but he was haunted by the fear that it might not
be, that he would hurt it again and be laid off. Being laid off was a
fatal thing sometimes. Like time and tide, football seasons wait for
no one, and more than one poor fellow on the injured list has watched
a hale substitute run off with his position under his very eyes. Fear
of another injury to that left knee or to some other portion of his
anatomy was threatening to become an obsession, although he didn’t
realize it.

Going back to Upton after practice was over, Bert asked Chick whether
Coach Cade had said anything about Saturday night. Chick laughed. “Not
a word, old scout. Know what I think? Well, I think he was so taken up
with getting that train that he forgot all about seeing me. Anyway, he
didn’t say a word to-day. Didn’t even look cross-eyed at me!”

“That’s luck,” said Bert. “Take my advice, Chick, and don’t get caught
again.”

“Not going to, believe me. Another time I’ll come home by River street,
even if it is longer. It’s a safe bet Johnny doesn’t wander around over
there!”

“Maybe not, but the safest thing is to be in the dormitory by
nine-thirty, and that’s your play from now on. You can’t be quite
certain about Johnny. Maybe he’s forgotten about meeting you the other
night and maybe he hasn’t. I wouldn’t want to bet either way, Chick.”

“Oh, well, he’s got too many other things to worry about, I guess. Say,
he had an awful cheek to work A Squad the way he did to-day. Regular
beginners’ stuff! Gosh, I’ve got more dirt in my hair than I’ll be able
to get out in a dozen shampoos. Funny thing was, though,” added Chick
as they started upstairs, “that we tackled the dummy like a lot of
pups!”

“The tackling in the Southport game was pretty rotten,” said Bert. “I
don’t believe there were more than two clean tackles made by our gang,
Chick.”

“And I made them both?” laughed Chick. “Thanks!”

“You did not! You were as bad as any of them. Pete Ness made one
corking tackle the time he got that Southport guy over by the
side-line, and I think it was Billy Haines made the other. Generally we
just sort of tagged the other fellow on the shoulder and let him by!”

“Well, you’ve got to be polite to your guests,” replied Chick,
grinning. “I did miss my tackles pretty awfully, though, and I know it
as well as you do, old scout. Fact is, Bert, I haven’t been playing
my real game yet. I guess it takes a fellow a week or so to get back
into harness, eh? Oh, by the way, I told Coles we’d be around to see
him this evening. He’s got some apples his folks sent him from New
Hampshire or somewhere and he wants them eaten up before they go bad.
He says the training table starts Wednesday evening, Bert.”

“I wonder if I’ll get on it.”

“Sure! Why not? At that, though, you’ll be lucky if you don’t. You get
beastly tired of the grub after about a month of it.”

“I saw Mr. McFadden at the field to-day,” said Bert. “I guess they’ll
be starting the Scrub Team pretty soon.”

“Next week, probably. Good thing, too, for the place is all littered up
over there now.”

“I hope it doesn’t occur to Johnny to put me back where he got me,”
Bert observed ruefully. “I dare say fellows do get dropped to the
Second sometimes, don’t they?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you need to worry about that. You’ll get along
all right, Bert. I have a hunch that Johnny’s going in for a fast
backfield this year, and when it comes to speed you’ve got it all over
some of the chaps. It was that lot of heavy, slow backs that spilled
the beans for us last year, if you make inquiry of me. Things went a
heap better in the last quarter, after some of those truck horses had
quit!”

“I’d hate to go back to the Second,” mused Bert.

“Gosh, you can find more things to worry about!” laughed the other.
“Last week you were afraid you were going to break a leg or something.
You’re the original calamity howler, Bert!”

Bert smiled. “I suppose it’s because I want so hard to make good this
year, Chick,” he answered apologetically.

“You’re going to, old scout, so buck up. Not that you’ve any right to
expect it, either. Most fellows don’t get a position nailed down until
their senior year.”

“You did. And so did Lowe.”

“Exceptions proving the rule, Bert. As for Jonas, I’ll say he played in
a good deal of luck last fall. If Peabody hadn’t gone bad on account of
studies and getting all worked up over the way Mac and the rest of the
Faculty nagged him there for a while Jonas would still be a sub, I’ll
bet. Mind you, Bert, I’m not saying he isn’t a good player when he gets
started, but no one would have discovered it if Dick had held his job.
Why, up to the Lorimer game or after Jonas was kicking his heels on the
bench more times than he was playing!”

“Yes, I guess there was some luck in that,” acknowledged Bert. “But
Jonas certainly filled Peabody’s place mighty nicely after he got it.
Who’s going to make left end position this fall, Chick?”

“Left end? Why, I guess Joe Tate’s pretty certain of it. Just as
certain as I am of right end.” Chick’s laugh suggested that there
wasn’t much doubt in his mind about that!

“Kruger was awfully good Saturday for the little while he played,” said
Bert.

“Oh, Dutch is good, too. One of the best. But I guess Joe’s got it
cinched. Where you’re going to see some surprises, though, before
Johnny has knocked the outfit into shape is between Joe and center.
Meecham won’t last at guard and I wouldn’t give an awful lot for Andy
Dozier’s chance at tackle. Unless I miss my guess Nat Wick will have
Meecham out of there inside of a fortnight.”

“But Dozier’s a crackajack, Chick! Why, last year--”

“All right, but what happened in the Kenly game? They ripped him to
pieces in just about twenty minutes, didn’t they?”

“I heard he was sick. Some one said he was up in Patten’s room for an
hour that morning and Lum and two or three others were dosing him with
everything from hair oil to Seidlitz powders! I remember myself that he
looked like the dickens just before lunch.”

“Funk, probably. I’ve seen fellows worse than he was before a big game.
They get over it by the time to start. Gosh, I’ve been sort of teetery
myself!”

“You! Bet it was something you’d eaten then,” jeered Bert. “You’ve got
about as much--as much whatever it is as a goat!”

“Is that so? I’ll have you understand that I’m a man of very
delicate--er--susceptibilities. Highly strung, nervous, you know.
Temperamental! That’s the old word I wanted.”

“Put your coat on and let’s get over to supper,” said Bert. “You’re
saying things that don’t mean anything!”

CHAPTER IV

THE MANAGER GIVES A PARTY

Coles Wistar’s room in Lykes, which he shared with Ted Ball, First Team
quarter-back, looked full to capacity when Chick and Bert arrived there
that Monday evening. Once inside, however, accommodations of a sort
could be discerned, and Chick crowded onto a bed and Bert squeezed in
between Anstruther and Tommy Parish on the window-seat. Coles Wistar
was Football Manager, and it was largely a football crowd which was
present. There were George Anstruther, familiarly “Judge,” and Billy
Pillsbury, assistant managers, Ted Ball, Hank Howard, Pete Ness, Jim
Galvin and Nip Storer, all of the Team. Tommy Parish was present
because Pill had brought him and no one had yet thrown him out. Homer
Johnson, who roomed with Captain Lowe, had brought Jonas’s regrets and
remained to partake of hospitality. These, with the host, Chick and
Bert, formed the party, a round dozen in all.

Lykes Hall, reserved for the Senior Class Students, held fewer rooms
than the other dormitories, but, fortunately for Coles’ party, they
were larger than the rooms in Haylow or Upton or Borden, the latter
the Freshman domicile. Number 5 was well-furnished and attractive, for
Coles had excellent taste in such matters. There was a refreshing lack
of school and college pennants on the walls, this style of decoration
being represented by a single Alton banner hung above the double
windows. There were a good many pictures, most of them etchings, of
which Coles was a modest collector, a few framed photographs and one
lone trophy on the walls. The latter, placed above a closet door, was
a wooden panel some three feet long with a black, sanded background
against which gilt letters startlingly announced “EASTBOUND TRAINS.” It
was a memento of Ted Ball’s unregenerate freshman days, and although it
had always grated against Coles’ artistic sensibilities he had never
been able to persuade Ted to remove it. Ted acknowledged that it might
be a jarring note in the decorative scheme, but he had annexed that
trophy under extremely difficult circumstances, braving arrest and,
possibly, penal servitude, and, although nowadays self-condemnatory in
his explanation of its presence here, he was secretly very proud of
it. Ted was a rather stocky, bright-eyed chap of eighteen, fun-loving
and extremely popular at Alton. He was equally brilliant at studies
and as a quarter-back, a shining example to his team-mates which,
unfortunately, not many emulated.

The particular host of the evening, Coles Wistar, was unlike his
room-mate in many ways. Coles was tall, with a thin face and lightish
hair, wore glasses and looked intellectual. He had spent a year at a
junior preparatory school near Boston before coming to Alton and had
managed to acquire the broad A and a Bostonese accent. You could always
make a hit with Coles by inferring that he came from the Hub, although
as matter of fact, he lived in a small village in New Hampshire. In
spite of one or two trifling affectations he was no fool and was an
unusually capable manager. Conversation, interrupted by the arrival of
Chick and Bert, gathered momentum again. Tommy Parish, it appeared,
had, in the terse phraseology of Hank Howard, been “shooting off his
mouth again.”

“Says the Team’s the rottenest he’s seen since he came here,” explained
Hank to Chick. “The silly ass doesn’t know a thing about football,
anyway, but you’d think, to hear him go on--”

“Pshaw,” began Chick, “why pay attention to that coot? He just likes
to hear himself--” But Tommy, even in the midst of Coles’ scathing
rejoinder, overheard and challenged Hank’s assertion.

“All wrong, Howard. I know a heap more about football than most of you
guys who play it, or try to. Why wouldn’t I? All you fellows learn
is how to look after your own positions. You’re on the inside looking
cross-eyes at your own jobs. I’m on the outside looking in at the whole
works. Now let me--”

“Muzzle him, somebody,” said Nip Storer.

“Tie a can to him,” advised Jim Galvin.

“Let the silly ass talk,” laughed Ted Ball. “Go on and tell ’em, Tommy.”

“Sure.” Tommy looked entirely composed, quite unaffected by hostility.
Any one well acquainted with him--Pill, for instance--would have known
that he was having a thoroughly good time. “Sure I’ll tell them. Howard
says I don’t know anything about football. All right. I say I know more
about it than he does.”

“Quit your kidding,” growled Hank.

“He may know more or less about playing tackle, but I’ll bet he can’t
answer three questions I can put to him.”

“What sort of questions?” demanded Hank suspiciously.

“Questions on football. Questions covered by the rules which you’re all
supposed to know from A to Z, whether you’re a tackle or an end or a
back.”

“Heck, I don’t pretend to have all the rules at my finger ends,”
protested Hank. “There are too many of them!”

“Shoot ’em, Tommy,” said Jim Galvin. “Go on, kid.”

“All right, but these are for Howard, mind. The rest of you keep out.
First, your side kicks, Howard. You are on-side. The opponent prepares
for a fair catch. You are nearer the ball than he is. What would happen
if you made the catch?”

“I’d get socked ten or fifteen yards, of course,” answered Hank, “for
interfering with a free catch.” He spoke doubtfully, though, suspecting
a snag.

“Hold on,” exclaimed Nip eagerly. “You said he was on-side!”

“Keep out, you!” Tommy warned. There were chuckles from some of the
others and Hank looked harassed.

“How could I be on-side, I’d like to know? Even if I was--”

“Second question,” interrupted Tommy. “Your side has the ball ten yards
from the opponent’s goal line and on the fourth down makes a forward
pass over the line. You receive the pass. You stand with one foot on
the end line, but the ball reaches you a yard inside the zone and you
complete the pass. What about it?”

Hank looked about for aid, but met only grinning countenances. “The
ball came down _inside_ the zone?” he asked cautiously.

“A yard inside. You have to reach well out for it.”

“If I catch it it’s all right,” said Hank. “You said I had my foot _on_
the end line, not _over_ it. Anyway, if the ball was inside--”

Ted’s chuckle unsettled him, and he scowled his annoyance. “Hang it, I
didn’t say I could answer all the catch questions you could think of!
Just the same, I’ll bet I’m right about that. Ain’t I, Ted?”

“Third question,” said Tommy inexorably.

“Oh, shut up! Answer your own fool questions!”

“Behave, Hank!” admonished Coles. “Put the question, Tommy.”

“You’re captain of your team, Howard, and the other side has the ball
between your fifteen and sixteen yards. One of your side is caught
holding and the umpire penalizes you fifteen yards. What would you do?”

“What down was it?” asked Hank, mazed. “I mean, who had the ball?”

“The opponent, on your fifteen and a half. One of your gang is caught
holding in the line and the ump socks you the penalty and puts the ball
forward fifteen yards from where it was put in play. You’re captain of
your team. Get it?”

“Sure, but what can I do? The ball still belongs to the other fellow,
doesn’t it?”

Several of the listeners were exchanging puzzled glances, while Hank’s
forehead was a network of wrinkles. Of the dozen there only Tommy and
Bert appeared serene, Tommy owlishly regarding his victim, Bert leaning
back against the window-sill wearing a faintly amused expression. “That
your answer?” inquired Tommy.

“Gosh, I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” fumed Hank. “If my
side had the ball, all right, but you say it hasn’t. What would you
expect me to do, anyhow? Sass the umpire?”

“Look here, Tommy,” broke in Jim Galvin, “I don’t get that any more
than Hank does. What’s the answer?”

“I’ll tell you in a sec. First, how many of the questions did Howard
answer correctly?”

“None, so far,” said Jim. “He doesn’t seem to have answered the last
one at all yet.”

“Wait a minute!” Hank protested. “What was wrong with the first answer?
He asked--”

“You could have caught the ball yourself, Hank, if you were on-side,”
said Ted. “Shut up a second. What’s the catch in the last one, Tommy?”

“Why,” Tommy replied sweetly, “if I’d been captain instead of Hank I’d
have protested the placing of the ball half a yard from the goal line!”

“Gee, that’s right!” exclaimed Chick. “It ought to have gone to the
one-yard line! Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

“Right as rain, old dear.”

“Oh, thunder,” growled Hank disgustedly, “no one’s expected to know all
the kinks! And, look here, you fellows, what was wrong with that one
about the forward-pass into the end zone? I was inside and the ball was
inside and I made the catch. I’ll bet I answered that one right!”

“No, you didn’t, Hank,” laughed Ted. “Tommy said you had one foot on
the line. Rules say you mustn’t do it, see? On or over, either one,
queers you, Hank.”

“That’s crazy! I’ll bet the rest of you didn’t know it, either! Gee,
I’d like to ask you guys a few!”

“Go ahead,” advised Pill. “Show ’em up, Hank.”

Hank looked grim for a moment, and it was plainly to be seen that he
was doing some hard thinking. Then, as expectant silence prolonged
itself, a slow grin overspread his face and he shook his head. “No
use,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t think of any!”

“Well, it looks to me as though Tommy had won his point,” said
Anstruther. “So it behooves us to listen respectfully to his pleasant
criticisms of the Team. Go ahead, Tommy, and say your piece.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’ve said it. I said this year’s team was the punkest
I’ve seen here, and I say it again.”

“Well, you’ve seen quite a few,” remarked Chick, with a wink at Bert.
“How many years have you been here now, anyway, Tommy? This your fourth
or fifth?”

“Third,” replied Tommy untroubledly amidst the laughter. “I saw last
year’s team and the team before that, and I’m seeing this thing you’ve
got here now, and I say it ain’t so good, fellows. Mind you, I’m saying
this for your benefit, not because I want to crab.”

“Oh, no, you never crab, Tommy!” said Pill.

“What,” asked Coles in a patient voice, “strikes you as being the
principal--ah--weakness?”

“The players,” replied Tommy promptly, and allowed himself a wicked
grin.

A howl of derision went up. Then Coles inquired with a pretense of vast
respect: “Are they all rotten, Tommy?”

“Oh, no, there are three or four that look pretty good.”

“Thank Heaven!” cried Ted. “We’ve got something to build on!”

Chick, however, demanded scoffingly: “Say, for the love of Pete, who
gave you any license to set yourself up as a critic, Tommy? You’re
nothing but a fat loafer, and you know it. Cramming the football rules
doesn’t make you a judge of the game, youngster.”

Perhaps it was the reference to a tendency toward obesity that got
under Tommy’s skin. In any case, his cheerful calm vanished and he
answered warmly: “If I’m fat, Burton, it’s not in my head! And it
doesn’t take a critic to see what a rotten game you’re playing, either!”

“Lay off that stuff, Tommy!” ordered Coles severely.

“So I’m fat-headed am I?” demanded Chick, reddening. “Say, you blamed
little fat rotter--” He thrust himself off the bed and took a step
toward the window-seat, but Ted interposed.

“Calm yourself, Chick. Tommy doesn’t count. Besides, he didn’t mean
what he said, did you, you crazy ape?”

“Sure, I did,” responded Tommy, once more master of his emotions. “He
_has_ got a swelled head and he _is_ playing rotten.”

“If you can’t act like a gentleman--” began Coles angrily.

“Oh, put him out,” called Nip Storer.

Chick, held in subjection by Ted’s capable hand--it’s difficult to
get to your feet when some one is pushing against your chest--glared
wrathfully at Tommy. Tommy returned his gaze without a qualm. After
all, reflected Bert, beside him, he didn’t lack courage!

“I really think you’d better beat it, Tommy,” advised Ted coldly. “You
are a pesky nuisance, anyway, and I don’t know who let you in.”

“Then he goes, too,” said Tommy, nodding at the irate Chick. “He hadn’t
any call to say I was fat!”

“So you are,” declared Chick hotly. “You’re a fat fool!”

“Move both members be allowed to withdraw,” said Jim Galvin, grinning
enjoyably.

“Seconded,” said Anstruther. “The secretary is directed to expunge the
remarks of both gentlemen--I mean rough-necks--from the records.”

“Forget it, you two,” advised Ted. “Mutual apologies are in order. How
about it, Tommy? If you want to stay, son, you’d better behave.”

“Do we get the apples?” asked Tommy soberly.

“Sure,” Ted answered amidst laughter.

“I apologize,” said Tommy. “Just the same--” But Bert’s elbow colliding
with his ribs interrupted his qualifying addenda.

“All right,” agreed Chick, restored to better humor. “He isn’t fat.
He’s merely plump.”

Tommy looked doubtful for a moment, but Coles pulled a box of apples
from under a bed and the doubt vanished. During the subsequent
half-hour Tommy was much too busy to indulge in what he termed
constructive criticism. No one counted the number of Northern Spies he
demolished, but it was considerable. Conversation proceeded briskly
but somewhat unintelligibly. In the middle of the feast “Dutch” Kruger
arrived, bearing a fat black case, and was hailed tumultuously. He
devoured two apples hastily, urged on by impatient watchers, and would
have started a third. But Jim Galvin deftly took the apple away from
him and substituted the black case. Dutch’s protests were drowned.
Good-naturedly he produced a shining saxophone.

“‘Football Blues,’ Dutch!”

“Aye! Attaboy, Dutch! I want to sing!”

“What time is it?” asked Dutch anxiously.

“Only nine. Lots of time, boy. Give us ‘The Football Blues.’”

Dutch grinned, nestled the mouthpiece against his lips and blew. At the
same time he began to pat the floor with his feet and sway from his
hips. The saxophone nodded and curveted. Most of the assemblage broke
into song, tapping the floor, too, swaying as Dutch swayed. Tommy, a
large red apple in one hand, his eyes staring fixedly, hypnotically at
the musician, heaved his plump shoulders ludicrously. From across the
hall came an agonized wail of “_Cut that out!_” which, however, failed
to make itself heard in Number 5. Up and down the corridor doors were
set open and in more than one room a toiler at his books gave over
toiling for the while and pursed his lips.

[Illustration: From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that
out!”]

The thing was a composition of Dutch’s own, words and music, and if
the rimes wouldn’t always bear inspection the tune was enough to make
you lenient. “The Football Blues” had made Dutch famous throughout
the school and he was much in demand. There were many verses, which
recounted the experiences of an ambitious youth essaying to play
football, but it was the chorus that made the hit. The saxophone wailed
and sobbed and yowled, Dutch’s eyes roamed from floor to ceiling,
ecstatically bright, and the crowd roared lustily from bodies that
swayed and shook.

    “They rolled me round in the mud and rain.
     When I riz to my feet and yelled with pain
     A big guy knocked me flat again!
     They kicked my face and punched my nose,
     They gouged my eyes and wrenched my toes
     And from my back tore all my clothes!
     The doctor came and said to me;
     ‘You’re as fine a wreck as ever I see!’
     They bore me off on a window blind,
     But they left a leg and an arm behind.
     I wrote to the coach from the hospital:
     ‘I’m going to live, but I’m far from well.
     If I don’t report, sir, please excuse,
     For I’ve got the Football Black-and-Blues,
     The Blues, the Blues, the Black-and-Blues,
     I’ve got the Football Black-and-Blues!’”

They had to have all the verses, which were numerous, and after they
were exhausted Dutch played other melodies and the concert continued
until Coles warned that it was nine-thirty and, grabbing another apple
or two, the guests went off. On the way to Upton, Chick, recalling his
grievance, observed disgustedly: “I don’t see why Coles had to have
that pesky nuisance there. He’s the freshest kid in school. Gosh, some
one ought to turn him over and give him a good whaling!”

“Tommy Parish? Yes, he is trying. He seems to love to start an argument
and get every one peeved. Funny chap.”

“Funny? He’s crazy! The next time he gets fresh with me I’ll slap his
pudgy face, no matter where it is.”

“Well, I guess you’d always find it in about the same place,” said
Bert.

CHAPTER V

TOMMY MAKES A PREDICTION

Bert went to the training table with the more important members of the
squad on Wednesday, and, contrary to expectation, Mr. McFadden, Second
Team coach, gathered his charges together on Friday and started to whip
them into shape. While Bert had not actually feared being released to
the Scrub, he nevertheless experienced some relief when Mr. McFadden
began operations without him. The removal of the Scrub players from
the big squad made quite a difference about the First Team gridiron
and practice on Friday seemed more methodical. Bert had a long try-out
at half-back during the scrimmage and managed to show speed and clean
handling of the ball. But the plays used against the first-string
fellows were not of the sort calculated to advantage a light back, no
matter how fast, and Bert had small success when carrying the ball.
Fitz Savell, who played inside half, did much better, and after work
was over Bert tried in vain to believe that he had made an impression
on Coach Cade.

Saturday Banning High School came and presented a light but snappy
opposition. In the first half the ball was seldom far out of Alton
territory, for Banning had developed a clever passing game last
season, by which she had scored twice on the Gray-and-Gold, and hadn’t
forgotten how to use it this fall. She had, too, a punter who managed
to get some five yards more than Nip Storer, who did the kicking in
the first half, and as a result of punts and passes Alton was placed
on the defensive early and kept there most of the time. Banning failed
to score, however, although a difference of a few inches would have
converted a failure into a field-goal in the second period.

When the last half began Coach Cade used his second-string players
extensively; Kruger and Thomas and Wick at the left of center, Tifton
in Captain Lowe’s place, Lovell at quarter, Savell and Keys in the
half-back positions. Since the first-string men hadn’t been able to
more than hold the enemy in the first half, there were those among the
audience who censured the coach’s move. But Johnny had his own notions,
and he seldom bothered about what the School thought of his methods.
Here was an enemy strong enough to offer real opposition and yet of
slight importance as a rival. Usually the early season opponents were
unable to provide more than good practice for Alton; were, of course,
selected for that reason. But Banning, partly because of having held
over some seven or eight of last fall’s players, was well advanced,
while Alton, for some reason not so easily determined, was fully a
week behind normal development, and what had been looked on as an easy
contest had assumed the aspects of a real struggle.

Coach Cade might have worked his best players through three periods and
made victory more probable, but he chose to risk defeat in order to
give the substitutes a taste of real battle. Since all the first-choice
men had played through to the whistle in the first half, they could
not be counted on for later aid, and Johnny must needs place full
dependence on his lesser heroes. When the third period started he still
had Patten at center, Haines at right tackle, Chick Burton at right
end, Ted Ball at quarter and Galvin at full-back, all members of the
Old Guard, but one by one they retired until by the time the second
half was five minutes along second- and third-string players held all
the positions. Since Banning was still using or could call on every man
who had begun the battle, the odds looked heavily in her favor. But
the Alton substitutes were old hands at the game and were not to be
dismayed by a high school team, especially a team against which several
of them had played last year and defeated, and Bus Lovell, who had
taken Ted Ball’s place, set about his task with fire and enthusiasm.
After Banning had kicked off and Larry Keys had run the ball back
nearly twelve yards, Bus began sending Couch back to punting position
and running his plays from that formation. Savell and Keys made good
gains outside the tackles and twice Couch tore off fair yardage on wide
runs. He was a heavy chap and hard to stop, and usually added two or
three strides to his progress after he was tackled. Alton reached the
middle of the field without yielding the ball, crossing the center-line
finally on a forward pass from Couch to Dutch Kruger that was good for
nine yards.

The stand cheered incessantly, wrought to quite a pitch of excitement,
and demanded a score. But Keys fumbled a pass and Banning fell on the
ball on her forty-seven and the tide of battle flowed the other way
until Alton was back on her twenty-eight. There she twice stopped
Banning’s punches at the line and knocked down a forward-pass. Banning
sent her place-kicker back to the thirty-nine yards and, with what
breeze there was blowing straight from behind her, looked suddenly
dangerous. However, one fumble leads to another, and the ball was
never kicked. Whether the fault was the Banning center’s or the
quarter-back’s is immaterial. The pigskin struck the ground before the
holder could get his hands on it. After that it was juggled just long
enough for Gus Thomas to upset his opponent and arrive on the scene.
Thereupon the quarter-back did the sensible thing. He laid himself flat
and snuggled the ball to him fondly.

Thirty seconds later Lovell caught a punt on his five-yard line and the
Gray-and-Gold started once more toward the distant goal.

If there was one man who stood out above the others in the ensuing
march it was Larry Keys, playing right half-back. Only once did he fail
to gain when the ball was given to him. He had weight and speed and a
nice discrimination in the matter of choosing his outlets. On a play
from kick formation in which two backs faked an attack on the right of
the line and Larry went outside tackle on the left, with right tackle
swinging out and going ahead as interference, he twice made advances of
more than ten yards and netted shorter distances until Banning solved
the play and stopped it. However, once inside the visitor’s forty
yards, Alton’s advance slowed and staggered, and when two slams at the
wings had failed and a forward-pass had grounded, Couch punted from the
forty-six.

By that time the fourth quarter was well along and Alton had the light
wind behind her. The Banning quarter misjudged the kick, touched the
ball without catching it and chased it back toward the goal-line,
closely pursued by Dutch Kruger. Pigskin, quarter-back and Dutch
arrived simultaneously at the last streak of lime, and when the whistle
had blown Alton had scored two points on a safety. The Gray-and-Gold
cohorts cheered and the game paused while the Banning captain made an
impassioned plea for a touchback. In the end he was persuaded that the
official’s verdict was just and the battle waged again. That incident,
however, while it gave Alton a score, resulted disastrously in the
end. Banning, it seemed, needed but that filip of hard-luck to start
her going with a new impetus. Three fresh players were hurried in and
Banning bounded away from her thirty-yard line like a runner from his
mark. She used one or two new plays that puzzled the adversary until
the middle of the field was reached. There a long forward-pass, almost
successful, led Alton to playing her backs deeper. Banning switched
promptly to short passes and gained her distance on two such, making
Alton’s thirty-eight yards. Another overhead attempt grounded and
Banning tried the left end and got four on a wide run. Inside the
thirty-five-yard line she tried a sweep to the left which, while it
centered the ball, lost about a yard. On fourth down she staged a
placement kick but didn’t carry it out. Full-back took the pass and
went through inside Hank Howard for all but a foot of the required
distance. After the gain had been measured Alton was awarded the
pigskin.

With something less than two minutes left, the stand breathed loudly
with relief and Coach Cade hustled an assortment of substitutes on.
Among these was an entire new backfield: Riding as quarter, Tyron and
Parkhurst as halfs and Franklin as full. Obeying instructions, Riding
shot Tyron at the Banning left tackle on first down and got two yards.
A second attempt, however, yielded nothing, and Riding dropped back to
his sixteen yards to punt. Thus far Alton’s line had held against all
assaults of the enemy during like operations, but this time Banning
had her eyes on that goal that loomed so close and put everything into
a desperate charge that tore a gaping hole in the right of the Alton
line. Riding received a pass that was a bit too low, straightened,
turned the ball and started his swing. After that there was much
confusion, a confusion of seething forms about a loose ball, for Riding
had kicked the pigskin squarely into the body of a charging enemy!

When the whistle blew a Banning player, the undermost of a pile of
several, had the ball, and a bare two inches of its scarred surface
overlapped Alton’s five-yard line. In the stand some four hundred
youths stood and frenziedly implored their warriors to “_Hold, Alton!_”
But Banning had tasted blood, had liked it and wanted more. Two new
linemen were sent galloping on, and then, with less than sixty seconds
of playing time remaining, Banning High School took revenge for several
years of drubbing at the hands of Alton Academy. It required the full
four downs to put that ball over, but over it went finally, while
the timekeeper’s watch ticked off the last few seconds, over on a
last frenzied surge at the very center of the Gray-and-Gold line from
the two yards, with the back who carried the pigskin hurtling his way
to victory over the shoulders of the defenders. Little cared Banning
that she missed the try-for-point. She had won, 6 to 2. That was glory
enough!

The School was disappointed and showed the fact. The applause that
almost invariably greeted the players as they sought their table in
dining hall was lacking this Saturday evening; or was so faint it
merely emphasized the absence of the customary demonstration. The game
caused a good deal of discussion, and the consensus of opinion was to
the effect that the defeat had been unnecessary and that Coach Cade
had, in the popular phraseology, pulled a boner. Of course there were
those who stood up for Johnny, and among them was Tommy Parish. As
always, Tommy’s views met opposition, and, as always, that fact merely
spurred him to more brazen assertions. Tommy had the misfortune--for so
it was considered at Alton--to sit at a table accommodating not only a
number of fellow students but a member of the Faculty, one Mr. Peghorn,
who instructed the Junior and Senior classes in physics. However, it
must be said that Tommy allowed “Peg’s” presence to “cramp his style”
very little, while--and this is a secret between us--Mr. Peghorn,
who had taught boys for so long that his enthusiasm was fast wearing
thin, seldom lifted his head from above his plate save when Tommy was
going well. Then he occasionally darted a frowning glance toward that
youth that might have silenced another but that left Tommy untroubled.
Perhaps Tommy somehow knew that under that frown, or behind it, Mr.
Peghorn was secretly sympathetic. When one has listened to conventional
and uninspired table-talk for many years even a jarring note is a
relief.

“Trouble with you guys,” declared Tommy in that aggravating, assured
manner of his, “is that you can’t see beyond the end of your noses.
You get sore because Coach doesn’t win a game that he doesn’t care two
cents about.”

“A game’s a game,” said the freckle-faced boy across the table.

“And a slice of beef’s a slice of beef,” retorted Tommy, “but I noticed
you were mighty careful not to pick out a little one just now!”

“Just the same,” said another fellow above the chuckles rewarding
Tommy’s sally, “it doesn’t look very well, Tommy, to play two games,
as we’ve done, and not win either of them. I say it wouldn’t have hurt
Johnny to have kept his best men in and put the game on ice. Then he
could have tried out his subs if there was time.”

“Put the game on ice!” exclaimed Tommy. “_Comment?_ Those dumb-bells
couldn’t put anything on ice, Harry. They’re so dead on their feet
you could put lilies in their hands without waking ’em! Why, the only
chance Johnny had of winning to-day was to put in his third-string
players. If he had played his second-string all through he might have
tied, but it would have taken the third-string bunch to win!”

“Oh, don’t talk like a baked apple,” protested some one farther along.
“Do you mean to say that Banning could have pushed across for that
touchdown if the regulars had been in the line-up? If you do you’re
cuckoo!”

“_Tres bien, cher ivorie solide._ What happened in the first half when
those mighty heroes held forth? They pushed Banning all over the field,
_non_? And scored at will, did they not? Listen, you big boob; if the
first-string guys had played through the game the score would have been
something like twenty-five to a goose-egg. We wouldn’t have had even
those miserable _deux_ points!”

This heresy brought forth, a groan of derision. “Tommy, you’re a nut!”
proclaimed Harry. “You just like to hear yourself talk. I suppose
Lovell is a better quarter-back than Ted Ball and Tifton is a better
guard than Jonas Lowe! You’re all wet, son!”

“Well,” answered Tommy judicially, “Jonah Slow may still have a slight
edge on Tif, but Tif’s coming along pretty fast. As for Ted Ball, he’s
the best quarter we’ve had in three years, but you’ve got to have more
than a quarter-back to make a football team. Even without Ball the
backfield that played in the last half was far better than the first
combination. Look at Savell! There’s a clever lad for you. If he isn’t
on the ‘big time’ before I’m much older I’ll eat my hat.”

“I don’t believe you’ve got one,” said Harry. “Savell was all right,
but Storer’s a heap better. Say, if the second and third bunch are so
much better, why doesn’t Johnny scrap the first and put them in?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did eventually,” answered Tommy, helping
himself to half of a neighbor’s biscuit. “After to-day’s game he’s
probably thinking of it more than ever. Of course he’s likely to keep
three or four of the first-string crowd. They aren’t all rotten. Ted
Ball and Billy Haines and Joe Tate and, of course, Captain Jonas, would
probably stick. Maybe another.”

“You’re a crazy coot, Tommy!”

“_Mille remerciements._ I may be crazy, but I’m not foolish. You
fellows don’t know a thing about football, and I do. That’s why you
find my remarks incomprehensible.”

“Where’d you get your football knowledge?” jeered one of his audience.
“Taking tickets?”

“That’s all right, you piece of cheese rind,” replied Tommy sweetly.
“Perhaps between the lot of you you can tell me who the lad is that’ll
be doing most of the scoring for us by the end of the season. Perhaps
you can, and then _encore_ perhaps you can’t!”

“Nip Storer.”

“Jim Galvin.”

“He doesn’t have to be on the first line-up just now,” said Tommy.

“He means Fitz Savell,” suggested one.

Tommy shook his head sadly. “I didn’t think you could,” he murmured.

“Well, who is he?” demanded Harry, with a wink for the table at large.
“Any one we’ve ever heard of?”

“I can’t say whether you’ve heard of him, Harry. His name’s Hollins.”

“Hollins! You mean Bert Hollins?”

“_Absolument._”

“Why, that fellow hasn’t--isn’t--”

“I never said he was,” answered Tommy, pushing back his chair and
rising superbly for one of his build. “I said he was going to be. Now
don’t chew the rag about it, pie-face, for it’s something you know
nothing of. Just remember what I’ve told you and wait for developments.
_Bon soir, vous pauvre noix!_”

CHAPTER VI

MOONEY’S

If the result of the Banning game disappointed the spectators it quite
as certainly disgruntled most of the players, the first-string fellows
particularly. “Why in heck,” was the oft repeated query, “didn’t he
keep us in and let us score on those dubs? Why, we were just getting
to know them!” The explanation that Coach Cade had desired to provide
experience for the substitutes, at the cost of an unimportant contest,
was accepted but failed to satisfy. To be beaten by Banning High School
was viewed rather like a slap in the face!

None of the regulars was any sorer than Chick Burton that evening,
and on the way across the campus after supper he did a good deal of
grousing, with Bert as a more or less sympathetic audience. Bert
appreciated Chick’s view-point, but he considered that Mr. Cade
had taken an allowable risk, and he tried to point that out to his
companion. But Chick refused to see it.

“Johnny’s here to help us win games,” he asserted stoutly, “and not
to make us look like a bunch of dubs. If he wants to give the subs
experience let him do it in practice. We’ll give ’em enough experience!
If we can’t, all he’s got to do is run ’em up against the Second. It’s
all right to save your good men when there’s an important game coming,
but we play New Falmouth next week and there’s six days between, and
New Falmouth isn’t anything to get worried about, anyway. Why, any one
of us regulars could have played four periods to-day and never turned
a hair! I was just getting good when he yanked me out. Hang it, after
the way those beggars ran us around in the first half, we all wanted a
chance to sock it to ’em. Lum Patten was as mad as a hyena about it. I
thought sure Johnny would hear him kicking. Rather wish he had, too.
Say, I’ll bet the Flubdub will have something to say next week!”

The Flubdub was the popular name for the school weekly. Its official
title was The Doubleay, but no one called it that.

“Well,” remarked Bert, “you had more luck than I had, Chick, even if
you didn’t play the game through. I just sat on the bench and watched
you fellows get trampled on.”

“Trampled on nothing!” said Chick indignantly. “You didn’t see me get
trampled on. Nor the others, either. Suppose Banning did hold us for
two periods. We were due for a come-back in the last half, and a hard
one, too! Where do you get that trampled-on stuff?”

“I take it back,” laughed Bert. “Just the same, Chick, Banning
out-played you, and you know it.”

“Why not? Johnny sends us in there with instructions to buck their line
and not do any kicking unless forced to. You heard the dope he handed
us. Said Banning was fast and shifty and our best bet was to hammer the
guards and tackles. Well, he didn’t know what he was talking about.
Those fellows had a corking good line from end to end and slammed us
back every time we tried to smash it. That guy who played opposite
to me was a regular man-killer! And look at the pair of guards she
had! Looks to me like Johnny had it in for us and wanted to see us
knocked cold! Maybe we were slow, like he told us afterwards, but I’ll
tell the world that it would have taken a mighty good defense to stop
that passing game of theirs to-day. We didn’t know how to meet it,
and that’s the truth of it; and I say that wasn’t our fault. Johnny
should have prepared us for that crazy sort of stuff before we went
in. Banning would heave the ball thirty or forty yards and we’d play
back to meet it, and then she’d toss one over the middle and make it
good for five or six or maybe eight yards before our backs could get in
on it. Maybe we were slow, but we were fast enough to rub those guys’
faces in the mud if we’d been allowed to stay in! That’s what gets my
goat, hang it all: putting in a bunch of measly scrubs just when things
got interesting and we were all set to go!”

“Fitz Savell played a nice game,” observed Bert rather wistfully.

“Oh, sure, but the rest of them just flubbed around. Look at the chance
they had to score when they were down near the thirty that time! And
look at the play Bus Lovell called for! Say, who was in charge after
Jonas quit, anyway?”

“Bus, I think.”

Chick snorted. “I’ll bet he was. Any one else would have made him
change that play down there. Just handed them the very thing they were
looking for! Played right into their hands! Why, a child could have
seen that they were all set for that forward-pass!”

“I fancy the trouble,” said Bert, “was that Bus didn’t have much of a
choice of plays.”

“What of it? He needn’t have thrown the ball away. Savell had been
gaining right along, making his own holes, pretty near. Why didn’t Bus
shift his line over and use a double-pass that would have given Fitz a
chance to slip around tackle on the short side? We only needed about
five yards. Anyway, suppose he didn’t have the plays? Whose fault is
that? Johnny ought to have given us enough to lick those guys to a
frazzle. Beaten by a high school team! Blamed nonsense!”

Chick relapsed into injured silence and they crossed West street, a
block from the campus, and turned to the right in the direction of
Mooney’s. Bert hadn’t much desire to spend the evening in a billiard
parlor, but Chick had pleaded hard and he had yielded. “You don’t have
to play,” asserted Chick. “I just want you to come along and see me
trim that Devore guy. He’s got a licking coming to him after what he
did to me Wednesday!”

“I’m to be the cheering section, eh?” Bert had asked. “Well, all right.
But understand, Chick, that this has got to be an early party. Ten
o’clock sees this little golden head on the pillow, and that means
quitting the festivities by nine-thirty.”

“Sure, that’s all right. I’ll win two straight to-night. I’m in the
mood to conquer, old scout! They wouldn’t let me lick Banning and I’ve
just got to beat up some one!”

Mooney’s wasn’t the disreputable place that Bert pleased to pretend.
It was large, well-appointed and clean. There were fourteen tables on
the long floor and when the two boys entered every one was in use. Bert
hoped for an instant that the fact would turn his companion back toward
the door and spare him some two hours of unenthusiastic watching in the
smoke-filled hall. But Chick was undisturbed, and led the way along
the aisle to where, near the back of the room, two youths were playing
bottle pool. They were probably about twenty-three or four years of
age, one a lanky fellow with long freckled face, the other a smaller,
neatly-built chap with a face that might have been very good-looking
if the features had been less peaked. He had rather colorless, small
eyes, set too close together, and Bert took a mild dislike to Mr.
Devore long before he discovered, as he did subsequently, that the
gentleman’s first name was Lester. The game ended abruptly and Bert
shook hands with the two. The freckle-faced fellow, who was introduced
as Joe Mills, proposed a four-handed game, but neither Chick nor Devore
seconded the proposal, and Bert flatly declined. Joe wandered off
presently and Bert saw him no more that evening.

Chick explained to Devore at some length what he intended to do to that
gentleman, and Devore pretended much concern, turning, however, to
wink at Bert, who had established himself in one of the chairs ranged
along the wall. Chick had quite recovered his spirits and was even in
a rather expansive mood. The game started and Bert made himself as
comfortable as he could and looked on. Devore was a presentable chap,
neatly dressed in inexpensive clothes of the sort usually labeled
“Varsity” or “Campus” and which are universally taboo at colleges. He
wore a ring on one hand which might--or might not--have been a diamond,
smoked cigarettes incessantly and talked cheerfully in a pleasant
voice, using much slang, and an occasional oath when luck went against
him. Luck didn’t do that very often, however, for Devore was a good
player, using his cue with unconscious dexterity and seeming never
in doubt as to what to do. Evidently he was no stranger to Mooney’s,
for he exchanged salutations frequently. If Chick had not been a good
player, too, that first game of fifty points wouldn’t have lasted long.
As it was, however, it stretched out interminably, or so it seemed
to Bert; although he did find interest in the last few minutes, when
Devore overcame Chick’s lead of eight and ran out the game.

Chick took the defeat smilingly, but Bert could see that he was piqued.
“I’ll play you for double this time, Les,” he announced. Devore
appeared to hesitate, but he finally nodded. “You’re on, Buddie,” he
agreed.

Chick won the second game rather handily. Apparently his adversary was
not as steady a performer as Bert had believed him, for several times
he fell down on shots that were not particularly difficult. His good
humor, however, never deserted him; wherein he differed from Chick.
Chick could be as gay as a lark while winning, but if Devore got the
lead his banter ceased and he looked on in frowning, anxious silence.
A miscue or a stroke of ill-luck invariably produced a word or gesture
of annoyance from Chick. At such times Devore was loudly sympathetic.

At the end of the second game Chick was again in high spirits. “Come on
now for the rubber,” he said. “What about it? Same stakes?”

“You must want to ruin me,” laughed Devore. “I’m no Millionaire Kid. I
have to work for my coin. Still, I’d like to quit even, so I’ll go you,
Buddie.”

“You haven’t got time, Chick,” Bert protested. “It’s four after nine
now.”

“Oh, we’ll hurry it up this time,” Chick laughed. “It won’t take me
long to beat this easy-mark!”

“Remember what you agreed,” said Bert. “Nine-thirty was the limit.”

“Make it twenty-five points,” Devore suggested. “I’m agreeable. I want
to hit the hay early myself to-night.”

Chick consented, although not very cheerfully, and the third game
began. Devore won the break and cleaned the table very neatly, winning
grudging admiration from Bert. Chick went well for a while, only to
miss an easy shot, and Devore pocketed the remaining balls. After the
next break, Devore, with the game practically won, scratched, and Chick
ran seven before over-anxiety caused his Waterloo. Bert had never seen
Chick so concerned about the winning of a game of pool as he was now,
and he wondered. The miss had put him in a black temper, and he sat
slumped in a chair while Devore expertly and almost apologetically ran
out, taking the winning ball on a double bank.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” exclaimed Chick impetuously. “I’ll play you
just one more of twenty-five for two dollars! Come on now if you’re a
sportsman! What do you say?”

Devore shook his head. “No, sir, I’m through, Buddy. I know when I’m
well off, see? I had luck that time, but--”

“Afraid, eh?” asked Chick. “I’ll say you had luck! Come on, don’t be a
quitter!”

Devore smiled but shook his head again, returning his cue to its locked
box. “Honest, I’ve got to beat it, Chick. So have you. I’ll play you
again Monday night. How’s that?”

“What time is it, anyway?” Chick looked at his watch and shrugged
disappointedly. “Oh, all right. Monday night then. Better bring your
horse-shoe along again, old man, for I’m going to show you some real
pool! Let’s settle up.”

“Outside,” said Devore. “Mooney’s sort of strict, and what he don’t
know won’t hurt him.”

Bert followed them down the hall, dodging the butts of busy cues,
through an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke. Chick stopped at a
desk and paid his score and then they were outside and Bert drew a long
breath of the cool air with vast relief. Chick peeled a dollar from
a small wad of bills and Devore carelessly thrust it into a pocket.
“Well, good night, you guys,” he said. “See you Monday night, Chick?”

“You bet you will, you lucky coot,” replied Chick. “Good night!” Bert
set a fast pace toward school, for it was well after the half-hour, and
since the sidewalks were still crowded with the usual Saturday night
throng, progress was slow and conversation difficult. It wasn’t until
they had reached the comparatively empty stretch of State street that
Chick voiced his disgust. “If you hadn’t been so keen on getting back,”
he declared, “I’d have beaten that game. You don’t get a chance when
you’re playing only twenty-five points and the other fellow has the
first break. I’d be three dollars to the good instead of a dollar out;
nearly two dollars out counting what I had to pay at the desk!”

“Mean to say you were playing for two dollars a game?” asked Bert
incredulously.

“Sure; that is the last two games. We only had a dollar on the first.
We never played for more than a dollar before, and I guess Les was sort
of scared. Gosh, that fellow had luck to-night, didn’t he?”

“He seems to be a pretty clever lad at it,” said Bert.

“Oh, he plays a good game, all right,” assented Chick, “but he makes
some pretty punk shots, too; generally when he can’t afford it. In the
pinches he gets kind of nervous, I guess.”

“Do you usually beat him?” asked Bert.

“Yes. Well, anyway, I win oftener than he does. He has his lucky
nights, like to-night.”

“Seems to me, Chick, two dollars is a good deal to play for, supposing
you’ve got to bet at all. What’s the idea? You and I always have plenty
of sport with nothing up except the price of the game.”

“Oh, well, a fellow plays better if he has a bet up. He started it.
Offered to bet me a quarter one night and I took him up. Then I came
back at him with fifty cents and then, first thing I knew, we were
playing for a dollar. Well, if he can stand it I can, I guess. Bet you
he doesn’t make more than twenty a week.”

“I wish you’d cut out the betting,” said Bert. “You can have just as
good fun, Chick. Besides, if Faculty heard about it--”

“Pshaw, don’t be a Woeful Willy, Bert! How the dickens would Faculty
get hep? Besides, there’s no school rule saying you mustn’t bet a
dollar on a game of pool, is there?”

“No, I never heard of one,” owned Bert, “but Faculty has a way of
making rules at short order. Mind shaking a leg a bit? It’s twelve
minutes to ten. If I were you, Chick, I’d play less pool, anyway. Two
or three nights a week is sort of overdoing it, isn’t it?”

“Why is it? Might as well be doing that as sitting around in the room.
There’s nothing wrong with Mooney’s place, is there? You saw what it
was like to-night.”

“N-no, there’s nothing wrong with it, I guess; except that a lot of
betting goes on there and the crowd isn’t exactly the sort a fellow
would pick out to spend an evening with.”

“Pshaw, the crowd’s all right. Just because they don’t happen to be our
sort doesn’t mean anything, Bert. Take Les Devore, now. Of course he
isn’t a college fellow, and all that sort of tosh, but he’s a mighty
decent guy, just the same. Works hard for his living and gets his fun
playing a little pool.”

“What does he work at?” asked Bert.

“Railroading. He’s something over at the freight yard, I believe. Why?”

“I just wondered. His hands don’t look as if he did an awful lot of
work, Chick.”

“Great Scott, I didn’t say he handled freight! He probably works in the
office. Some sort of a clerk, I dare say. I guess you don’t like him,
from the way you talk.”

“I don’t know enough about him,” replied the other evasively. “I’ll own
up, though, old chap, that I wasn’t strangely attracted to him this
evening.”

“What was wrong with him?” demanded Chick irritably.

“For one thing, he plays too good a game of pool. I wouldn’t be
surprised, Chick, if you found out that playing pool is Devore’s real
work.”

“Forget it! He doesn’t play as well as I do, and you can’t say that I
make a--a profession of it!”

“He doesn’t yet,” answered Bert as he followed his companion up the
steps of the dormitory, “but I have a hunch that that bird is going to
improve fast!”

“Is, eh? Well, he isn’t going to improve any faster than I do,” replied
Chick, with a comfortable laugh. “Come along Monday night and watch me
pick the pin feathers off him!”

“No, thanks, I’ve had all the smoke I can stand for six months. Wonder
why it’s against the law to ventilate a billiard hall!”

“Gosh, you’re getting as pernickety as an old maid!” jeered Chick.
“Tobacco smoke’s good for you, old scout. Keeps the moths out of your
system, and all that.”

“What do you think I am?” laughed Bert. “A parlor rug?”

Bert beat the clock and was in bed when its hands pointed to ten.
Chick undressed more leisurely, reviewing his and his adversary’s
performance, and was still solicitously slicking down his hair when the
fateful hour was announced by the booming of the church bell across the
campus.

“Orders,” remarked Bert, good-naturedly ironic, “don’t mean anything in
your life, do they, Charles?”

“Orders? Oh, that! Listen to me, son. Johnny’s got to square himself
for what he did this afternoon before I put myself out obeying any
orders of his. Say, I hope to goodness the Flubdub hauls him over the
coals for losing that game!”

“He should worry,” yawned Bert.

CHAPTER VII

BERT GOES THROUGH

The Flubdub did about what Chick wanted it to do. That is to say,
it didn’t haul Coach Cade over the coals, as Chick put it, but it
certainly expressed its disapproval in unmistakable terms in an
editorial article which ran all down the first column and turned the
next. It wasn’t rude, of course; the Flubdub was never that; but it let
the world know that it was disappointed in the outcome of the Banning
game, that in its judgment a blunder had been made and that Coach Cade
had made it. Then it intimated that possibly the coach had acted under
a misapprehension, and, in case he had, it proceeded to set him right.

“While it is true,” remarked the paper, “that the Kenly Hall game is
the important event on the schedule, and the one by which we measure
the Team’s success, yet there must be a limit to the sacrifices we
are willing to make to insure a triumph over the ancient rival. We
are not satisfied to witness a series of early season defeats even
if assured that a final victory awaits us. Nor do we consider that
the loss of early season contests can have sufficient bearing on the
ultimate success of the Team to warrant them. We are better pleased
with a policy which accepts each succeeding adversary as a worthy
foe and not merely as a stepping-stone to a distant goal. While the
danger of over-confidence is recognized, yet there is also an equal
peril in lack of confidence. A team which is frequently beaten may
easily develop an inferiority complex. A firm belief in its ability to
conquer is a valuable asset for any team, and to convince a team that
it possesses that ability it must be allowed to win an occasional game.
Another aspect also deserves consideration. A reputation for success
in athletics is a magnet which draws many students to a school, and
in this age of publicity such a reputation must be earned, not merely
claimed. While we of Alton may be satisfied to consider as successful
a football team which defeats Kenly Hall in November, irrespective of
how many games it has lost beforehand, others will judge that team by
its season’s record, and if that record includes several defeats by
minor adversaries our satisfaction will not prevent those others from
considering our Football Team a failure. And the Doubleay believes with
them that such a team is a failure, for there is no gainsaying that the
victor’s laurels must go to the team which wins often and decisively,
and not to the team which merely conquers once. All of which is
respectfully submitted for the consideration of those in authority.”

“That ought to hold Johnny awhile,” chuckled Chick after a perusal of
the editorial. “And Homer’s dead right about it, too.”

“Homer Johnson?” asked Bert. “Think he wrote it?”

“Of course he did. It sounds just like him. Homer waves a wicked quill!”

“Well,” said Bert slowly, “I’m not so sure that Johnny deserves that
lecture. Being a football coach can’t be exactly a bed of roses, Chick,
and it seems to me the least the School can do is refrain from butting
in and making his job harder than it is. They say Johnny’s going to
quit this fall, anyway, and you know blame well he isn’t going to pass
up any chances to make his last season a successful one. He will bring
off a win over Kenly if it’s humanly possible.”

“And that’s just the point,” replied Chick, slapping the paper for
emphasis. “He’s working for a win over Kenly and letting us get licked
all along the line! That’s what Homer’s kicking about; and what we’re
all kicking about. A Kenly victory is big stuff, and all that, and we
sure want it, but, hang it, Bert, we don’t want to be licked by every
two-bit school we take on. And high schools, too!”

“You mustn’t speak so disrespectfully of high schools, Charles. There
are plenty of them that could lick us to a standstill. Besides, you
exaggerate. Only one high school has beaten us so far.”

“Well, Southport isn’t much better,” grunted Chick. “And we play New
Falmouth High day after to-morrow, and there’s no knowing what Johnny
Cade has doped up for us!”

“I guess we won’t have much trouble with her.”

“We won’t if we’re allowed to trim her,” said Chick. “But if Johnny
tries another of his funny tricks, like starting with the subs, there’s
no telling. The first year I was here New Falmouth came mighty near
beating us. I forget the score, but I think it was 7 to 6. We kicked a
goal after touchdown and she didn’t.”

“I wish Johnny would let me in Saturday,” sighed Bert.

“Maybe he will. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left the first-string at
home and just took the subs along!”

“You seem to have it in for Johnny rather hard, Chick.”

“Oh, well, he made me mad last week. Yanked me out just when I was
learning how to handle that big Banning tackle. Johnny is all right
when he doesn’t get foolish. As for his quitting this fall, I don’t
believe there’s anything in that, Bert. Why would he? He gets a mighty
good salary here and I don’t believe any other school is after him.”

“As I understand it,” responded Bert, “he’s going to give up coaching.
He has a law practice somewhere, I think, and he wants to get busy with
it. I suppose football coaching doesn’t lead to anything. How much
salary does he draw, Chick?”

“Five, or so I’ve heard. I guess no one knows but he and the Faculty.”

“Five thousand! Great Peter! Why, that’s real money!”

“I’ll say so; for only three months in the year! Still, I guess it
keeps a fellow from doing much of anything else. Take a law business.
What good’s a lawyer if he isn’t around when you want him, eh? Of
course, if a coach gets big money, like some of them, they don’t have
to worry about any other business, I suppose. Some of the college
coaches draw down ten thousand.”

“Gosh!” breathed Bert. “Guess I’ll be a football coach when I get
through eddicatin’ myself.”

“You’ll have to learn to play first,” chuckled the other.

“I suppose so, but I don’t see how I’m to do that if Johnny doesn’t use
me once in a while. I’m not so certain that I wouldn’t rather be on the
Scrub, Chick. You do get to play there, even if it’s only against you
dubs!”

“You’ll get your chance all right,” Chick answered. “Next year will be
your big year, old scout. Just hold your horses and do the best you
know how. You oughtn’t to kick, anyhow, Bert. You’ve made the Team and
won your letter already, and that’s more than some fellows do before
their senior year.”

“I know, but what’s it get me? I’ll trade that old letter any time for
a half-hour in a real game! I’m getting sort of tired of adorning that
unsympathetic bench and only getting into a scrimmage when every one
else has been used up.”

“‘He also serves,’ quoted Chick, ‘who only--’”

“Serve be blowed,” interrupted Bert shortly. “I want to play football!
Sitting and waiting isn’t so good. I’d like a little fun and a little
glory, Chick.”

“You’d have had it if I’d been elected,” said Chick.

“Whether I deserved it or not, eh?” laughed the other.

“That’s all right,” answered Chick, with dignity. “I’d have looked
after you. Where’s my French Comp?”

“You’ve got your elbow on it, unless my eyes deceive me. Speaking of
that obnoxious language, Chick, have you heard the new one Tommy Parish
got off the other day?”

“What’s that little fat shrimp kicking about now?” asked Chick,
opening his book under the light.

“Oh, this was just some of his French that he’s always springing. He
was over at practice; Monday, I guess; and when Pete Ness made that
nice run Tommy gets up and yells ‘_Garcon, allez vous en!_’”

“_Allez vous_-- What did he mean?”

“Well,” laughed Bert, “‘Attaboy’ was the way he translated it!”

“He’s a blamed fool,” growled Chick. “They ought to keep him away from
practice. He’s always making a nuisance of himself with his smart-aleck
stuff. Next time he razzes me I’ll climb into the stand and cuff his
ears!”

“Oh, he’s harmless,” said Bert. “Trying sometimes, I’ll admit, but a
distinct addition to the joy of nations. Shut up and let me work out
this plaguy problem.

    “‘I like readin’ an’ jographee,
     Writin’, too, but, hully gee,
     Stuff they calls arithmatic
     ’S enough to make a feller sick!’”

“Wish you had this French to do,” moaned the other.

Presumably Mr. Cade saw that editorial in the school paper, but if he
did he didn’t allow it to affect his policy in the least. On Saturday
he began sprinkling his first and second substitutes through the team
soon after the third period started. The score was then 14 to 10 in
Alton’s favor, New Falmouth having proved rather better than expected.
To be sure, the latter’s first score came as the result of a fumble
by Ness, but the youth who had recovered the ball on the home team’s
forty-three yards deserved his touchdown, for he skillfully eluded
three of the enemy and fairly snatched himself from the grasp of Hop
Meecham, who had made a gallant chase and who tackled just short of
the five-yard line. New Falmouth added a point to that touchdown and
subsequently dropped a goal from Alton’s twenty-eight yards.

Alton’s own scores came as the result of a considerably better offense
than she had shown heretofore. The backs worked well together and
the line was charged hard and fast. Galvin shot through for Alton’s
first score some six minutes after the kick-off and Nip Storer ran the
visitor’s left wing for the second just before the half ended. Nip
also kicked both goals. A third score almost resulted when, in the
second quarter, the New Falmouth quarter fumbled a punt and Chick fell
on it near the fifteen-yard line. Two attacks at the line, however,
gained but four yards and Ted Ball’s heave to Chick grounded. On a
kick formation Nip Storer threw straight across center, but Joe Tate
was not in position and the ball went to the enemy. Alton impressed
the spectators as at least thirty per cent better than New Falmouth,
even if results didn’t prove it. There was still something lacking
in Alton’s attack; perhaps several things; but the power appeared
to be there. The left of the line was weak and New Falmouth romped
through Meecham and Dozier several times. The latter, at tackle, was a
comparatively easy problem for the opposing backs. The balance of the
line showed well on defense, Lum Patten, at center, being an especially
bright spot. Joe Tate and Chick Burton were both fast under punts and
were generally on hand when the ball was caught. Chick, however, still
showed uncertainty in the matter of tackling, and more than once an
enemy wriggled away and made yardage after Chick reached him.

Mr. Cade started his substitutes in almost with the kick-off of the
second half, and before the third period was well along only four
regulars remained in the line-up. There was, of course, a murmur of
disapproval from the stand, but the game was so evidently Alton’s for
the taking that censure was light. For a period of perhaps five minutes
New Falmouth caused uneasiness in the home camp, for she took the ball
on steady rushing from her own forty-yard line to Alton’s thirty-two
before she was halted. There Gus Thomas, playing left tackle, nailed
a New Falmouth back behind his line for a six-yard loss, and the
misfortune broke the enemy’s stride. An attempt at a forward heave went
bad, a wide run was smeared for no gain and when, on fourth down, a
courageous youth tried to lift the ball over the bar by the place-kick
route from the forty-six yards the attempt was foredoomed. The pigskin
fell many yards short and into Fitz Savell’s eager arms, and Fitz
dodged and wormed his way to his own twenty-two before he was downed.
That advance was New Falmouth’s final bolt, and never again did she
make a first down.

Alton scored a third touchdown after some twelve minutes of play, Couch
going through the enemy’s center from her six yards. Bus Lovell missed
the try-for-point. Again, in the last quarter, Fitz Savell brought
the crowd to its feet with a long run from mid-field that put the
pigskin on New Falmouth’s seven yards. Bert was in then, having just
taken Keys’ place at right half, and it was to Bert that Bus Lovell
shot the ball on the first down. The play was from balanced line and
Bert carried between the enemy right tackle and right end. As those
men were double teamed, and as Fitz went ahead as interference, Bert
shot through cleanly and kept his feet to the one yard. There he was
simultaneously tackled by the opposing full-back and quarter, but he
managed to get the ball over the line before he was borne back. Again
Bus failed to kick the goal.

The game ended some two minutes later, the score 26 to 10, and Bert
went off the field with the rest of the squad, after a somewhat
breathless cheer for the adversary, striving hard not to show the
elation he felt. Since that was the first touchdown he had ever scored
against an outside team, disguising his pleasure wasn’t easy. He
found himself grinning several times on the way to the gymnasium and
straightened his mouth hastily, hoping none of the others had seen.
Chick, again rather disgruntled because he hadn’t been allowed to play
more than slightly over two periods, smote Bert on the back as they
entered the building.

“Good stuff, old scout!” he declared. “That was a nice little scamper
of yours. You’re a credit to my training.”

Bert smiled in as off-handed a manner as he could manage. “No one could
have failed on that play,” he answered. “That hole was as wide as a
barn door, Chick. Gus Thomas and Bus put out the tackle, and Couch--”

“Save your breath. I saw the play. I didn’t say you worked a miracle,
did I? Just the same, you delivered the goods. And you got off so fast
you blame near overran your interference, too! If that tackle hadn’t
been playing too far in he could have smeared it easy. You want to
watch out for that, Bert. Keep behind your interference, even if it
slows you up. If you don’t you’ll mess the play.”

Later there was another word of commendation, this time from Mr. Cade.
And, as before, it contained a warning. “You got through very prettily,
Hollins, on that off-tackle play,” he said, “but you must be careful
another time to let your interference reach the line well ahead of
you. You were much too close on Savell. A good deal depends on timing
yourself right, Hollins.” Mr. Cade smiled and turned away and Bert went
on to the showers, not quite so pleased with himself.

“Some one,” he reflected as he squirmed under the spray, “is always
taking the joy out of life! Still, I guess he’s right. I did hustle
Savell a bit. Pshaw, there’s nothing to get high-hat about. It just
happened to be the right sort of a play for me. I’m too light to do
anything unless I have three or four other fellows helping me! I wish I
weighed thirty pounds more, gosh ding it! Besides, what made that play
easy was that New Falmouth expected Fitz would get the ball and were
watching him to hit the other side. Trouble with me is I have to have a
skirmish party go ahead of me and clean out the woods before I can get
through!”

CHAPTER VIII

EXPERT ADVICE

As a result of these and similar cogitations he went to supper in a
chastened frame of mind and refused to accept any of the clapping that
greeted his appearance in dining hall as a personal tribute. Then,
afterwards, emerging alone, he ran into Tommy Parish in the corridor
and Tommy nailed him. Tommy, although he had recently finished a hearty
supper, was munching salted peanuts without evident effort. He held out
the small packet to Bert, but the latter shook his head.

“Won’t let you?” asked Tommy.

“I guess so, but I’m full up.”

Tommy observed him with patent incredulity. “After that chow?” he asked
jeeringly. “Yes, you are! Better have some. They’re fresh.” Then, as
Bert again declined: “Say, you got your oar in at last, didn’t you?” he
asked.

“Got my oar in? What are you talking about, Tommy?”

“Why, this afternoon. Pshaw, I knew you’d show them how it’s done
if they’d let you. And you did, too, Bertie. Yeah, you pulled off
something rather neat. I’ve been watching you right along; ever since
last fall. Been expecting you’d bust in before this, but I guess you’ve
got some pretty fair guys to run against. Savell, for instance. He’s
good. I said he was first time I saw him play. Just like with you,
Bert. I generally manage to pick the winners!”

“Are you trying to tell me that I’m a winner?” laughed Bert. Tommy
emptied the remaining peanuts from the sack to his mouth and contented
himself with a nod. “You’re a humorist, Tommy. Going my way?”

Tommy nodded again and fell into step. “You’re right about Fitz Savell,
though,” said Bert warmly. “Fitz is a winner and no mistake. Wasn’t
that a corking run of his to-day? Gee, but that fellow can twist!”

“Sokayou,” said Tommy.

“Come again?”

Tommy swallowed convulsively and obliged. “So can you, I said. Listen.
Savell’s mighty good, Bert, but he isn’t a bit better than you are.
Only thing is, he’s getting a chance to show and you aren’t. Say, know
what I told the fellows at our table the other night? Well, I told them
that by the end of the season you’d be the guy who’d be doing most of
our scoring.”

“Me!” Bert looked searchingly at his companion’s countenance, but he
failed to detect sarcasm therein. Instead, Tommy appeared to be quite
serious, even earnest. “What did the other fellows do?” inquired Bert.
“Hoot?”

“Oh, they didn’t believe it,” replied Tommy easily. “But we should
worry, eh?”

Bert laughed, not amusedly but with slight irritation. “You may mean
well, Tommy,” he said, “but I rather wish you wouldn’t make crazy
remarks like that, if you don’t mind. It makes me look rather an ass,
you know.”

Tommy’s slightly protuberant eyes expressed perplexity. “How do you
mean, ass?” he inquired. “How do you mean, crazy remarks? How do you
mean--”

“I mean that fellows might think that I agreed with you, of course,”
answered Bert, grinning in spite of himself. “I don’t want to look like
a conceited fool, Tommy.”

“Mean you don’t agree with me? Mean you don’t know you’re a cracking
good player? Pouf, you’re stringing me! Why, I sized you up a long time
ago, Bert. ‘There,’ I said to myself, ‘is a lad that’s going to show
’em some football before very long!’ Yes, sir, I generally manage to
pick the winners. I don’t play the game myself; I tried it once but I
wasn’t built just according to specifications; but that doesn’t keep
me from seeing what’s going on and what’s coming off. I sized you up
for a clever running back the first time I saw you in action. That
was last fall when you were on the Scrub Team, Bert. Why, I haven’t
missed a practice session since I came here, hardly! Fellows say I’m
fresh and shoot off my mouth.” Tommy shrugged, looked regretfully at
the rumpled sack he still held and tossed it in the general direction
of the rubbish barrel at the corner of Upton. “Maybe I do, but some
one’s got to tell the truth! Take Johnny Cade now. He’s too easy. Say,
know something? Well, if I was coach of this team, or any other team,
for that matter, I’d see that fellows jumped when I spoke to ’em. Yes,
sir, when I said ‘Hep!’ they’d hep! Johnny’s too--too soft. Oh, I know
he can be rough if he wants to, but that isn’t the trick. Fellows are
naturally lazy, Bert. You’ve got to prod ’em all the time if you’re
going to get ’em to pull. Johnny doesn’t prod. He just says ‘Gee’ or
‘Haw’ and the whole crowd move about as fast as a yoke of oxes--oxen, I
mean. That’s where I come in and do my little stunt, see? When I catch
a fellow soldiering I get after him, you bet. They don’t like it, of
course. Let ’em not!” Tommy smiled comfortably. “It’s for their own
good. They offer to punch my nose and knock my block off and all that,
but I notice they don’t do it. They know mighty well that when I say
they’re rotten they are rotten!”

Bert paused on the steps of Upton and stared at Tommy with a new
interest. Tommy, feeling unsuccessfully about his pockets for further
provender, gazed complacently across the twilit campus. Yielding to an
impulse, Bert asked: “Doing anything, Tommy?”

“No, I guess not. I did think of going to the movie, but it’s one of
those vamp pictures, and they make me sick.”

“Come on up to the room then and tell me more about it,” invited the
other.

“About what? Got anything good up there?”

“Great Scott, you’re not still hungry!”

Tommy grinned. “Pouf, I’m never really hungry, I guess, but I can
generally eat.”

“You mean you do generally eat,” laughed Bert. “Maybe I can dig up
something to keep life in your poor thin body. Come on.”

“I haven’t been in here for a long time,” said Tommy as he selected the
easiest chair and relaxed with a sigh. “You and Chick still hit it off?
He’d get on my nerves mighty quick, I guess. He’s what I call a hard
frost.”

“Chick’s a fine chap when you know him,” said Bert. “He and I have been
friends a long time.”

“Meaning I’m to quit throwing off on him, eh? Oh, all right. He’s not
bad, even if he is trying to see how rotten he can play.”

“Rot,” replied Bert warmly. “Chick’s doing as well as any fellow on the
team, Tommy, and you know it.”

“You’re a liar,” responded Tommy sweetly, “and _you_ know it! Ever
since he got thrown down at the election last winter he’s been as sore
as a boil, and ever since he started to play football last month he’s
been just passing the time. I’m not the only one who knows it, either,
if you don’t--or pretend you don’t. Johnny’s got his number, believe
me! Some fine day Chick’s going to wake up and find himself on the
outside looking in!”

“Nonsense,” muttered Bert. But he was uneasily conscious that there
might be some truth in Tommy’s prediction. Chick had been rather poor
this fall, and it was scarcely possible that Coach Cade hadn’t noted
the fact. Bert tossed a half-emptied box of drug-store candy into
Tommy’s lap and, because the other had jarred him, said irritably: “Go
ahead and kill yourself, you silly pig!”

Tommy removed the lid and peered dubiously into the box. “Not much
chance of killing myself with what’s here,” he stated derisively. “Have
some?”

“No, thanks.” Bert sat down at the study table and thoughtfully rolled
a pencil between his palms. “Rather a thankless job, yours, Tommy. I
mean fellows don’t take kindly to your criticism, eh?”

Tommy shrugged, crossed his knees and regarded a chocolate
disapprovingly. Beyond a doubt it had been confined too long in that
box! “If you mean I’m not popular, you’re right. But popularity never
got any one anything much. Look at History. Men who really did things,
men who won success, were unpopular. Look at--at Cæsar, and Napoleon
and Lincoln and--”

“Your examples are not so good, Tommy,” Bert laughed. “The gentlemen
you refer to were rather unfortunate in the end, weren’t they?”

“What of it? They did big things while they were alive. If you’re one
of these popular, well-liked guys about all you get is a slap on the
back. When there’s a real plum to be handed out the popular guy takes
tickets at the door. Every one likes him fine, but when there’s a big
job to be done no one even sees him. The job goes to some rough-neck
who has so many enemies he has to carry a gun! No, sir, being liked is
a handicap, Bert. If you want to be something and get somewhere talk
rude, step on folks’ toes and get yourself hated. It’s the surest way.”

“Tommy, you certainly get hold of some funny notions,” said Bert, half
admiringly. “It must take a lot of your time to think them up.”

Tommy waved a hand carelessly. “I like to think,” he said. “Most
fellows don’t. When you call my ideas funny, though, you just mean that
they don’t happen to be yours. That’s typical of your class, Bert.
Anything strange--I mean unfamiliar--you call funny.”

“My class? Meaning the Junior?”

“No, class in society.” Tommy rejected an unpromising piece of candy
and searched farther. “Wealthy and conservative, you know. Hide-bound
New England. All that sort of thing.”

“I’m New England, if you like,” agreed Bert, amused, “but I’m not
exactly wealthy, and I do hope I’m not hide-bound. That doesn’t sound
comfortable. Aren’t you New England yourself, you crazy coot?”

“No. I live there, but that’s all. We’re from Western New York
originally. My father’s folks were Welsh and my mother’s Irish.”

“I might have known there was Irish in you,” said Bert. “That’s how you
come to like a scrap so well, Tommy.”

“I don’t like scraps. You never saw me pick a quarrel yet. No one ever
did. Sometimes fellows resent what I say to ’em, but that’s their
fault.”

“You came pretty close to having a scrap on your hands the other night
over in Coles Wistar’s room,” Bert reminded him dryly.

“What of it? I didn’t start it. Chick called me a fat loafer, didn’t
he? Then I said he was playing a rotten game of football, which was the