FOR THE GOOD
                             OF THE TEAM

By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

_Yardley Hall Series_

  FOURTH DOWN
  FORWARD PASS
  DOUBLE PLAY
  WINNING HIS Y
  GUARDING THE GOAL
  FOR YARDLEY
  AROUND THE END
  CHANGE SIGNALS

_Purple Pennant Series_

  THE LUCKY SEVENTH
  THE SECRET PLAY
  THE PURPLE PENNANT

_Hilton Series_

  THE HALF-BACK
  FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL
  CAPTAIN OF THE CREW

_Erskine Series_

  BEHIND THE LINE
  WEATHERBY’S INNING
  ON YOUR MARK

_The “Big Four” Series_

  FOUR IN CAMP
  FOUR AFOOT
  FOUR AFLOAT

_The Grafton Series_

  RIVALS FOR THE TEAM
  HITTING THE LINE
  WINNING HIS GAME

_North Bank Series_

  THREE BASE BENSON
  KICK FORMATION
  COXSWAIN OF THE EIGHT

_Books Not In Series_

  THE LOST DIRIGIBLE
  FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS
  KEEPING HIS COURSE
  THE BROTHER OF A HERO
  FINKLER’S FIELD
  DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME
  THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON
  UNDER THE YANKEE ENSIGN
  BENTON’S VENTURE
  THE JUNIOR TROPHY
  THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP
  THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL
  THE PLAY THAT WON
  OVER TWO SEAS (With H. P. HOLT)
  FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York

[Illustration: STUART SENT THE BALL TO BURNS ON A DIRECT PASS]

                             FOR THE GOOD
                              OF THE TEAM

                                  BY
                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

                 AUTHOR OF “THREE BASE BENSON,” “KICK
                    FORMATION,” “FOURTH DOWN,” ETC.

                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                      NEW YORK :: 1923 :: LONDON

                          COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

                   CONTENTS

 CHAPTER                                  PAGE

      I. A HERO RETURNS                      1
     II. CAPTAIN AND COACH                  18
    III. A BOY ON CRUTCHES                  30
     IV. “ONLY THE CAPTAIN!”                45
      V. A CLASH OF AUTHORITY               60
     VI. DEFEAT                             77
    VII. THE ATH. FAC. TAKES A HAND         93
   VIII. A NEW LEADER IS CHOSEN            105
     IX. OUT OF A JOB                      118
      X. THE HANDICAPS                     134
     XI. THE LAST LAP                      147
    XII. NEIL INTERVENES                   160
   XIII. STUART GOES OUT FOR THE TEAM      170
    XIV. WANTED, A KICKER                  183
     XV. THE CONFERENCE                    197
    XVI. LE GETTE EXPLAINS                 212
   XVII. TASKER GOES OVER                  226
  XVIII. IN THE LAST QUARTER               242
    XIX. STUART SPEAKS HIS MIND            257
     XX. “FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM”        275

                             FOR THE GOOD
                             OF THE TEAM

                               CHAPTER I

                            A HERO RETURNS

Two boys met in the Grand Central Station in New York one warm
afternoon in late September and, greeting each other, passed hurriedly
toward the gate beyond which the Hartford Express waited. Each was
good-looking, well-built, alert and self-possessed. But a few months
separated their ages, although Jack Brewton had seen his eighteenth
birthday and Stuart Harven had not. In the train, their bags at their
feet, they plunged into conversation. While they had been close friends
at Manning School, they had not met during vacation, nor had they
corresponded. At seventeen and eighteen one is far too busy for letter
writing, and, fortunately, friendship doesn’t demand it. There was,
consequently, much to be said, and the journey to Safford was half
over before the subject of summer adventures had been exhausted. Then
Stuart gave the talk a new turn with the careless announcement:

“I had a letter from the new coach about a month ago.”

“Haynes?” asked Jack interestedly. “What did he have to say?”

“Oh, nothing much. Said he thought he ought to get in touch with me
and hoped I was having a pleasant vacation and all that. Suggested my
meeting him in New York and talking things over, but I couldn’t make
it. The date he set was just the time we were starting off on the
cruise.”

“Too bad,” murmured Jack.

“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the good of talk? There wasn’t anything to be
done until we got the team together. I hope to goodness he isn’t going
to be one of the talky kind: his letter looked that way: he wrote about
four pages, I guess. Said he hoped I was keeping in good condition
and wasn’t neglecting kicking.” Stuart chuckled. “I haven’t touched a
football but once since spring practice. Then we had a sort of a game
up at the camp one day. A lot of the college chaps were football men:
Means of Cornell, and Davis of Dartmouth, and five or six others. We
had quite a scrappy little game. Played two twenty-minute periods.
Of course the counselors won, but they had to work for it. I played
quarter and got off two dandy runs, one for nearly seventy yards.”

“You ought to have put in some practice, just the same, Stuart,” said
Jack disapprovingly. “It wouldn’t have done any harm.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I’ve been at it pretty steadily for the last month.”

“Faithful old Fido!” laughed Stuart. “Well, I don’t believe in it. A
fellow comes back much fitter and more ready for work if he doesn’t
wear himself out during the summer. I don’t think it hurts you any, for
you’re a shark for work, and always were, but I get stale if I overdo
it. Bet you I’ll show more pep to-morrow than the fellows who have been
summer training.”

“Maybe,” answered Jack, smiling but unconvinced. “Still, pep isn’t
everything. I’ll bet you can’t kick five goals out of ten tries from
the thirty-yard line to-morrow.”

“What of it?” laughed Stuart. “I’ll be able to next week. Look here,
what’s the good of bringing the team back five days before term opens
if they’re going to know it all before they come? That’s what the early
session’s for, to get us back in shape.”

“We ought to be in shape when we get back,” answered Jack. “We can’t
afford to give Pearsall even one day’s start of us, Stuart.”

“Don’t you worry about Pearsall this year,” replied the other, smiling
and confident. “We’re going to do her up brown.”

“Hope so.”

“Sure to! At least, we will if Haynes turns out all right. I’m still
wishing, though, we’d gone after Corcoran.”

“What’s the use of wishing it?” asked Jack, with a shrug. “You know we
couldn’t have paid his price. Take my advice, old son: forget Corcoran
and make the best of ‘Hop’ Haynes. Anyhow, Stuart, don’t start out with
a prejudice toward him.”

“Oh, I’ve got nothing against the man. I dare say he will do well
enough. Still, you know yourself, Jack, he’s just a ‘small town’ coach:
never did anything big.”

“If he had Manning wouldn’t have got him,” replied Jack. “He put in
three successful years at Fisherville, though, and was assistant at
Erskine a year before that.”

“Fisherville doesn’t play a team unless she knows she can beat it. Any
one could coach Fisherville to win. Bet you I could myself!”

Jack smiled and shook his head. “You’re a great little quarterback,
Stuart, and you’re the youngest captain Manning has ever had, and all
that, but don’t ever try coaching, old son. You couldn’t do it.”

“How do you make that out?” demanded Stuart. “You don’t have to be a
wonder to coach a football team.”

“No, but you have to have one quality that you haven’t, Stuart,”
answered the other in good-humored raillery.

“What’s that?” asked Stuart suspiciously.

“Amenability,” replied Jack gravely.

“What’s amenability? You mean good nature? Rot!”

“Look it up when you get a chance,” laughed Jack. “Anyhow, you stick to
captaining.”

“I believe I’ve been insulted, but no matter. Say, I ran across a
couple of nice-looking plays this summer. They’re not new, of course,
but we’ve never used them and they might be good medicine for
Pearsall. Got a piece of paper? An old letter will do. That’s the
ticket!” Stuart produced a pencil and the two boys leaned their heads
close while it traced strange lines on the back of an envelope.

Half an hour later the friends parted, Stuart carrying his bag to Lacey
Hall and Jack taking his to Meigs. They were to meet later for supper
in the village; meals for the football candidates were to begin with
breakfast in Lyceum House to-morrow; and meanwhile there were trunks
to be unpacked. Stuart’s room, on the second floor of Lacey, had been
prepared for his occupancy. One of the two small beds was made up and
the accumulated dust of the summer had been removed. Stuart set his
bag on the table and looked about him. The room, with its gray papered
walls, its brown craftsman furniture, its two-tone blue rug and its
pictures and trophies, was surprisingly like home, and he gave a sigh
of satisfaction as he threw aside his coat and went to the end window.
The sun had traveled past, and when he raised the shade and the lower
sash a cool breeze entered, bringing with it a few dried ivy leaves
from the stone sill. Below him lay a narrow strip of grass between the
building and School Lane. The young maples that lined both sides of
the way――the lane had been cut through but four years ago――were still
green, but the leaves looked dry and tired, as though the hot summer
had been almost too much for them. Across the graveled thoroughfare,
seen from the window between the upper branches of the trees, was
Memorial Building, the dining hall, its buff sandstone front, with its
four tall columns, hot in the afternoon sunlight. Further to Stuart’s
left stood the library; beyond it, the tennis courts. Straight ahead,
the school grounds ended at an iron fence half hidden by shrubbery
and vines, and then came an open field that descended to the placid,
winding river. The new steel bridge over which High Street led was just
visible past the corner of Memorial. Beyond it, nestling ’neath tall
elms, spread the town. Two church spires, one slenderly conical and one
square and dignifiedly squatty, pierced the greenery with their white
forms, and now and then a weathered gray roof or a red-brown chimney
peeked forth.

Safford was like half a hundred other Connecticut towns, quiet, as
placid as the river that flowed around it and unvexed by the problems
that beset larger communities. Twice a day the express paused for
a moment at the little station and at four other times local trains
tarried on their way up and down the valley. There were no street
cars and, speaking comparatively, even automobiles were scarce.
Safford’s only claim to renown was Manning School; and there had been
occasions――perhaps there still are――when Safford’s inhabitants would
have been willing to worry along without such fame. The celebrations of
athletic victories occur only infrequently, however, and for the most
part the townsfolk had no cause for complaint, and were doubtless glad
enough of the presence of the big school across the river. I know the
storekeepers were, anyway.

Stuart’s trunk arrived before he had quite finished washing off the
dust of travel, and for nearly an hour after that he busied himself
unpacking, stowing his things methodically away in drawers or hanging
them neatly in the closet, in the latter process carefully taking up
no more than his half of the hooks. The occupant of the other bed and
proprietor of the second chiffonier would be along in a few days, and
there must be space for his belongings. Neil Orr came from Stuart’s
home city and represented the reason why Stuart was remaining in Lacey
through his upper middle year instead of moving to Meigs as was the
privilege, almost invariably taken advantage of, of the third-year
students. Neil was a lower middle class fellow, and since he must
remain in Lacey, Stuart had elected to remain with him. To his own
belief at least, Stuart had acted as guide and protector to Neil during
the previous year and he couldn’t conceive of Neil’s getting along
without him. Perhaps he exaggerated his usefulness to Neil somewhat,
but the motives that prompted him to forego life in the upper class
dormitory were wholly creditable.

It was still too early for supper when he had finished his task and
changed into a comfortable old suit, and, probably because Neil was
still in his thoughts, he went down and crossed the old campus to
Holton Hall. The northern half of the school property had become known
as the old campus when School Lane had been cut through. It held five
dormitories and Manning Hall, the latter accommodating the recitation
rooms, the assembly hall and the offices. Of the five dormitories,
Holton was the elder brother and stood back from the rest as though
keeping a fraternal watch on them. Stuart was not sure that his visit
would prove successful, for there still remained four days before the
faculty members were required to report, but when he came within sight
of the corner study which was his destination his doubts were removed.
The two end windows on the lower floor were wide open and the brown
silk sash curtains were pushed wide. Mr. Moffit, attired principally
in a pair of discolored gray flannel trousers and a running shirt, was
applying a piece of emery cloth to the head of a lofter when Stuart,
accepting the invitation to enter, pushed the study door wide. A golf
bag leaned against the morris chair at the instructor’s elbow, but it
went to the floor with a rattle and crash of its contents when Mr.
Moffit jumped up.

“Hel-lo, Harven!” he exclaimed in pleased surprise. “So we’re back
again! My, my, and all browned up like a berry! Well, I am glad to see
you, my boy!” He shook hands with a grip that made the visitor wince
and pushed the latter toward a chair. “You’ve found me in rather an
undignified moment, it seems. Suppose you take your own coat off and
lend me countenance. It’s been frightfully hot here to-day.”

“Hot everywhere, sir. New York was like an oven.”

“You came that way? Isn’t there a shorter route from Springfield?”

“Yes, but you have to change, sir. And I wired Jack Brewton to meet me
at the Grand Central. Been playing golf, sir?”

“Yes, quite a lot this summer. But it’s over with.” Mr. Moffit sighed.
“Harven, I’m more than ever convinced that the Destiny that shapes our
ends made a botch of it in my case. I ought to have been born with a
silver spoon. I’m naturally the laziest man on earth except as to one
thing. That’s golf. I’ll toil from sunup to pitch dark playing golf,
but anything else――especially the teaching of English――comes mighty
hard. And this fall it seems to me that I’m lazier than ever before. I
don’t want to go back into harness one earthly bit, my boy. I sigh for
wealth and slothfulness, for silken shirts and shaded porches. The gods
bestow their favors blunderingly.”

“You’d soon get tired of silk shirts and porches,” laughed Stuart. “I’m
sure I would. Want some help with those, sir?”

“Thanks, but this is the last. I’m putting them to bed for a nine
months’ sleep. Unless――” the instructor’s eyes brightened――“you play?
There’s a very fair links over at Harrington, and I could sneak in a
couple of hours in the morning.”

“I don’t, sir. Besides, football begins to-morrow and I suppose we’ll
have two sessions a day until Wednesday.”

“That’s why you’re back. I’d forgotten.” Mr. Moffit slipped the lofter
into the bag with a sigh. “That reminds me that I met your new coach
this forenoon. He seems a very pleasant, affable sort, but he doesn’t
play golf. Have you met him yet?”

“No, sir. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“He told me, but I’ve forgotten. I’m afraid I lost interest when I
found he was not a golfer. Somewhere in the village, of course.”

“I thought of looking him up this evening, but if I don’t know where
he’s living I suppose I can’t do it.”

“He’s probably taking his meals at the hotel. I fancy you’d get a word
of him there, Harven.”

“Yes, sir, but there’s no hurry. I’ll see him in the morning. Are there
many of the team back, do you know?”

“I don’t. You’re the first chap I’ve seen. No one’s come yet, except
Mr. Wallace and me, so far as I know. Doctor Gurley’s back, of course.
I took dinner with him last evening. Vacation appears to have toned him
up remarkably. So it has you, my boy. Have a pleasant summer?”

“Dandy, sir! You’re looking awfully fit, too.”

“I suppose so. Yes, I’m feeling fairly rugged, thanks, but――but not at
all ambitious! I purposely came back a few days ahead to do some work.
I’ve got a new course to map out, for one thing. But all I’ve done so
far is clean five golf clubs!” And Mr. Moffit looked with humorous
sadness at the bag beside him.

Stuart laughed. “Don’t you worry, sir. You’ll soon be in form again and
making things hard for us as usual.”

Mr. Moffit smiled and shook his head. “I trust that you are right, but
to-day there’s no iron in my make-up. I’m absolutely out of character
and the sorriest theme ever handed in by a junior couldn’t move me to
wrath! Well, you’ve come back to a pretty stiff task, my boy, haven’t
you? Do you know, I’m not certain that I wouldn’t rather have my own
job than yours. If I make mistakes I can remedy them or I can gloss
them over, but if you make them they’ll stand out on the football
season like so many sore thumbs, and you won’t have time to remedy
them. A bit awed by the responsibility, are you?”

Stuart shook his head smilingly. “No, sir, I don’t think so. Of course,
it’s going to take some work, but we’ve got a good crowd to start with.
If Mr. Haynes knows football as he’s supposed to, things will run along
all right, I guess.”

“The confidence of youth is a beautiful thing,” murmured the other.
“Well, I sincerely hope that things will run along all right and I
wish you the best luck in the world. And that means a successful
season crowned by a glorious victory over Pearsall. I’ll be watching
with a great deal of interest how the youngest captain ever elected
here performs his task, my boy. I hope, though, you won’t start out
overconfident. I’ve been here twelve years and overconfidence at one
stage or another of the season has lost more games for us than any
other one factor. Heed the words of age and experience, Harven, and
don’t write the answer until you’ve worked out the proposition.”

“Oh, I’m not cocksure,” laughed Stuart. “I’m confident that we can
win, but I realize that we’ve got to work every minute, and work hard.
By the way, sir, what does amenability mean? Jack told me that was a
quality I didn’t have.”

“Amenability?” repeated the instructor. “It means several things. For
one, it means the quality of being open-minded, of willingness to be
governed. We speak of a person as being amenable to reason, which
usually means that the person has taken our advice, or, at least,
listened to it.”

“Sounds as though he was calling me pigheaded,” said Stuart.

“Hardly as bad as that,” laughed the other; “he was probably trying to
convey the idea, and convey it as politely as possible, that you are
likely to rely too implicitly on your own judgment and are slightly
contemptuous of others’. Isn’t that more likely to be it?”

“Then it means cocksure,” grunted Stuart. “I don’t think I am. Do you,
sir?”

Mr. Moffit smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “You and I have been pretty
good friends for two years, Harven,” he answered, “and we’ll probably
remain so as long as we don’t ask each other questions like that.”

Stuart grinned. “But seriously, Mr. Moffit, am I like he says? I don’t
mean to be.”

“I’m sure you don’t, my boy. To be frank, there’s something in
Brewton’s indictment, I fancy, but not enough to trouble about.
I’d prefer to call it self-dependence, which, up to a point, is an
admirable attribute of youth.”

“Well, he’s always getting off something like that,” said Stuart. “I
don’t mind him.”

“I wouldn’t. I’d just make certain that his charge is incorrect,
Harven.”

“Yes, sir.” Then: “Gosh, I was almost forgetting what I came to see you
about! You know Neil Orr, Mr. Moffit. He’s eligible for a society this
year, and I’d like mightily to get him into Lyceum. I’m pretty sure he
can make Manning if he wants to, but I’d rather have him with us, and I
guess he’d rather, too.”

“Orr is a splendid fellow in my judgment,” answered Mr. Moffit, “and
I’d be glad to have him in Lyceum, but you know, Harven, I’m only the
faculty director and have no vote.”

“Yes, sir, I know that, but I thought you might speak a good word for
him when the time comes. I’m going to put him up right off.”

“Gladly, if my opinion is asked, but I can’t promise more than that,
my boy. You wouldn’t want me to, I’m sure.”

“No, sir, of course not.” Stuart agreed, but not very fervently. After
a moment he added, “I think some of the fellows won’t want him on
account of his being like he is, and I don’t think that’s fair.”

“I doubt that,” answered the instructor. “I can’t imagine any of our
fellows objecting to Orr on account of physical――ah――disabilities,
Harven. I’d dislike to think it was so.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” said Stuart. “Only, something was said last spring
that made me think that way. Well, I must be off to supper. Jack is
probably as mad as a hornet by this time. Good-by, sir.”

“Good-by, Harven. Very glad to have seen you again. Drop in some
evening before term starts, and bring Brewton along, won’t you?”

                              CHAPTER II

                           CAPTAIN AND COACH

Stuart didn’t look for Mr. Haynes that evening. Instead, after supper
in Safford’s only restaurant, he and Jack, together with three other
early arrivals, went to the moving picture theater, which, like the Old
Elm Café, was the sole representative of its kind in Safford. Stuart
expected to meet the coach the next morning at breakfast, but the
latter failed to show up. Pending the opening of Memorial, meals were
served to the football players in the Lyceum House. This was a small
cottage situated across the Principal’s Walk at the rear of Holton. In
early days it had been used as a dormitory, as had a similar structure
in the corner of the new campus. Later, the rooming facilities had been
increased by the building of Sawyer and Byers Halls, the two cottages
had been given over to the school societies, the Lyceum and Manning.
The Lyceum House had four bedrooms on the upper floor, and living
room, dining room and kitchen below. This morning the dining room was
crowded when Stuart arrived. Nineteen fellows had answered the summons
to pre-season practice, while the table seated but twelve. Fortunately,
all of them did not come at the same time. As it was, Stuart made the
fourth in the waiting line. His appearance was the signal for loud and
hearty greetings, and there was much hand-shaking. Jack Brewton was
already there and promised Stuart his place at table as soon as he “got
outside a couple more eggs.”

Most of the returning players on last year’s first team were on hand:
burly, red-haired Joe Cutts, the center; Leo Burns, square-headed and
sandy-complexioned, as hard-fisted as he was soft-hearted, one of the
best halfbacks in recent years; “Howdy” Tasker, big and gray-eyed and
handsome, almost certain of the fullback position; Millard Wheaton,
short but sturdy, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, who meant to give Stuart
a hard battle for quarterback supremacy; and others besides. Tom
Muirgart, commonly known as “Mudguard,” yielded his chair to Stuart
while Jack was still toying with his second helping of poached eggs,
and Stuart deluged his oatmeal with milk and sprinkled it with sugar,
and pitched in. “Whitey,” general factotum of the establishment, and
as black a darkey as ever toiled in a southern cotton field, hurried
back and forth in the seemingly hopeless endeavor to supply the wants
of the eaters. Oatmeal, bacon, eggs, stewed peaches, toast, coffee,
milk disappeared as if by magic, and pathetic plaints filled the air
constantly: “Oh, Whitey! Got any more bacon?” “Whitey, bring some more
milk, will you?” “Coffee, Whitey; and fill her up this time!” “Bring
me two, three eggs, Whitey; and some toast!” “A-a-ay, Whitey! I’m
starving! Get a move on, will you?”

At Stuart’s left a pleasant-faced, brown-eyed youth asked: “Have you
seen the coach? He was asking for you last night.”

“No, what’s he like, Billy? I thought he’d be here this morning.”

“Rather a nice sort. Rather smallish. Looks keen, though.”

“Who’s that?” asked Joe Cutts from across the board. “Mr. Haynes? Quite
a peppy boy, I’ll bet! He isn’t big, but he’s got a bad eye, son. He’ll
have us jumping for fair!”

“If he can make you jump he’ll be going some,” laughed Billy
Littlefield. Joe smiled tolerantly and landed a piece of toast
on Billy’s nose. Wallace Towne, slipping into a vacated chair and
absent-mindedly annexing Howdy Tasker’s glass of milk, joined in with:

“I hear there isn’t going to be any training table this year.”

“Where do you get that stuff?” asked Stuart pityingly.

“Coach. He doesn’t believe in ’em. He told me so yesterday. Came down
on the train with him. Says all we need is plenty of plain food and no
coddling. Told him I didn’t care how plain it was if it was plenty.”

Stuart frowned. “That’s nonsense,” he declared. “We’ve always had
training tables here, and I guess we’ll continue to.”

“All right. You tell ’em. Whitey, for the love of Mike, feed me! All
I’ve had’s a glass of milk.”

“Yes, and it was mine,” observed Howdy. “Feed the brute, Whitey.”

“Guess the new chap’s got a lot of revolutionary ideas,” went on
Wallace. “Said a mouthful about straight football. Hates stunt plays, I
guess. Strong on fundamentals, too. So am I. We agreed perfectly. Made
a big hit with him.”

“You would,” said Jack scathingly. “You’d agree with any one, you old
sycophant.”

“What’s that?” asked Wallace untroubledly. “An elephant’s little boy? I
deny it. You’re thinking of Joe.”

“I’ve seen his sort before,” said Stuart. “They start out with the
idea of changing everything, but they soon get over it.” He smiled
patiently. “That straight football guff’s mighty old stuff. It won’t
win games to-day. He’ll get over it. Got any more eggs, Whitey?”

Reaching the field at half-past ten――a few minutes beyond that time, as
a matter of fact, but if the captain can’t be late, who can?――Stuart
concluded at first glance that Mr. Haynes had again failed to put
in an appearance, and he wasn’t altogether displeased. This new
coach seemed to be acting rather cocky, Stuart thought, and being
late to practice might tone down some of his assurance. But a second
look showed a stranger there. The fact that he was in togs quite as
disreputable as any being worn there had disguised him. He was talking
to Miles Whittier, the assistant manager, when Stuart made himself
known. Mr. Haynes shook hands cordially, but, Stuart thought, without
as much empressement as the situation called for. While they talked
Stuart studied the other and was conscious of a slight feeling of
disappointment. Perhaps the description he had heard was to blame.
At all events, the coach was much more of a “regular fellow” than
Stuart had unconsciously pictured him. He was small, perhaps, but
the fact didn’t impress you greatly because he was remarkably well
built. He was younger than Stuart had suspected, too; surely not more
than twenty-six. He was good looking, but the good looks were more a
matter of expression than of features, for the latter were irregular.
There was a short nose and a rather long upper lip, a firm mouth and a
square jaw, keen dark-brown eyes and a wide forehead under hair that
appeared to have a suspicion of red in it. He had a pleasant smile and
an agreeable voice, and yet Stuart somehow felt a trifle uncomfortable
while they conversed. Perhaps it was the penetrative quality of the
straight, unwavering regard of the coach that was responsible.

For Alan Haynes was doing a little studying, too. He wanted very much
to learn what sort of a youth this was with whom he was to work. What
conclusions he reached I do not know. He saw, however, a straight,
well-made boy of a trifle more than normal height and weight for his
years, with the good looks of regular features and perfect health. I
doubt if he read any antagonism, for I don’t think that Stuart was
conscious of any, but I think he surmised that behind the blue-gray
eyes there lay a touch of arrogance, and perhaps the corners of the
pleasantly-smiling mouth hinted that its owner was self-willed. Maybe
because of such surmises, the coach paid the most respectful deference
to Stuart’s words, and the latter mentally concluded that Wallace
Towne’s characterization of the new coach had been overdrawn. Probably,
he thought, the other had talked sort of big to impress Wallace. There
was no harm in that just so long as he didn’t try it on him!

“We’d better get together this evening, Harven,” the coach was saying,
“and talk things over. Suppose I drop in at your room? I haven’t found
quarters yet, and my room at the hotel is just a box.”

“Suits me, Mr. Haynes. I’m in Lacey, the second dormitory on the Lane;
Number 12; one flight. How about eight o’clock?”

“Perfect. Well, shall we get them started?”

After practice the coach had company on the way back to the village.
“The Laird” was taking a dozen or so pairs of football shoes to the
repair shop. He had them tied together by the lacings and slung over
his shoulder as the coach fell into step beside him. His real name was
Angus McCranie and he looked as Scotch as his name sounded. It was
always somewhat of a disappointment, though, to hear The Laird speak,
for it was only in moments of excitement that his native burr was used.
He had been trainer at Manning for nearly a dozen years and had become
as much a part of the institution as Manning Hall or Old Jarratt,
the Greek and Latin professor, or even Doctor Gurley himself. He was
short and leanly muscular, with grizzled hair and pale blue eyes that
shone startlingly bright from under thick tufts of brows and from a
seamed face that, summer or winter, was always the color of a well-worn
saddle. In age, The Laird was, by his own confession, “upwards of
thirty.” The register in the little town of his birth would have proved
him well over forty. But age was of small importance in his case. He
was still as spry, to all appearances, as he had been a dozen years
since; and another score of years would make little difference.

“And what did you think of the lads, sir?” asked The Laird, as they
took the turn of High Street near Manning Society House.

“Excellent,” answered the coach promptly and emphatically. “A fine
looking lot, I call them. What is your opinion of this year’s material,
Mr. McCranie?”

The Laird produced a briar pipe and began to fill it. “About average,
sir. Mr. Haynes, the more I see of the lads, sir, the more settled I
become as to one conviction, which is that you can’t ever tell what’s
in a pudding till you open the bag.”

“Meaning,” responded the other, “that good-looking bodies don’t always
land first over the hurdles.”

“Exactly, sir. I’ve seen fine, upstanding lads licked by runts in my
time, and I’ve seen promising teams just fairly fall to pieces during
a season. Man, it’s not the shape of a lad’s body, or the muscles that
play under his skin that counts. It’s what’s on the inside. It’s the
spirit of him!”

“True,” assented Mr. Haynes.

“And that’s why, sir, when they say to me ‘What do you think of the
team this year,’ or the squad, maybe, I tell them the same thing. ‘Wait
till they’ve got their first black eye,’ I say, ‘and then ask me!’”

Mr. Haynes nodded gravely. “That’s what brings out the spirit,” he
replied. He paused midway of the bridge and looked down into the slowly
moving stream. “Any fish in this river?” he asked.

The Laird leaned an elbow on the railing, blew a cloud of smoke into
the sunlight and shook his head sadly. “There used to be, sir. I’ve
caught ten-inch trout further up. But three years ago they built a mill
at the falls and now you’ll get nothing saving a shiner or two. It’s a
shame, it is so!”

“Too bad! Ten inches, eh? That’s nice fishing. Flies or worms, Mr.
McCranie?”

“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, sir,” chuckled the trainer. “I’m as
prideful an angler as any, Mr. Haynes, but as the Good Book says, pride
goeth before the Falls. ’Twas worms I used.”

Further on Mr. Haynes said: “Captain Harven is rather a brilliant
player, I understand, Mr. McCranie.”

“You’re right, sir. ’Twas he won the Pearsall game last fall. A very
clever lad, Mr. Haynes. One of the finest quarters we’ve ever had here.
And a grand runner. ’Twas his getting away for nearly sixty yards that
brought us the victory. After that he could have been president if the
lads could have made him such. They did the best they might, and,
in spite of his being only a third-class boy this year, elected him
captain.”

“A steady player?” inquired the coach casually.

The Laird shot a quick, keen glance at him. “You’re fair observing,
sir. I’ll not say the lad’s a steady player, for he’s not, but you’ll
be forgiving him that for the way he plays when he’s at his best.
He’s high-strung like, with a wee bit of temper, but a fine lad for
all, sir. There’s two kinds. There’s them that’s always reliable. You
know beforehand what they’ll time at every lap. They’re grand, but
there’s never a surprise in them, sir. Their time to-day is their
time to-morrow, barring an accident. Then there’s the other sort.
To-day you’ll click them one time, to-morrow another. You never know
for certain what they’ll do. But when the time comes they’re like
thoroughbred horses, Mr. Haynes. A touch of the spur and they tear
loose, sir, and naught can head them. Maybe they’ll drop, past the
line, but they’ll win!”

“That sort requires careful handling,” mused the coach.

“Man, you speak true! Haven’t I learned it? But they’re worth the
trouble, sir.”

“Well, I’ll stop here,” said Mr. Haynes as they reached the hotel. “I
hope you and I will get along splendidly, Mr. McCranie. I shall look to
you for a lot of advice, for I’m pretty much of a stranger yet.”

“We’ll get along grand, sir,” replied the trainer heartily, “and I’m
not denying there’s things I can tell you, for I’m an old dog here. But
I’ll be asking you drop the ‘Mister,’ sir. McCranie’s my name, or Angus
if you like it better. The lads call me The Laird, and that’s a name
I’m fair proud of, Mr. Haynes, for they’d never have given it me if I’d
not come by it rightly.”

“Very well, McCranie. And my name is Haynes, also without the ‘Mister.’”

“It is now,” replied the trainer, with a chuckle, “but I’m thinking
that when we’re better acquainted ’twill be just ‘Coach’!”

                           A BOY ON CRUTCHES

Two workouts that day, although each was brief, left Stuart’s body
rather lame, for, while he had led a mildly strenuous life in camp and
at sea during the last three months, some of the muscles brought into
play in football practice were decidedly flabby. At supper that first
evening, although he hid his twinges, the fact that he appeared to be
the only one of the squad inconvenienced by the day’s activities caused
him to acknowledge to himself that there might be something in summer
training after all!

He prepared for the conference with Coach Haynes by determining to be
rather on his dignity, telling himself that, in the interest of future
harmony, it would be well to deal with the other with a firm hand, to
let him understand right at the start that revolutionary changes in the
conduct of the team or the campaign would not be welcomed. There was,
for instance, the coach’s plan of doing away with the training table,
as silly an idea as Stuart had ever heard of! Stern measures now might
prevent later trouble, the captain reflected.

The coach, however, appeared in a most conciliatory mood, paid
respectful attention to Stuart’s ideas and failed to show the cloven
hoof at all. On several occasions Stuart forgot his dignity and, to his
later annoyance, found himself laughing heartily. They made excellent
progress. Some of the coach’s notions didn’t coincide with Stuart’s,
but he was so far from insistent, so evidently open to conviction, that
for the most part the captain let them pass unchallenged. After all,
Mr. Haynes had no more to say in favor of a thorough grounding of the
team in the fundamentals than Stuart knew to be tenable. Nor, though
he certainly showed a leaning toward the old-style football, did he
asperse the newer and trickier plays. He found some fault with the
schedule, but there Stuart was at one with him, for undoubtedly the
playing of Walsenburg as early as the middle of October was a mistake.
Stuart explained that Walsenburg had refused a later date and that,
rather than lose the benefit to be had from a game with an opponent
of Walsenburg’s mettle, it had been decided to take her on in early
season, slipping Williston down the schedule to the Saturday before
Pearsall.

“We must just make up our minds to a defeat on October 16, then,”
replied the coach smilingly.

“I’m not so sure, sir,” said Stuart. “We’ve got quite a bunch of
veterans this year and I guess we’ll be able to squeeze through with no
worse than a tie. Walsenburg won’t be running very strong herself at
that time.”

“Those big schools start out stronger than we do,” said the coach. “We
won’t trouble about it, though. Sometimes, I think, a trimming isn’t
bad medicine for a team along in the early season. It’s likely to cure
overconfidence.”

“Yes, but we rather hate to get licked here at Manning,” demurred
Stuart, frowning. “And Walsenburg hasn’t beaten us but once in four
years. I――I don’t think the fellows would take very kindly to it, sir.”

“Hatred of defeat is a credited aversion, Harven, but it isn’t always
wise to win. Sometimes the cost is too great. I never like to bring a
team along too fast in October. Usually you pay for it later. Well, we
can deal with the Walsenburg game when it comes. Tell me about Lansing
High School. That comes first, doesn’t it? Yes, well, what do they
usually do?”

Afterwards they discussed the players. Mr. Haynes seemed particularly
anxious to learn about the linemen. “We’re strong at the center, you
say?” he asked. “‘Got veterans there,’ have we?”

“Yes, sir, and corkers! Cutts, the big red-haired fellow, you know;
and Beeman and Towne for guards. And we’re fixed for tackles, too,
Mr. Haynes. Jack Brewton’s one of the best in the business, and Ned
Thurston’s nearly as good. ‘Thirsty’s’ been playing tackle two years
already. Jack was in every game but one last season and he’s a whale.”

“Sounds good. I liked the looks of Brewton immensely. He’s the ideal
build for tackle. Cutts seemed a trifle heavy for a center, though. But
perhaps he’s a bit overweight. I have a weakness for fast men in the
center, Harven.”

“Well, Joe isn’t so slow, and I guess he’s due to drop eight or ten
pounds in the next week. You’ll like him when you see him work, sir.”

The subject of the abolishment of the training table was not introduced
by the coach and so it didn’t come up for discussion. After the other
had taken his departure, Stuart rehearsed the evening and uneasily
came to the conclusion that so far as firmness was concerned he had not
been an overwhelming success. Still, there hadn’t been much chance for
firmness. He consoled himself with the promise to maintain a watchful
eye on the coach and be on guard against that gentleman’s smooth
diplomacy.

Practice went very well. Other candidates showed up day by day, and
on Sunday, Fred Locker, the manager, returned. Stuart was glad to see
him, for Fred was a hard-working, invaluable chap and, moreover, a firm
adherent of Stuart’s; and now and then the latter felt dimly that,
should it ever come to a show-down between him and the new coach, he
would need all the backing he could get. There was no doubt that Mr.
Haynes had found much favor with the football squad. There was constant
proof of it. They had already conferred a nickname on him and, save to
his face, he was called “Hop,” that being a favorite ejaculation of his
used on all sorts of occasions. He didn’t join the players at meals in
Lyceum House, but none seemed to feel himself affronted, although Mr.
Craig, the former coach, had always presided at the head of the table.
Mr. Haynes had found quarters just across the river, convenient to the
school, and on Sunday evening Stuart and Fred Locker and The Laird met
there and went very thoroughly into many questions.

The fall term began Tuesday, and on Monday the influx of returning
students began. Rumor had it that the school was to be filled this
year, which meant an enrollment of three hundred and fifty. Not since
the opening of Byers, the latest of the new dormitories, had the school
held a full quota, and the report was pleasing to Stuart, among others,
since, theoretically at least, the more students there were the more
football players there would be. He hoped that among the new fellows
entering the senior or upper middle classes there would be a few
experienced ones, perhaps even a star or two. To anticipate a trifle,
however, Stuart’s hope proved vain, for among the newcomers there was
but one fellow of first team caliber. Haley Leonard, entering the
upper middle class, had weight and a year’s experience behind him and,
after being miscast for part of the season in a rushline position, was
relegated to the backfield and made good as fullback.

On Tuesday afternoon, one of the numerous carriages that rattled to
and fro between the station and the school that day, stopped in front
of Lacey Hall and three boys emerged. Two of them hustled forth,
paid the driver and were quickly swallowed up in the entrance to the
dormitory. But the third member of the trio alighted more slowly, and
it is with this third youth that we have to do. First the end of a
pair of crutches came into sight. Then, the rubbered tips secure on
the pavement, a boy of sixteen swung himself nimbly out. Seen without
his crutches, there was nothing in his appearance to suggest physical
disability. He looked to be normally strong and healthy, with the usual
number of arms and legs, a well-developed torso, and a good-looking,
clean-cut countenance wherein a pair of very deep blue eyes constituted
the most attractive feature. Settling with the driver, he accepted the
bag which the latter handed to him and, with surprising dexterity, took
himself and bag across the walk and up the steps. Once inside, however,
his progress became slower, for the steep stone stairway presented
difficulties when a suitcase hung against the right-hand crutch. Had
any one appeared he would have given over his burden, but as it was he
made the ascent alone, and, at last gaining the second floor, swung
himself along more quickly than another would have walked to the portal
of Number 12. Inside the room the expression of pleasure faded from
his face, for there was no one there to greet him. Setting down his
bag, he looked at his watch and understood.

“Practice,” he muttered. “I might have remembered.” The qualm of
disappointment vanished and, abandoning one of his crutches, he set
about the unpacking of his suit case. From bag to chiffonier, closet
and table he went quickly and efficiently, sometimes throwing his full
weight on the remaining crutch, sometimes placing an aiding hand on
table or chair back or bedstead. Presently, since his trunk was still
to arrive, his task was completed and he seated himself in a chair
that faced the south window, laying the crutch beside him. It would
have taken keen observation then to have suspected anything wrong with
the apparently sound limbs stretched before him, yet the truth is that
never in all his life had they once sustained his full weight. Place
Neil Orr in the water and he could swim like a fish, but ashore and
minus his crutches he was as helpless as a crawling baby. Perhaps had
he once had the full use of his legs he would have minded the lack of
it a great deal, but as it was, while he often envied others their
ability to walk and run and take part in athletics, he was quite
contented with his lot.

Perhaps the Lord had been fully as kind to Neil as to seemingly more
fortunate youths, for while Neil had been denied the usual means of
locomotion he had been blessed with a happy disposition; and were I
forced to make choice of the two gifts I’d never hesitate in choosing
the happy disposition. You are not to suppose that Neil was one of
those objectionably cheerful idiots who, when you pound your thumb
with a hammer under the mistaken idea that you’re hitting a nailhead,
smilingly reminds you, while you dance around with your thumb in your
mouth, that it would have been much worse had you been using an ax,
and that “it will be all the same ten years from now.” A sense of
proportion must accompany a happy disposition if the latter is to be
of use, and in Neil’s case it did. He also had a nice sense of humor
and a kindliness of heart that won him friends everywhere. Among those
who knew Neil only by sight there were probably some who wondered that
Stuart Harven should forgo the privilege of spending his upper middle
year in the greater comfort of Meigs Hall in order to remain with the
younger boy, but those who were acquainted with the latter didn’t
wonder at all. Jack Brewton, close friend of both, smiled to himself
when Stuart explained that he had decided to stay on in Lacey because
it didn’t seem fair to Neil not to. Stuart honestly thought that he was
conferring a benefit, but Jack knew that he was receiving it!

Stuart and Neil had been friendly acquaintances before coming to
Manning. Back home, in Springfield, they had gone to school together,
been of the same “crowd” and done the same things. Although they were
nearly of an age, Stuart was the senior by four months――Neil had always
been one year behind the other in school, owing to the fact that Stuart
possessed a faculty for, as he phrased it, “hitting the high places”
in his studies. Teachers shook their heads over that faculty. They
knew perfectly well that Stuart was, to make use of another convenient
phrase, “beating the game,” but there was nothing they could do about
it. He got high marks, even though his instructors were convinced that
he knew far less of the subjects than did many boys who were marked
much lower, and there was nothing for it but to pass him. Some did it
sadly, with earnest exhortations to more serious and thorough work,
others did it quite as grudgingly but with a secret envy for a quality
not possessed by their plodding, slow-going minds. Once interested in
a course, Stuart could fairly “eat it up,” but the trouble was that few
courses interested him, and even during his two years at Manning――he
had entered the lower middle class――he had continued to rely on his
uncanny ability to learn just enough and no more than was necessary
to keep him in good standing. Since the classes were larger here, he
managed to fool many of the instructors and even gain a reputation for
brilliancy, which reputation helped him to go on fooling them. Among
the few who were not deceived was the English instructor, Mr. Moffit.
Mr. Moffit――Miss Muffit the boys called him――said one day, half in fun,
half in earnest: “Harven, you’re a smart chap, but your smartness is
the Devil’s kind, and some day you may regret it. A juggler may toss up
a glass bowl and a silk hat and a billiard cue ninety-nine times and
catch the hat on his head, the cue on his chin and the bowl on the cue.
But the hundredth time something goes wrong and there’s an awful smash.
Better watch out for the hundredth time, my boy!” To which Stuart
had replied apologetically: “Maybe I don’t go into things as hard as
I should, sir, but there’s lots of time yet. You wait till I get to
college!”

Neil didn’t have Stuart’s gift, fortunately or unfortunately, as you
choose to view it, and he worked much harder for no better surface
results. He regarded his friend’s method with secret doubt but never
criticized it. When he reached Manning, a year after Stuart, it seemed
quite natural that they should take a room together. Neil admired and
liked Stuart for the qualities that attracted other fellows, and,
besides, for his athleticism. Even in the early school days Stuart had
been a leader in games of all sorts. Stuart was as willing as Neil to
join forces. He liked the other boy immensely, and was sorry for him,
although there was something in Neil’s attitude that prohibited pity,
and felt that it would be a friendly act to look after him and see
that his physical disability didn’t act as a handicap. They had spent
a year together in the corner room in Lacey and everything had gone
wonderfully. You couldn’t quarrel with Neil if you wanted to because he
simply wouldn’t have it. If you got nasty Neil merely retired within
his undisturbed self and waited for you to get over your mood. Then he
went on again as if nothing had happened. There might have been rows
aplenty had Neil desired them, for, while Stuart wasn’t quarrelsome,
he was fond of his own opinions and impatient of others’. But Neil
didn’t consider his views or any one else’s views of much importance,
certainly not important enough to become ruffled over! What had begun
as mutual respect and liking had grown within one school year to
something much deeper and stronger, though, boylike, neither would have
cared to give a name to it.

The shadows were growing long on the campus when Stuart returned to No.
12. The greetings exchanged were almost casual, but the handclasp was
hard and the faces of both boys showed their pleasure.

“I’m beastly sorry I couldn’t meet you, Neil,” said Stuart, “but I
couldn’t cut practice to-day. How long have you been here?”

“Perhaps an hour. I unpacked my bag and have been waiting for my trunk.
There’s some of your laundry in it, by the way. Your mother sent it
over yesterday and asked me to bring it along.”

“Thanks. Well, how are you, anyway?”

“Fine,” smiled Neil. “Don’t I look fairly healthy?”

“I’ll say you do. And you’ve got a corking tan. Where’d you get it?”

“I was on the river a good deal. You aren’t exactly pallid yourself,
you know.”

“I know. Hot, isn’t it? Haynes gave us nearly two hours to-day, drat
him!”

“Tell me about him, Stuart. What’s he like?”

“All right, I guess. Rather nice-looking chap. Pleasant and all that.”

“I’m glad,” said Neil. “I hope you’re going to get on together all
right.”

Stuart frowned slightly. “Why shouldn’t we? Gee, you talk as if I
didn’t usually get on with folks!”

“I didn’t mean to,” replied the other. “What’s the news? Who’s back?
How’s Jack?”

“Jack’s all right. Most of the fellows we know are here, I guess. There
isn’t much news though. We’ve put in four days of hard practice, two
sessions daily, and things look pretty good. We’ve got a corking lot of
fellows to start with. If Haynes doesn’t develop too many fool notions
I guess we’ll have a record season.”

“I hope so. I’d hate horribly to have Pearsall beat us this year, when
you’re captain. What do you mean by fool notions, Stuart? Is the new
coach notional?”

“Sort of.” Stuart frowned again. “Most of it’s just talk, though, I
guess.”

“Do the fellows like him?”

“Yes. They won’t, though, if he keeps on working them as hard as he
did Saturday and to-day. By the way, I’m putting you up for Lyceum
to-morrow, Neil, so you’d better get ready to ride the goat.”

Neil smiled. “Thanks. I’ll practice on the footboard of the bed.”

“I told you so you could turn down Manning if they got after you.”

“There’s nothing like being beforehand,” replied Neil demurely.

“Well, they’d get you if they could, I guess. What are you looking so
foxy about? Have they been after you already?”

Neil laughed and nodded. “More than a month ago. Greg Trenholme wrote
me.”

“Oh! What did you tell him?”

“Declined, with proper expression of polite regret. I dare say I’d feel
rather the fool if I failed at Lyceum. Still――――”

“Fail? Why should you? Don’t be an ass! You’ll go through flying. Well,
let’s get washed up. I’m as hungry as a bear!”

                              CHAPTER IV

                          “ONLY THE CAPTAIN!”

The football training table was customarily formed about four days
after the beginning of the term. It was in reality two tables, at which
were gathered some twenty-two of the foremost candidates. Precedent
had established a hard-and-fast dietary, of which such articles as
underdone steaks and chops and roasts of beef formed the fixed basis.
Fresh bread was taboo, as was pastry and most other forms of dessert.
Eggs, certain cereals, milk and fresh vegetables and fruit formed the
balance of the menu. A patented preparation of grain took the place of
coffee. Usually by the time the season drew to an end you got so you
could drink the substitute without making a face. But before that time
you had become heartily sick of the monotony of the food and sighed
deeply for such health-destroying viands as baked macaroni, apple
pie, broiled ham, suet puddings and coffee――especially and constantly
coffee! Even the twice-a-week ice cream, observed enviously by the
neighboring tables, didn’t make up for the breaded veal cutlets or
hot rolls that passed with teasing fragrance but never stopped.
The training table necessitated what practically amounted to the
preparation of two meals in the school kitchen, a fact that doubtless
led the faculty to listen sympathetically to the suggestion of Mr.
Haynes. This suggestion reached the faculty by way of the Committee on
Athletics, popularly called the “Athletic Faculty,” and was submitted
with the committee’s entire approval. The suggestion was no less than
the abolishment of the training table. The first regular faculty
conference was held Thursday evening. Mr. Pierson, assistant instructor
in English and chairman of the Athletic Faculty, laid the matter before
the meeting and read the written argument by the new coach. Subject,
he stated, to the approval of the school faculty, the Committee on
Athletics proposed to give the plan a trial. After a discussion which,
considering the revolutionary character of the proposal, was extremely
brief, the faculty set the seal of its approval; without, you will
observe, consulting Captain Stuart Harven in the least.

In fact Stuart knew nothing of it until Friday forenoon, and then
learned of it in the most haphazard fashion. Wallace Towne, waiting
for H Room to empty so that he might attend a Latin class before he
had quite forgotten all he had learned overnight, caught Stuart in the
corridor of Manning. “See I was in the know about training table, Cap,”
he said. “I’m always there with the inside info. What do you think of
it? No more raw meat to make us savage. No more parched corn playing
coffee. Real food. Great, I say!”

“What are you jabbering about, Wally?” asked Stuart.

“Mean you don’t know?” Wallace looked incredulous. “Why, dearie,
faculty’s abolished the dear old training table! Give you my word! It’s
a thing of the past. Just like the dodo bird and the tandem play and――
All right, ask Jud McColl if you don’t believe me.”

“You’re crazy,” declared Stuart. But his words lacked conviction. “You
can’t build up a football team without a training table!”

“I can’t, no, but Hop Haynes can. Hop’s the Moses that’s going to lead
us through the Red Sea of dish gravy into the Pruneless Land. Say,
that’s good, what? Have to send that to the ‘Bull’!”

(He did, and _The Bulletin_ printed it, slightly elaborated, in the
Caught on the Campus column.)

Stuart reiterated his doubt of Wallace’s sanity and took himself into
Latin class, Wallace, still chuckling over his _bon mot_, following.
Stuart wasn’t easy in his mind, though, in spite of his expressed
contempt for Wallace’s information, and added nothing to his laurels
as a Latin scholar that morning. Oddly enough, Judson McColl was the
first fellow Stuart’s eyes fell on when the class was over. McColl was
Prominence personified. He was President of the recently formed Student
Council, President of Manning Society, Captain of the Hockey Team and,
with Stearns Wilson, represented the student body on the Athletic
Faculty. In spite of all these honors, however, McColl was simple,
likable and approachable. He expressed regretful surprise that Stuart
had been unaware of the proposed abolition of the training table.

“I supposed of course you knew, Stuart,” he said. “Mr. Haynes
introduced the proposal several days ago.”

McColl looked so puzzled that Stuart fancied his dignity in danger.
“Of course I heard something about it,” he replied defensively, “but I
didn’t know it had been brought up. Personally, I think it’s a crazy
scheme, Jud.”

“We-ell, I don’t know.” McColl pursed his lips. “Haynes made out a
strong case, Stuart. Of course, if it doesn’t work we’ll go back to the
old way. We thought there’d be no harm in giving it a trial, eh?”

Stuart shrugged. “Seems to me it would have been fairer to give the
players a voice in the matter,” he said.

“Don’t agree with you there,” replied McColl. “Things like that are up
to the Committee. Anyway, about all the football fellows I’ve talked
with are in favor of it.”

Stuart looked incredulous, but, having no data to base a contrary
assertion on, he let the statement pass unchallenged. Parting from
McColl, he went over to Meigs to unburden his mind to Jack. Jack,
of course would share his indignation. But neither Jack nor Stearns
Wilson, his roommate, was in, and Stuart went across to Lacey and spent
the period before dinner nursing his sense of injury. Neil had a class
and didn’t show up before the midday meal, and Stuart had sufficient
time and solitude to work up a very fair case against Coach Haynes and
the Athletic Faculty. Thinking things over, it struck him as peculiar,
if not suspicious, that Jack, who, since he roomed with Stearns Wilson,
must have known about the training table matter, hadn’t spoken of it to
him. Stuart uneasily wondered if Jack favored the absurd change. McColl
had said that many of the players did. Perhaps Jack was one of them
and, knowing Stuart’s position in the matter, had purposely avoided the
subject. Jack became grouped in Stuart’s mind with those others who had
conspired to bring about an iniquitous change by underhand methods.
He decided to see Coach Haynes immediately after dinner and speak his
mind. After all, Haynes was the chief culprit.

At dinner Stuart broached the matter to Leo Burns and Harry Beeman,
the only members of the squad at his table, and was pained, even
disgusted, to discover that they were heartily in favor of the change.
Beeman, who, as a first-string man and a veteran, should have had more
sense, was eloquent on the merits of the new plan, and Stuart retired
disgruntledly from the subject. The left guard made himself more
obnoxious by taking it for granted that his views were the captain’s.

Stuart’s hike to Coach Haynes’ quarters in the village after dinner
produced no satisfaction, for the coach wasn’t there. He waited
awhile, but Mr. Haynes didn’t come. Having to hurry back to school
under an ardent September sun so as not to be late for a half-past-one
recitation didn’t improve Stuart’s temper any. It was in the gymnasium
at three-thirty that he finally unburdened his mind. His arraignment
wasn’t nearly so harsh as he had intended it should be, for Mr. Haynes
was so palpably sincere in his regrets that Stuart had to pull in his
horns at the very beginning.

“I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything,” declared the coach
earnestly. “I was certain that I had spoken of the matter to you,
Captain Harven. I surely intended to. I went into it with quite a
number of the fellows, I know. So many things have come up the past
week, though, I’ve been so rushed and confused, that probably I failed
to consult you.”

“You certainly did,” replied Stuart stiffly. “And, naturally, I was
rather surprised this morning to learn that the matter had come up and
been decided.”

“I should say so!” Mr. Haynes was evidently grieved. “Of course you
should have been consulted, and I can’t see how I failed to bring it
up to you. You’re quite sure it wasn’t mentioned? There was that long
talk we had in your room one night――――”

“It wasn’t mentioned then, sir, nor at any other time. Perhaps I
wouldn’t mind so much if――if I approved, but I don’t, Mr. Haynes.”

“Really? By jove, I’m sorry to hear that! So many of the fellows
favored it, you see, Harven. No one I spoke to was against giving
the plan a trial. It isn’t an experiment, Harven, although it is new
here. We tried it out my last two years at Fisherville and it worked
splendidly. You couldn’t get one person there to-day to speak in favor
of the training table. We got far better results without it. We didn’t
lose a single game last year, and only one the year before. Three years
ago we lost four out of eight. That tells the story, doesn’t it?”

Stuart frowned, unconvinced. “How can you tell it was that, Mr. Haynes?
You might have done just the same with a training table, I’d say.”

“The condition of the fellows was better, Harven; thirty per cent
better at least. It isn’t rare beefsteak and thick cream and the rest
of the stereotyped training table diet that produces the best results.
I’ve seen teams spoiled by overeating time and again. Loading your
stomach with rich, heavy food is simply folly. It doesn’t make for
strength and energy, Harven. Plain food, plenty of it, but never too
much, is my belief.”

“If the fellows eat around at different tables, how are you going to
see that they eat what they should?”

“You don’t.” Mr. Haynes smiled. “They see to that themselves. It
doesn’t take them long to learn the lesson. Those who prefer to eat
what isn’t good for them to playing football are no loss to us. But
you’ll find there aren’t many such: perhaps one or two in a squad of
forty. It isn’t just a case of being put on honor, Harven; it’s a case
of using your common sense. If you don’t eat wisely you don’t keep
in condition, and if you aren’t in condition you don’t play on the
team. Just as soon as the fellows get that into their heads there’s no
trouble. The fare here is good enough and sufficient enough and varied
enough for any fellow to train on, Harven, and I’ll guarantee to show
you a better-conditioned squad by the first of November than Manning
ever saw here when training tables were used.”

“You couldn’t spoil the crowd we’ve got here this year no matter what
you fed them!” replied Stuart stubbornly.

“Oh, yes, you could! You’d only have to feed them on underdone beef
twice a day, and fill them with rich cream, and encourage them to eat
all they’d hold. I’ve seen it tried pretty often. I went through it
myself, too. I’ve been so logy after a dinner of that sort that it
was an effort to stretch my arms! Look here, Captain Harven, keep an
open mind on this question, won’t you? Just sit back and see how it
turns out. We both want to secure the best possible results this year,
and I think this is one way to do it. Don’t think that I’m simply
experimenting with the team, for I’m not. I’m convinced that this way
is the best. If I weren’t I wouldn’t consider it for a moment. I’m
mighty sorry that the thing went through without your cognizance, and I
certainly apologize for my share of the blame. But it has gone through,
and so, even if you don’t feel like giving it your full approval yet,
you’ll help me to make it go, won’t you?”

Stuart shrugged. “I don’t see how I could do anything else,” he
answered. “Only――well, I’ll wait and see. I’ve got to be shown, sir.”

“Quite right! We’ll leave it so. Now we’d better get out, eh?”

All during practice the conviction persisted in Stuart’s mind that,
in spite of Mr. Haynes’ smooth words something, as he phrased it to
himself, had been put over on him. He felt aggrieved, even humiliated,
and regretted that he hadn’t talked up to the coach harder than he
had. The trouble was, he reflected, that Mr. Haynes was so blamed
polite and plausible that you couldn’t talk the way you wanted to!
Instead of interfering with his work, however, Stuart’s grievance that
afternoon induced redoubled exertion, and he drove A squad so hard and
put so much vim and snap into his work that, in the twenty minutes of
scrimmaging, the veterans twice carried the ball nearly the length
of the field for a score. The Laird, hovering up and down the side
line, frowned dubiously. Such speed had no place on a gridiron where a
thermometer, had there been such a thing, would have registered around
seventy!

Going back to the gymnasium afterward, Stuart charged Jack with black
treachery. “You knew what was going on, didn’t you?” he demanded.
“Stearns must have talked about it. Why didn’t you say something to me?”

“Why, I thought you knew!” expostulated Jack. “Of course Stearns
mentioned it, but there wasn’t much talk. I knew you didn’t like the
scheme and I supposed you were putting up a fight.”

“It’s mighty funny,” growled the other. “Every fellow in school seems
to have known all about it except me! It’s the silliest stunt I ever
heard of! First thing we know Haynes’ll be springing a scheme to cut
out practice!”

“Well, he hasn’t shown any sign of it yet,” replied Jack dryly. “Looks
to me like he was a plaguey sight more likely to overwork us than
underwork us! We’ve had more hard practice in a week than we had last
fall in two weeks! And you’re as bad as he is. Looked like you were
trying to play us off our feet to-day!”

“Do you good,” muttered Stuart. “Are you in favor of no training table,
too?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Jack cautiously. “I do think that we
sometimes ate too much last year. I’ve seen Joe Cutts get away with
two steaks and three baked potatoes, besides all the trimmings, at one
meal. And you’ll remember that half of us were no good at all for a
whole week in October last season. The Laird said we’d been eating too
many eggs and too much milk.”

“Well, we won, didn’t we? A touch of biliousness is nothing. You can’t
keep thirty-odd fellows in perfect trim every day for two months. That
stands to reason. Eating too much doesn’t help, of course, but eating
the wrong sort of stuff is worse. And that’s what a lot of chaps will
do when there’s no one to look after them. Haynes says it worked fine
at Fisherville, but Fisherville isn’t Manning. Besides, they always
take mighty good pains at Fisherville to take on only teams they know
they can lick!”

“I guess it isn’t that bad,” laughed Jack. “You don’t like Fisherville;
that’s your trouble. The truth is, though, that Fisherville turned out
just about the best and smoothest team in this part of the country last
fall, and you can’t get around that, old chap.”

“We’d have beaten her if she’d given us a chance,” growled Stuart.
“They’re mighty careful not to give us a game.”

“Haynes said the other day he would arrange a game next season.”

“He may think so,” answered Stuart pessimistically, “but Fisherville
will find an excuse. You wait and see.”

Later, Stuart sought sympathy from Neil and, after a fashion,
got it. Neil agreed that Stuart should have been consulted in the
matter; agreed, too, that doing away with the training table was most
unfortunate if Stuart’s forebodings should prove justified. “Maybe,
though, Mr. Haynes meant to consult you, as he says he did,” continued
Neil. “I guess he has had a good deal to think about since he took
hold, eh? It’s all pretty new to him, Stuart. It was decent of him to
apologize.”

“What’s the good of his apology?” demanded the other impatiently.
“Whether he meant to consult me or not, he didn’t, and it makes me
feel rather small, naturally. I’m captain of the team, and I ought to
have a little say in its affairs. It doesn’t look as if I were going
to, though! Haynes has the Athletic Faculty with him, and can do as he
likes, I guess. I should think either Jud or Stearns might have asked
my opinion before buckling under to him. They’re supposed to look after
the interests of the fellows, but all they think about is pleasing
Haynes.”

Neil let that pass without comment. After a moment he asked: “Do you
really think it will work badly, Stuart, this new plan?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But what’s the good of it? We got along all right
before, didn’t we? Why does he have to come and upset things?
Faculty’s crazy to give in to him this way, too.”

“Well, let’s wait and see how it turns out,” advised Neil. “Mr. Haynes
must think he’s right, or he wouldn’t advocate it. If he’s wrong, of
course they’ll go back to the training table again. Just don’t let it
upset you, Stuart. That’s the main thing. Steady on, eh?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter about me,” muttered Stuart ironically. “I’m only
the captain!”

                               CHAPTER V

                         A CLASH OF AUTHORITY

Manning disposed of Lansing High School the next day without difficulty.
The score, 20 to 0, did not, in fact, represent the true strength of the
home team, for in the last half Coach Haynes ran in a bewildering number
of substitutes who, while they held the opponent from scoring, were not
able to add to the twenty points already won. The Cherry-and-Gray showed
excellent form, rather better than was customary in a first contest, and
Manning strolled away from the field comfortably certain that this
year’s “Cherries” were going to prove themselves one of the Big Teams in
the school’s history. Indeed, with practically six seasoned veterans to
build around, there was no apparent reason why the team shouldn’t turn
out to be as good as any in recent years. Stuart was in gay spirits that
evening, and only the fact that his proposal of Neil to membership in
Lyceum was to be acted on kept him from joining Jack and “Howdy” Tasker
and Fred Locker and several more of the football crowd in a visit to
Safford’s one movie house. Jack, bursting hilariously into Number 12
after supper with an announcement of the party, had to be satisfied with
Neil’s acceptance. Stuart watched them join the others at the gate and
go off along School Lane, and felt rather virtuous and heroic.

When he reached Lyceum House he found that various Saturday night
diversions had reduced the attendance at the first regular meeting to
less than a score of fellows. Stearns Wilson was there of course, for
he was President, and so, in his rôle of faculty director, was Mr.
Moffit. Thurston, Whaley, Tom Muirgart and Steve Le Gette represented
the football element. Stuart wasn’t especially pleased to see Le Gette,
who was a big, dark-complexioned, curly-haired fellow of eighteen, a
senior and candidate for a tackle position. Stuart had nothing especial
against the other. He doubted if they had spoken a hundred words to
each other since they had been in school. But he didn’t like Le Gette’s
sardonic smile, which always made him feel that the big black-haired
fellow was secretly laughing at him, and he was pretty certain that Le
Gette liked him no better. But his annoyance at sight of the other――if
it deserved the name――was slight and passing.

The secretary was painfully long-winded with his report, but he
finished it at last and at least six members relievedly moved its
adoption. Balloting on the names of five candidates for election
started then. Neil’s name came last, and Stuart made his little
speech――and did it very well since he had the knack of talking well
to an audience――and Stearns Wilson seconded the proposal very nicely,
saying much more than Stuart had dared hope he would when he had
enlisted his aid. As no one asked Mr. Moffit’s opinion, the director
could not enter the lists on behalf of the candidate. But after all,
Stuart reflected, it was of no consequence, for among the small number
present there was surely no one to vote against a fellow as well liked
as Neil. Even as he made this reflection, though, his gaze fell on
Steve Le Gette and an instant’s doubt assailed him. But it passed
quickly. Blackballing a candidate for election to Lyceum was something
that wasn’t done without good cause, without strong conviction of
the candidate’s undesirability, and Le Gette scarcely knew Neil and
certainly could have nothing against him. George Whaley briefly added
his second and voting began. Each member walked to the table, picked
a ball from the outer compartment of the box and dropped it into the
inner. Conversation, interrupted by the speeches, began again. Stuart,
talking to Mr. Moffit, faltered as he watched Le Gette stride to the
box and cast his vote, and then secretly laughed at himself for his
doubt.

Will Severence, the secretary, drew aside the cover as casually as
he had on four previous occasions. Then, however, his manner altered
abruptly and he glanced swiftly, questioningly about the room. After
a moment’s hesitation he announced: “One contrary vote, fellows,” and
held up a little black ball. A second of silence followed. Then several
spoke at once, but it was Muirgart’s voice that was loudest.

“Some silly mistake!” he exclaimed incredulously. “No one would be
crazy enough to turn down a fellow like Orr!”

“Of course,” agreed Stearns Wilson. “Must be a mistake.”

“Try it over,” suggested Thurston.

It was irregular and some discussion followed, but in the end, since
every one appeared willing and Mr. Moffit smilingly declined to give
a ruling, the vote was taken a second time, and in silence. Severence
once again surveyed the result, and there was a troubled tone in his
voice as he answered the silently questioning gaze of the meeting.

“Just the same,” he said. “One black.”

“_What!_” Stuart half started from his chair, but Mr. Moffit laid a
gently restraining hand on him.

“Oh, I say, that’s a rotten shame!” declared George Whaley. “What’s
the idea?” He appealed frowningly about the room. “Look at the fellows
we’ve taken in already to-night! I’d like to know who’s got it in for
Orr!”

“Well, don’t scowl at me,” growled Thurston. “I didn’t do it.”

“Same here!” “Nor I!” Several voices disclaimed until Stearns Wilson
rapped sharply on the desk. “Is there any further business?” he asked.
Stuart again made as if to rise and again Mr. Moffit’s hand restrained
him. Some one moved adjournment, some one seconded and the meeting was
over. Whaley and Muirgart moved toward Stuart, but he was already on
his feet, making for the door, his face black with rage. He pushed past
them with a muttered growl. Taking his cap from the table in the hall,
his gaze unwittingly encountered the face of Steve Le Gette through the
open door and their eyes met. Le Gette’s countenance seemed to Stuart
to express a triumph at once derisive and amused. Mr. Moffit called
from the doorway an instant later, but Stuart, already crunching the
gravel of the Principal’s Walk, either did not or pretended not to hear.

Neil was back in Number 12 when Stuart reached it, comfortably reclined
in a morris chair, reading. Stuart closed the door behind with a slam
and shied his cap to the bed. “The dirty pup!” he raged. “The sneaking
bounder! But I’ll get even with him if it takes all the rest of my
life! He can’t do that to me and get away with it!”

Neil’s cheeks went a little white, but he only smiled as he said: “No
use getting mad about it, Stuart. He had a right to turn me down if he
wanted to, I guess.”

“No, he didn’t, by jingo! He――Look here!” Stuart paused in his
irritable tramping between door and table. “How’d you know?”

“Must have guessed it from your manner,” laughed Neil. “How many were
there against me?”

“One, but that was enough. It was Steve Le Gette, the dirty dog. He
doesn’t like me, but that’s no reason to take it out on you! Just
because I put your name up――――”

“Are you sure it was Le Gette?” Neil looked puzzled. “Why, I don’t even
know him, except by sight! Why should he――he――――”

“Because he wanted to get at me, I tell you! But I’ll get _him_, Neil,
as sure as shooting!”

“Did he tell you he did it?”

“Tell me? Of course he didn’t! He wouldn’t have had the courage to tell
it! But he looked it. It was on his ugly face from the moment I got
there. I half suspected it, but I couldn’t quite think he’d do it, even
if he wanted to. Every one there was so――so astonished they wouldn’t
believe it! We took the vote over! If you’d seen the sneering, rotten
look he gave me afterwards! I wish I’d punched his face right then. If
Moffit hadn’t been there――――”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Neil quietly. “After all, it’s rather my
affair than it is yours, isn’t it?”

Stuart stared in real surprise. It hadn’t occurred to him before that
Neil might be the one to feel it most. Even now he wasn’t ready to
acknowledge it.

“Not by a long shot,” he declared. “The insult was to me. He’s got
nothing against you, couldn’t have. If any one else had proposed you
he wouldn’t have cared. If I’d realized I’d have had Thirsty or Whaley
do it. I’m not through yet, though. I’ll get you in next term, you can
bet!”

“I’m not sure that I’d want you to,” said Neil doubtfully. “Isn’t there
something a little――well, a little degrading about coming back like
that after you’ve been shown once that you aren’t wanted?”

“Not a bit! Look here, Neil, every fellow there wanted you in, and they
were all as surprised and――and mad as I was! You bet I’ll try again!
And I’ll make it go, too! When I get through with Le Gette he won’t
know a black ball from a white!”

“I’d lots rather you just let the whole thing drop,” said Neil
earnestly. “Taking revenge on Le Gette isn’t worth while. Besides,
being blackballed isn’t――well, it isn’t altogether pleasant, and I’d a
heap rather not have it talked about, and all that, you know.”

“I’m not going to talk about it,” answered Stuart grimly. Then, after a
moment, getting Neil’s point of view, he added: “It’s nonsense to feel
that way about it, though, old chap. Lots of fellows are turned down
for Lyceum or Manning without any one thinking anything about it. And,
gee, some fellows get three and four black balls against them! Every
one there to-night knows that it was just spite-work. You don’t need to
let it worry you one mite.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t go after Le Gette, Stuart, if you
don’t mind very much. In the first place, you have no real proof――――”

“Proof enough,” growled the other.

“And in the second place, it’ll just make talk. Let’s forget it.”

“Not on your life! There won’t be any talk, Neil, but Le Gette will
know that I’ve settled with him!”

Neil said no more. He believed that by morning Stuart would have calmed
down somewhat. And it wasn’t wise to oppose Stuart beyond a certain
point, anyway. He just got more set in his notions. Stuart returned to
the subject several times before sleep settled down over Number 12.

Had Stuart encountered Le Gette the next forenoon there would probably
have been an explosion; perhaps blows. But, as luck had it, he didn’t,
and by eleven-thirty, at which time an open hour fell to him, he had
thought of a better, more subtle method of revenge. He went into the
village and found Mr. Haynes. The coach, sitting in his shirt-sleeves
by an open window of his living room, listened silently to the tale.
When Stuart had reached the end of his eloquence he lighted his briar
again and said: “Too bad, Harven. Possibly, though, you’ll be able to
make it the next time. From what I hear, this chap Orr is too fine a
fellow to be treated like that.”

“He’s a corker,” declared Stuart stoutly. “Yes, I’ll make it the next
time all right, Mr. Haynes, but it’s this time that I’m talking about.”

“I see. Well, was there something you wanted from me? I’m afraid I’m
not in a position to be much help to you, as much as I’d like to.”

“Why, I came to you because I wanted you to know just what a rotter Le
Gette is! I’m not going to have that sort of a fellow on the team, sir.
We don’t want his kind. The others wouldn’t if they knew. Of course,
I’m not going to tell it around. It’ll get around without my telling,
anyway. I just wanted you to understand what the reason was, Mr.
Haynes.”

The coach blew a cloud of smoke from his lips and through it viewed
Stuart in a puzzled fashion. “Let me get this right, Captain Harven,”
he said after a moment. “Am I to understand that you’re proposing
to――well, dispense with Le Gette’s services on the team?”

Stuart looked surprised, too. “Of course! I propose to fire him! What
else is there to do? A fellow like Le Gette isn’t fit for the team.
That’s what I’m here about.”

“I see.” Mr. Haynes was silent for the better part of a minute, while
Stuart watched him with dawning suspicion. Then: “I don’t think the
position you take is tenable, Captain Harven,” he said gently. “Because
a private quarrel exists between you and Le Gette you propose to
deprive the squad of a very clever player. Now――――”

“The quarrel has nothing to do with it,” replied Stuart impatiently. “I
can look after my own quarrels. But Le Gette did a sneaky, contemptible
act. Don’t you see that? A football team is――is――well, in a way it’s
a society, Mr. Haynes, a club. It has its social side as well as its
other, and we don’t want to have dealings with a fellow like Le Gette,
a fellow that will make a personal matter the excuse for harming one
whom he doesn’t even know.”

“Are you sure you aren’t making this a personal matter, too? Are you
sure it’s because you want to guard the members of the team from the
contaminating influence of Le Gette? Or are you merely trying to get
even with him? Better think about that a minute.”

“Of course I’m sore against him,” answered Stuart resentfully. “I don’t
deny that. Any fellow would be. But, just the same, I’m acting for
the――the welfare――――”

“Granting that, though, Captain Harven,” interrupted the coach, “how do
you know that Le Gette really did what you say he did? As I understand
it, there is no way of telling whether a voter drops in a black ball
or a white ball at your elections. Has Le Gette acknowledged he voted
against Orr?”

“No, not in words. He doesn’t have to. I _know_! His looks were enough.
Besides, he was the only one there that could have! The others all
wanted Neil elected.”

“Well, suppose you’re correct in your assumption,” said the coach.
“There is more than a reasonable doubt, I’d say, but suppose you are.
Do you seriously ask me to fire Le Gette for this offense and on this
evidence?”

“No, for I’ll fire him myself,” flared Stuart. “I’m captain of the
team, even if being captain doesn’t amount to much this year! At
least, I fancy, I’ve got the right to say whether or not a player is
fit to be on the team!”

Mr. Haynes shook his head gently. “I doubt that, Harven.”

“What! Do you mean to say――――”

“Exactly.” The coach’s voice was quiet but very firm, very assured.
“I mean, Captain Harven, that it is the coach’s place to select the
players. That I take to be one of his duties. If he is to instruct a
team in football he certainly has the privilege of deciding who shall
belong to that team; in other words whom he considers eligible to his
instruction. And if he has the power to choose the members he must
surely have the power to dispense with them.”

“Where does the captain come in in your scheme?” sneered Stuart.

“The captain has the duty of leadership,” replied the coach, without
appearance of offense. “The team selected, he becomes its head,
responsible to the coach for its obedience to his orders and, more
than all, for its morale. There should be close and frank coöperation
between captain and coach. The captain undoubtedly should occupy an
advisory position in all matters pertaining to the team. He should
act as a liaison officer between the players and the coach. I am sorry
that coöperation between us so far this season hasn’t amounted to
much. From the first, rightly or wrongly, I have observed an attitude
of resentment in you toward me. I have said nothing, in the hope that
it would pass, in the trust that you would soon set aside any slight
personal dislike of me that you had and meet me fairly and frankly
halfway. But this you don’t seem inclined to do. I’ll acknowledge
that the matter of the training table was unfortunate, but I think
that, were you perfectly fair to me, you would acknowledge that no
offense was meant and sponge it off the slate, Harven. Wait, please:
let me finish. There can’t be divided authority in the running of a
football team any more than there can be in any other effort toward
success. It is best to have the duties of your office and mine clearly
defined for our mutual understanding. I am paid a salary――two thousand
dollars, to be exact――to come here and do my level best to turn out
a winning football team. As I understand it, I am responsible only
to the Committee on Athletics and, under them, am in full command. I
couldn’t do the work justice if matters were any different, Harven.
You have been chosen the captain of the team, an intermediary between
the players and the coach. Your authority does not extend beyond that
of any other member of the team _outside_ the team. To grant you the
right to select and discharge players would be fatal to my authority.
You would become the court of last resort and your word would be law,
not mine. I couldn’t work under those conditions. Surely you must see
that, Captain Harven.”

“Until this year the captain has had an equal say with the coach in the
affairs of the team,” answered Stuart hotly. “Until you came there was
never any question as to who had authority or who hadn’t!”

“And until this year you were not captain,” replied Mr. Haynes coldly.
“I’m sorry, Harven. I wish things had turned out differently. Perhaps
I’m not wholly free from blame, but, frankly, I don’t know how to
handle you, my boy. I hope we’ll come together presently. Meanwhile
I’m here for just one thing. You know what that is. And I propose to
accomplish that thing. I want your help, need it badly, but, with it or
without it, I’m going to be coach of this team and hold the reins.”

Stuart jerked to his feet and stared down on his host with white
face and angry eyes. “You refuse to fire Le Gette, then?” he demanded
tensely.

“I do, Captain Harven. I refuse most decidedly.”

“Suppose I say, then, that I won’t work on the team with him?”

“You can’t,” answered the coach earnestly. “You have a duty to the
school, just as I have toward my employer. Clashes between you and me,
my boy, must not be allowed to damage the prospects of the team. We’ll
fight our battles together off the field and not, as you say Le Gette
did, make the innocent suffer.”

Stuart’s eyes fell, but the hostility was still in his voice as he
answered: “All right, sir. I’m just as keen as you are for having
Manning win this year. You needn’t lay all the blame on me, though, for
not coöperating. You treated me rotten from the first. I shan’t forget
that. I guess you’ve got the Athletic Faculty behind you, so there’s
nothing for me to do but lie down and play dead! I’m not going to fight
you. If I asked for a show-down I guess the team would be on my side,
all right, but I’m not playing baby. I’ll see it through because it’s
my team as much as it is yours, even if you don’t think so. There’s
one thing, though, I’m promising myself, Mr. Haynes. When the season’s
over I’m going to give myself the satisfaction of telling you just what
I think of you!”

“When the season’s over I’ll be ready to hear it, Captain Harven,”
answered the coach quietly.

Stuart went out wishing mightily that slamming the door would not be
beneath his dignity.

                              CHAPTER VI

                                DEFEAT

No one learned of that conversation in the coach’s quarters but Neil.
And Neil, although he said little, was, in Stuart’s opinion, none too
sympathetic. Which, of course, means that Neil didn’t approve of his
chum’s course and couldn’t conceal the fact. Stuart was sensible of a
slight disappointment in Neil this fall. The latter didn’t seem nearly
so sympathetic as last year, he thought. Somewhat moodily he listened
to Neil’s plea for concord and patience, at last replying rather
testily:

“Don’t worry. I know where I stand and I’m going to take my medicine.
Haynes has the upper hand and, short of taking the matter to the Ath.
Fac., there’s nothing I can do. And I guess the Ath. Fac., would back
Haynes against me, as far as that goes. He’s being paid a salary for
his job, and I’m not. They’d do as he said if only to get their money’s
worth. As for Le Gette――――”

He stopped, and Neil said anxiously: “Better forget all about him,
Stuart. There’s nothing you can do, anyhow!”

“There’s plenty I _can_ do,” answered the other grimly, “but I’m not
going to. Haynes is right about one thing, and I’m fair enough to say
so. The team’s success is the main consideration. I’ll work as hard for
that as he will, confound him!”

To Stuart’s credit it may be said that he honestly meant that and
earnestly tried to live up to the promise. If he didn’t wholly succeed
it was not for lack of good intention. Between him and Le Gette ensued
a period of armed neutrality. Stuart heroically resisted the temptation
to tell Le Gette what he thought of him, promising himself, however,
the pleasure of doing so after Pearsall had been disposed of. It was
in his power to make Le Gette’s path to the first team more difficult
of travel, perhaps, by underhand machinations, to keep him off it
entirely, but he had no thought of that. At work they spoke when they
had to. At other times they passed without greetings. Jack riled Stuart
one day by declaring that Le Gette seemed to him to be rather a decent
chap. “Of course I don’t know him,” he added. “I’m only judging by
what I’ve seen of him at the field.”

“You know what he did to Neil, don’t you?” asked Stuart hotly.

“Y-yes, but――well, honestly, Stuart, I’ve always thought there might
have been a mistake there.”

“There was,” replied the other dryly, “and he’ll find it out some day!”

On the seventh, Manning defeated Wentworth, 7 to 0, in a close,
well-played contest, and there began to be talk of getting through
the season without being scored against. A week later such talk
ended abruptly. On the Tuesday succeeding the Wentworth game the
Cherry-and-Gray met her first misfortune. Leo Burns, already picked as
the likeliest of the halfbacks, sprained his ankle in practice. It was
a bad sprain, with no chance of recovery in time for the Walsenburg
game, and Stuart’s confidence in the team’s ability to win that contest
had a setback. Of course it was no life-or-death matter, but he wanted
that game very much. Walsenburg was a stout adversary who had thrown
several scares into Manning during the last few years, but had beaten
her but once. Stuart knew that Walsenburg was thirsting for Manning
blood and even suspected her of duplicity in securing an early date.
Also, there existed a slight feeling of rivalry between him and the
Walsenburg quarter. All in all, Stuart would rather have won that
contest than any other on the schedule, with, of course, the exception
of the big game with Pearsall. He tentatively mentioned splints and
bandages to The Laird, but The Laird was emphatically opposed to taking
chances.

“He’d be little use, Cap, in the game,” he declared, “and if he was
hurt again he’d be out for the season. Yes, I know he’s keen for
playing, but there’s other games coming and we’ll need him worse than
we’ll need him next Saturday.”

“There isn’t any game coming, except Pearsall, that I’d rather win,”
replied Stuart dejectedly.

“Nor me,” agreed the trainer. “They’re a hard, corky bunch of lads, but
maybe we’ll down them just the same.”

“That’s likely, with Haynes making no effort for them,” said Stuart
bitterly. “He isn’t even giving us a new play! We’ll have to face them
with the same stuff we had last year, and they’ll eat it up, Laird!”

Nevertheless, Stuart hadn’t given up all hope, for even though Coach
Haynes had decided to make no special preparations for Walsenburg,
he knew that there was a strong sentiment among the players in favor
of beating the rival at almost any cost, and he was relying on that
sentiment to pull the team through. It was evident as early as the
first of that week that no help was to be expected from Mr. Haynes. He
had more than once declared himself against disturbing the early season
progress of the team for the purpose of beating an opponent. “We’ll
take them in our stride,” was his way of expressing it. There was not
a little criticism and some grumbling from the veterans, but the new
coach had by now pretty firmly established himself in their favor, and
openly expressed opposition to his decision was lacking.

Ernest Lowe took Burns’ place at left half and practice went on
methodically until Friday. On Friday evening Coach Haynes did call a
session in the gymnasium and gave them nearly an hour of floor practice
on formations and some ten minutes of good advice, but that was the
extent of his concessions. And the next day, when the line-up was made
known, he had, at least in the judgment of most, neutralized that by
putting Steve Le Gette in at right tackle in place of Ned Thurston. Le
Gette had been playing a good game as substitute, and Thurston had, it
was true, been under his form since the Wentworth contest, but those
who knew “Thirsty” were convinced of his ability to come back and were
far from pleased with the change. Stuart closed his lips very tight and
said nothing when the list was read, but on the way to the field he
confided to Jack bitterly that “Walsenburg ought to lick us, with our
own coach doing all he can to help her!”

From a Manning viewpoint the game left much to be desired. Looking at
it from the Walsenburg side of the field, it was a corker! Walsenburg’s
players were probably no better individually than the opponent’s,
but collectively they were just as much better as the final score
proclaimed them: and the final score was 13 to 6.

Walsenburg had developed team play to a remarkable point, considering
the time of year. Sticking to quite simple plays, starting from a
three-abreast formation, Walsenburg relied on speed, weight and
smoothness of operation to win. The Cherry-and-Gray was put on the
defensive early in the first quarter and kept there until the half
was over, while the enemy twice rushed her way to the home team’s
threshold, the first time losing the ball on downs on the eight yards
and the second time plunging across the line for a touchdown that was
followed by a goal. In the third quarter Manning staged a come-back,
and securing the pigskin on her own twenty-two yards she mingled two
forward-passes with an end-running attack that, aided by a penalty for
holding, placed her within scoring distance of the adversary’s goal.

After that it was only grim determination that enabled her to put
the ball over, for her plays, none of them new, were “old stuff” to
Walsenburg and were as often stopped behind the line as beyond it. It
was individual brilliancy versus team play, with the odds all in favor
of the latter, and yet for once the probabilities were upset, for,
from the visitor’s twenty-seven to her six, big, calm-eyed “Howdy”
Tasker, at fullback, smashed his way in four attempts, once plunging
for five yards outside left tackle quite on his own, the interference
having been nailed in its tracks. From the six, Manning ground down the
defense by concentrating on the Walsenburg right guard, throwing Tasker
and Hanson at him, and then Tasker again, and gaining a yard, a yard
and a half and another yard. On fourth down slightly over six feet of
trampled turf remained to be conquered, and, with Manning imploring
from the stand, Tasker again hurled himself at Walsenburg’s right guard
and Stuart, the ball snuggled to his stomach, shot off to the right,
head down, and plunged some how through the mêlée until, falling, his
hands held the pigskin just over the last white line.

Stuart failed at goal by less than the width of the ball and Manning
groaned dismay and sorrow, for at this stage of the contest it seemed
that the home team might hold the enemy from further scoring. But,
although Walsenburg appeared content to mark time for the rest of the
period, in the last quarter she again showed her power. Tasker’s weak
punt from his thirty-five to midfield gave the adversary her chance
and she set herself to the task with new energy. She had freshened
her backfield with a pair of substitute halfs and began a ferocious,
remorseless hammering of the Manning right side. Towne was worn down
and gave way to Baker, and Le Gette, who had performed creditably
at right tackle, was replaced by Thurston. But the enemy had almost
gained his objective by that time and was ready to shift his attack. A
crafty forward-pass, as well performed as it was unexpected, placed the
ball on the home team’s seventeen yards for first down. A fake place
kick developed into a quarterback run around left end, and, although
Stuart brought down his rival well across the field, the pigskin was
four yards closer to the goal line. From the thirteen yards Walsenburg
reached the five in three plunges through a weakening line. There
Manning braced and wrenched the ball from the enemy by inches and
Tasker punted from behind his line. But again the ball went short and a
Walsenburg halfback caught on Manning’s twenty-three and dodged back to
the fourteen.

Tasker and Lowe were taken out and fresh backs sent in. Cutts, at
center, was also replaced. But Walsenburg was not to be denied. A
double pass fooled Manning badly, three plunges at the new center
yielded gains and once more the enemy was inside the five-yard line.
The Cherry-and-Gray cohorts hoarsely pounded out their slogan of
“_Hold, Manning! Hold, Manning!_” but Manning was a played-out team now
and there was little glory for the visitor in her final triumph. Two
plays took the pigskin across, the second through a hole big enough
for a push-cart to pass and Manning tasted the bitterness of defeat.

That game, though it ended in disaster for Manning, was, after all,
nothing to hang one’s head over. Against a far-better developed team,
the Cherry-and-Gray had fought desperately and often heroically, and
this fact, when the first sting of disappointment had worn off, was
recognized by the school. In fact, the _Bulletin_, the school weekly,
was quite epic in its editorial the following Thursday, and likened the
battle to Thermopylae, and the home team to Greek heroes. It praised
Captain Harven highly for his generalship and individual playing, which
praise was certainly well deserved, and it spoke in glowing measure of
several others: Tasker and Towne and Cutts and Whaley; and even dripped
honeyed words on Le Gette. Perhaps the _Bulletin_ overdid it somewhat,
but it meant well.

One person who appeared neither depressed or elated over the result of
the Walsenburg contest was Coach Haynes. He placed criticism where it
was merited and commendation where deserved, and set his face toward
the Forest Hill game with no sign of disturbance on it. He seemed quite
satisfied and, certainly, voiced no regrets.

But Stuart took that defeat badly. Perhaps without realizing it, he had
half believed the optimists who had a week before bravely predicted
a clean slate for the season. I don’t think he allowed his hopes to
dwell on the possibility of the team getting through without being
scored on: that was less a possibility than an impossibility, but
he had dared hope for a season of no defeats. He believed, and was
justified in believing, that had Coach Haynes given the team even three
days of preparation for the Walsenburg contest it might at least have
emerged from it with a tied score. He had no sympathy for the coach’s
contention that a defeat was sometimes good medicine. At least, he
didn’t believe that true of a team of which he was captain. It might be
so other years.

Stuart’s dissatisfaction was increased by the reflection that, so far
as public opinion was concerned, he had failed to show any superiority
over the rival quarterback. Naturally, since the other had played on
the winning side, his work appeared more brilliant. Stuart tried to
comfort himself with the assurance that, man for man, he had shown a
little more than the Walsenburg quarter, but, lacking the confirmation
of public opinion, that assurance didn’t make him happy. He laid
his failure to win the decision over his rival to Mr. Haynes, thus
increasing by just so much more his account against the coach.

Stuart spoke his mind very freely to all save Mr. Haynes. Between him
and the coach there existed an armistice, respectful, but no more.
Stuart avoided private converse with the other, and at the conferences,
held twice, occasionally thrice, a week in the coach’s quarters, he
maintained an aloof attitude that, while it had no apparent disturbing
effect on Mr. Haynes, created a disquieting atmosphere of which the
others were dimly aware. It is doubtful if Stuart realized how evident
his antagonism was; doubtful, too, if, had he realized it, he could
have disguised it, for his resentment still burned very deeply. Stuart
took his grievance to the players and found sympathetic ears. Most of
the fellows held that it would not have hurt the progress of the team
if the coach had allowed them to take or tie the Walsenburg game, and a
few still nursed dissatisfaction as late as the following Monday. Most
of them, however, were willing to let bygones be bygones by then, and
were inclined to be bored when Stuart reverted to the subject. They
liked Stuart, were proud of him as a captain, credited him with the
brilliance as a player which he thoroughly deserved, but when it came
to a question of leadership they preferred to put their trust in Hop
Haynes. Stuart was all right, but――well, he was liable to fly off the
handle if any one tried to interfere with his methods or question his
opinions, and, after all, a football team needed a steady hand on the
lines. That was the general opinion among the fellows, although there
remained a handful whose personal allegiance to Stuart would have stood
them up in front of a firing squad at sunrise if he had led the way.
Among the latter was Jack Brewton. Jack however, was not ignorant of
his friend’s shortcomings. Rather, he realized them very thoroughly and
put his faith in Stuart in spite of them. While he would have stepped
at once to Stuart’s side and had an actual breach between captain and
coach transpired, he would have gone with his eyes open, and while he
was sympathetic toward his friend’s feelings he did not hesitate to say
what he honestly thought, as, on Monday.

“It would have been bully to win that game, Stuart, but Haynes is the
Big Boss, you know, and his business is training football teams. He
evidently thought it would be better not to put out the effort, and
it’s only fair to assume that he was right. The school’s paying him
real money for what he’s doing and all we can do is believe that he’s
worth his salary; at least until he shows he isn’t. And if we believe
that, we’ve got to believe he was right about Saturday’s game. Q. E.
D., or words to that effect.”

“Because you pay a coach a salary it doesn’t signify that he’s got all
the wisdom of Solomon or Walter Camp,” objected Stuart. “We could have
trained a week to meet Walsenburg and still been ready for Forest Hill
next Saturday. Forest Hill isn’t dangerous; and even if she were, any
of us would rather have lost to her than to Walsenburg. Haynes has got
you fellows hypnotized. All he has to do is strike an attitude and look
wise and you all say ‘A-ah!’”

Jack threw an arm over Stuart’s shoulders and shook him gently.
“Listen, old thing, you’re heading for trouble, and I wish you
wouldn’t. Just forget your grouch against Haynes and see how things
turn out. If he hands us a victory over Pearsall you’ll be one of the
first to forgive and forget. Better do it now and make that victory
more certain. Some of the fellows are talking already. They say you
don’t care what happens to the team so long as you can make faces at
Haynes. Of course that isn’t so. The old crowd understands, but there’s
a bunch of new chaps around who are getting gabby. Now, wipe off the
slate, Stuart, and start over. We’re all after success for the team.
Just let’s think of that and nothing else.”

“Oh, all right.” Stuart was silent a moment. Then he added: “It’s easy
enough for you chaps, but――but I’m captain! Hang it, what’s the good of
having a captain if he hasn’t any more authority than a third string
substitute? Since the season started I haven’t had a voice in one
single decision that’s been made! I’m sick of it, I tell you! For two
cents I’d throw it up! I would, by gosh!”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Jack soothingly. “You’re not the sort to
desert under fire, old man. Come on and I’ll play you fifty points at
billiards before math.”

Stuart allowed himself to be dragged to Meigs where, perhaps not
without some connivance on Jack’s part, he ran out twelve points to the
good.

After three weeks of trial, the plan of doing without the training
table appeared to be a success. At first some of the new candidates
took advantage of their freedom and ate not wisely but too well, but
they soon discovered that it didn’t work. The Laird had an eagle’s eye
for physical condition, and when a warning wasn’t sufficient a day or
two on the bench――and a four-lap jog of the track――brought the offender
around. Even Stuart was obliged to confess that the new plan was
working satisfactorily, although he made the confession without great
enthusiasm and only to The Laird. He and The Laird were very close
friends, and he could make admissions of this sort to him.

A week of hard practice followed the Walsenburg game and then Manning
met Forest Hill School and won decisively, 27 to 3, and the season was
half over.

                              CHAPTER VII

                      THE ATH. FAC. TAKES A HAND

Before the Forest Hill game was a thing of the past, however, the
dissensions between coach and captain had produced the inevitable
result. There was a feeling of disquiet and apprehension among the
players that showed itself in little but unmistakable ways and, while
as yet it showed no apparent effect on their work, threatened to impair
their morale sooner or later. There was a good deal of talk, a good
deal of discussion, and the fellows began to take sides. Five or six
of the veterans honestly considered that Mr. Haynes had been and still
was conducting the affairs of the team in a high-handed manner, and
while they credited him with the best of intentions they still held
that Stuart was “getting a raw deal.” To these faithful supporters were
added a few others who, caring little about the merits of the case,
loved a scrap for its own sake. To be fair to Stuart it should be said
that, if he did little to prevent this situation, he at least did
nothing intentionally to produce it. When he found that the players
were actually beginning to take sides he saw the danger and, not
hypocritically, declared that “Haynes was boss and it was up to them
all to obey orders and not shoot off their mouths.” That, though, only
brought knowing looks. Of course Stuart would talk like that: he would
feel that he had to!

The other side hinted disagreeably that the captain had a swelled head;
that he always had had and that it was bigger than ever since he had
been made captain: and that any fellow who couldn’t get along with a
chap like Mr. Haynes was a natural-born grouch. Stuart found support
and sympathy in an unsuspected quarter in the shape of manager Fred
Locker. Locker had nothing against the coach personally, but he had
spent three years at Manning and had seen things done differently,
and, while he had nothing to say publicly, he let Stuart know his
sentiments. He talked to Jack one evening, too, but he quickly agreed
with the latter that, whoever was in the right, Stuart mustn’t be
allowed to “mess things up and make a fool of himself.” The main thing,
of course, was to lick Pearsall and it was every fellow’s duty to work
for that result.

In the Forest Hill game Stuart played as well as he ever had, although
the incentive to great effort was lacking since the contest was
one-sided from the first. On Monday, however, when the first was
stacked up against the second and Saturday’s players were, contrary to
custom, sent into the scrimmage, Stuart was distinctly off his game.
Scenting an opportunity to triumph, perhaps, the second, coached by
Mr. Webster, who had long since earned the affectionate nickname of
“Old Unabridged,” started in with a whoop. Several of the fellows on
the first team who had played through the Forest Hill game slightly
resented being called on to-day. Some of them were a little bit tired,
or thought they were, which amounts to practically the same thing.
Among them was Stuart. His resentment was principally aimed at the
violation of a long-established precedent which allowed those who had
played through a Saturday game a Monday of rest or, at the most, the
lightest sort of labor. He didn’t much mind playing, although, as he
explained later to Neil, he “didn’t feel very zippy,” but the injustice
rankled. As a result he――well, he was pretty poor.

Second took the kick-off and came up the field hard, using a new
split-formation play that “Old Unabridged” had just taught them,
to such good results that they were on the first’s twenty-yard line
before any one knew what was happening. After that they tried twice to
bore through the center and then tried to heave across the left. Tom
Muirgart spoiled that, however, catching the ball just short of the
line, and the first lined up on her three yards. Stuart called for a
plunge at center, which yielded practically nothing, and then, instead
of letting Tasker punt out of danger, himself took the ball for a run
around the right. In the situation that was as unexpected a play as
it was hazardous. Perhaps Stuart expected its unexpectedness to make
it go, but if he did he was wrong. A big second team tackle slammed
through and got him before he could turn in and heaved him across the
goal line for a safety.

Some of his companions looked on him sorrowfully and reproachfully,
though only half in earnest. Coach Haynes spoke his mind quietly but
crisply. “Bad generalship, Captain Harven,” he said, as Stuart found
his feet again. “Too risky. You should have punted.”

Stuart, knowing all that quite as well as the coach, scowled and
bit his lip. The coach, about to add something further, caught his
expression and wisely changed his mind.

The second chose to kick-off and the pigskin floated high and far
toward the first team goal. Stuart claimed it and got under it near
the ten-yard line. The catch was not a difficult one. The other backs,
never doubting that he would make it, sped ahead to form interference.
The ball fell straight into Stuart’s hands and as straightly bounded
out again. He tried to get it on the bounce as it went on toward the
goal line, failed, and threw himself on it. Again misfortune met
him. The ball somehow wiggled loose and a second team end, who had
marvelously evaded the interference, crashed down across Stuart and
captured the pigskin.

From the seven yards the second carried over in four plays, choosing
Towne as a point of attack. Although she failed at goal, the second
had, beyond any possible doubt, won the game in the first six minutes
of play, and she rejoiced exceedingly and made herself most obnoxious;
so much so that Billy Littlefield came to blows with a second team
end and was yanked out by a stern referee. Stuart, sore and silent,
followed back to position to find Millard Wheaton awaiting him. “Wheat”
was trying hard to look regretful, but the attempt wasn’t very
successful.

“What do you want?” asked Stuart darkly.

“You’re off,” said Wheaton. “Sorry, Cap.”

“Get out of here!” Stuart pulled his head guard on with a jerk.

Wheaton, at a loss, turned to Tasker, but Howdy only shrugged. Of
course his duty was to call the referee’s attention to Stuart’s
refusal, but――well, Stuart was captain of the team, and so, after a
moment’s indecision, Wheaton trotted back to the side-line. Then Mr.
Haynes walked out with Wheaton in tow. Stuart, seeing, went toward them.

“Captain Harven,” said the coach firmly but quietly, “I sent Wheaton in
to take your place.”

“I intend to stay in, sir,” answered Stuart doggedly. “This is a
practice game and a boob play or two don’t matter.”

“I think differently. Kindly do as I say. We can discuss the matter
later.”

“No, sir! I’m captain and I’m within my rights, Mr. Haynes. I’m going
to play this period out. It wasn’t fair to work us to-day, anyhow. Some
of us are done up. If we make mistakes it’s because we oughtn’t to be
here at all. You can put Wheat in the next period if you like, but he
doesn’t play quarter now.”

Mr. Haynes looked a bit white, but he only nodded and turned on his
heel. Then: “Come on, Wheaton,” he said, and led the way back to the
side line. Stuart was aware that the other fellows were very carefully
avoiding looking at him. Harmon broke the silence and the tension with
a cheerful “Come on, First! Let’s get ’em!” and the whistle piped.

Stuart played the twelve-minute period out, as he had said he would,
and played very raggedly, although there were no more glaring mistakes.
When the teams went off, second still holding her 13 to 0 lead, Stuart
tried hard to look nonchalant and smiling and accepted the blanket that
The Laird tossed him with a joking remark. The Laird, though, shook his
head gently. Stuart froze up and watched the rest of the scrimmage in
silence.

He had plenty of time for second thought before the final whistle blew
and the first team trailed off to the gymnasium smarting under a 13 to
7 defeat, and in that time he decided that he had, in the accommodating
language of the baseball diamond, “pulled a boner.” He firmly believed
himself to have been justified in his refusal to accept dismissal
from the line-up. That didn’t trouble him. His mistake had been, he
concluded, in insisting on his right to remain. It would have been
better in every way had he protested with dignity and gone off the
field. He would have had the sympathy of his team mates, avoided the
possible charge of insubordination and added further evidence of the
coach’s high-handedness. As it was, he had the uncomfortable conviction
that he had made himself appear ridiculous rather than heroic. These
reflections were no aid to composure and peace of mind, and, although
he wanted to convey the impression that the incident had left him
undisturbed, no one was deceived by his studied attempt at nonchalance.
He took pains not to avoid Mr. Haynes, but did not seek to reopen the
discussion. For his part, the coach, rather graver than usual, seemed
to have dismissed the matter from his mind.

Stuart went back to Lacey from the gymnasium and recounted the incident
to Neil. He treated it lightly, even flippantly, but under the
lightness was an unconscious note of defiance. He didn’t expect Neil
to altogether approve of his action, but it was typical of him that
he always did tell Neil things whether he looked for commendation or
censure. Perhaps this was largely because the other’s judgments, for or
against, were invariably frank and honest. When Stuart had ended, Neil
smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Stuart,” he sighed. “You
do mess things up frightfully!”

“What about others?” asked Stuart in injured tones. “Who started the
trouble to-day?”

“Don’t be a goop,” begged Neil. “If some one shies a brick at you, is
there any reason why you can’t side step it? Whether you realize it
or not, you’ve been trying to make out a case against Mr. Haynes ever
since you got here. Of course, that’s poor business, but if you must
do it, why do everything you can to spoil it? No matter who was in the
right to-day, and I’m not enough of a football man to know, your cue
was instant obedience. Then, if there was any injustice, you’d have
had public opinion on your side. Can’t you see that, you chump? What
happened afterwards?”

“Nothing. He didn’t open his mouth, and so I didn’t.”

“You better, though,” said Neil earnestly. “See him this evening and
make some sort of an apology.”

“I will like fun!” exclaimed Stuart indignantly.

“You’ve got to,” Neil replied firmly. “You can insist all you please on
your rights in the matter, but you must own up that you acted wrongly.
You did, you know. That was a poor example to set the rest of the team,
Stuart.”

The other was glumly, rebelliously silent for a minute. Then: “Of
course I did the wrong thing,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “Seems to
me I’m always doing it where Haynes is concerned. He gets my goat,
confound him! I had a good case against him to-day and I spoiled it,
just as you say. I won’t go over to his rooms and lick his boots, Neil,
but I’ll call him on the telephone after supper.”

Neil considered a moment doubtfully. After all, even that was quite a
concession from Stuart, and so he nodded. “All right, but be decent,
Stuart. Don’t talk haughty.”

“All right, but I won’t apologize: understand that! I’ll say I was
wrong in staying in after he told me to come out, but I _won’t_ say
that I didn’t have a perfect right to!”

But after supper, although Stuart went twice to the telephone
downstairs, Mr. Haynes didn’t respond, and so that near-apology wasn’t
made. There was much talk that evening among the players and even
Stuart’s stanchest upholders could find no good excuse for him. The
best they could do was plead extreme provocation; and even that was
challenged by the opposition. By the next day the school in general had
hold of the story and there were many and varied versions of what had
actually happened. The most sensational story had it that blows had
been exchanged between coach and captain. The school in general stood
loyally behind the captain, for, especially amongst the younger boys,
he was looked up to as a hero. Junior class fellows viewed his progress
across the campus that morning with an admiration so evident as to make
Stuart uncomfortable.

Returning from a recitation at eleven, he found an envelope in his box
bearing the inscription, “Manning School, Safford, Conn. Committee
on Athletics.” Communications from the Athletic Faculty, usually on
routine matters, were no unusual affairs, and Stuart slipped the
letter into his pocket with no disturbing premonition and only slight
curiosity. In fact, it was not until he had been in Number 12 for
several minutes and had settled down to dig for an impending hour
test in English that he recalled the missive and dug it from his
pocket. Since Neil was at a recitation, Stuart had the room to himself,
something that he was later very thankful for. He made nothing of the
letter at the first reading, for incredulity turned the phrases into a
meaningless jumble. Then, a puzzled frown between his eyes, he read it
again.

    Mr. Stuart Harven,
      Captain Manning School Football Team,
        12 Lacey Hall.

    Dear Sir:

    At a meeting of the Committee on Athletics held this evening
    the following Resolution was passed:

    “Whereas, in the judgment of this Committee, Captain Stuart
    Harven has shown himself unable or unwilling to act in
    coöperation with the Coach in the conduct of the affairs of the
    Football Team, which fact this Committee considers detrimental
    to the welfare of the Team, it is

    “Resolved that Captain Stuart Harven be directed to appear
    before this Committee at eight o’clock on the evening of October
    26 and show cause why his resignation as captain should not be
    requested for the good of the Team; and that a copy of this
    Resolution be delivered to Captain Stuart Harven.”

                                  For the Committee on Athletics,
                                       Chas. E. Dodge, Secretary.

                             CHAPTER VIII

                        A NEW LEADER IS CHOSEN

Amazement slowly gave way to anger. The thing was so unexpected that
for a while he could not believe it, and the idea that it was a hoax
presented itself. But that theory vanished speedily and he faced the
truth. A sense of insult, of degradation mastered him and he crumpled
the letter into a ball and hurled it to the floor. He passed a bad ten
minutes, his wrath encompassing Coach Haynes and the whole Athletic
Faculty. Of the latter, though, it was the student members, Jud McColl
and Stearns Wilson, on whom his anger fell chiefly. They pretended to
be his friends. He could find excuses for the coach, for the coach
made no secret of his hostility, but McColl and Stearns had literally
betrayed him.

Finally he rescued the letter and smoothed it out and reread it. It
was plain enough, he told himself. They wanted him to go before them
and eat humble pie, perhaps apologize to Haynes! What they did not
want was his resignation. No matter if he had failed, from their point
of view, as a captain, he was still invaluable as a player. There was
no one to take his place at quarter. In spite of their bluff, they
couldn’t do without him, and they knew it! And he knew it! Stuart
laughed mirthlessly. Well, they’d see! If they expected penitence and
apologies they’d be fooled! He’d call their bluff!

He selected a sheet of school paper and went about the matter very
calmly. When it was finished his reply was a model of conciseness and,
he hoped, dignity:

    Mr. Stuart Harven acknowledges the receipt of the Committee’s
    communication of yesterday and respectfully tenders his
    resignation as Captain of the Football Team.

He considered delivering it personally at the Office but in the end put
a stamp on the envelope and dropped it into the box in front of Manning
as he hurried to his next class. He was no longer angry. He was excited
instead, excited and triumphant. He wondered how the Committee would
manage to crawl out of the hole he had placed them in, and he chuckled
as he pictured the surprise and chagrin with which his letter would be
received. That the resignation would be accepted never entered Stuart’s
mind. He might have to make concessions, but if there was any crawling
done, the Ath. Fac. would do it! He went into the class room in a very
cheerful frame of mind.

It was Neil who caused him his first qualms of doubt. Neil was
distressed and strangely pessimistic. “You must get that resignation
back before it reaches them,” he declared earnestly. “If you go to the
post-office――――”

Stuart shrugged. “You can’t get a letter back like that. Besides, I
don’t want to. I’ve called their bluff, now let them get out of it the
best way they can!”

“But, Stuart, suppose they don’t want to! Suppose you’ve played into
their hand?”

“What do you mean, played into their hand? You don’t think they
really want my resignation, do you?” Stuart laughed in ridicule. “Not
much! Not unless they think I’d give up the captaincy and go right on
playing. And if they do think that they’ve got a fine big surprise
coming to them!”

“I don’t know,” Neil shook his head troubledly, “Mr. Haynes is against
you, remember, and――――”

“So are Jud and Stearns Wilson, and I’m not likely to forget it,
either,” interrupted Stuart in an ugly tone. “But if it came to a
show-down I guess there are plenty of fellows on the team――――”

“Stuart, if the Committee accepts your resignation the players won’t
have anything to say about it! Don’t you see that? They couldn’t do
anything if they wanted to. If you’d only waited and talked it over
first! I――I’m awfully afraid you’ve messed things up again!”

“Oh, piffle! You wait and see, old man. They’ll be talking mighty
small to-morrow. Jud McColl knows me well enough to tell them that I’m
not the sort to be kicked out of the captaincy and then keep right on
playing for them! Haynes knows it, too. He’s no fool, if he does act
it.”

But in spite of his pretended assurance Stuart began to wonder
secretly if he had, after all, made a mistake. Haynes had proved
pretty conclusively that he stood strong with the Committee. He began
to consider what would happen if they did the impossible thing and
accepted the resignation. Short of inciting the team to mutiny, he
realized, with a sinking sensation, that there wasn’t anything he could
do! And, for that matter, it might be that the number of fellows on
the team who would stand by him would be too small to cause anything
approaching a mutiny. And, besides that, Stuart wasn’t sure that he
would want a mutiny. That would be going too far. It would play hob
with the team and, no matter how it resulted, would set them back
badly. After all, even though the confounded bunch of old women that
called themselves the Committee on Athletics didn’t seem to believe it,
the success of the team was first in his thoughts! Then he banished
doubts. Neil was always more or less of a pessimist. Of course, maybe
it might have been wiser to have waited and talked it over a bit first,
but it was mighty unlikely that the Ath. Fac. would cut off its nose to
save its face, or, put differently, would lose a star quarterback to
retain its dignity!

There was no apparent knowledge of the Committee’s letter among the
fellows on the field that afternoon. Evidently the matter was still
a secret. Coach Haynes was the same as usual, formally polite to
Stuart, and the unpleasant incident of yesterday seemed to have been
forgotten. Stuart went at his work with a resolution to emphasize his
value to the team and played the game with all the dash and brilliancy
of which he was capable. It was one of his good days and he made the
most of it. “Old Unabridged’s” pets were torn asunder and trampled on,
out-generaled and out-fought, and the first walked off the field at the
end with a 17 to 0 victory.

“Now,” said Stuart to himself, “let them go ahead and fire me!”

His high spirits, though, failed to lighten Neil’s gravity.

Jack came over to Number 12 that evening and he and Stuart talked a
good deal of football and a good deal of other things, and, apparently
there was no cloud in the sky. But Neil didn’t have much to say, and
when rallied by Jack only smiled and answered that he was far too much
awed by so much brilliance to venture remarks of his own. Stuart,
realizing the real reason for his roommate’s quietness, had brief
moments of uneasiness.

Oddly, when morning came, he awoke with the feeling of uneasiness
vastly increased, and, although he told himself that there was no cause
for anxiety, he remained nervous all during breakfast and through his
first two classes, and it was with positive relief that, at half-past
eleven, he returned to Lacey and spied a letter in his box. Up in
Number 12, he hesitated for a long minute before he slit the envelope.
When at last he did so and read the contents his face paled. After that
he sat for many more minutes, the letter in his hand and his eyes fixed
broodingly on the floor.

It was a very polite missive, almost cordial in spite of its brevity.
It thanked Mr. Stuart Harven for his communication, appreciated his
spirit of loyalty to the school, accepted his resignation with regret
for the necessity for doing so and hoped that the incident would not
be allowed to affect his interest in the Team’s success or impair his
usefulness. When Neil came in later Stuart had recovered his poise. He
handed the letter to Neil with a smile that, if it didn’t deceive Neil,
established the attitude which Stuart was to hold for some time. Neil
said nothing for a moment after he had read the epistle. When he did
speak he only said gravely: “I’m sorry, Stuart.”

Stuart shrugged. “Why, so am I, in a way,” he replied with seeming
candor. “I guessed wrong, and no fellow likes to make mistakes. As for
the rest of it, resigning and all that, why, I’m not sure it isn’t a
good thing, Neil. Trying to get along with Haynes is a good deal of a