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Title: Forward Pass: A Story of the "New Football"

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Release date: November 17, 2017 [eBook #55982]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORWARD PASS: A STORY OF THE "NEW FOOTBALL" ***

FORWARD PASS

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

Each, Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.

Hilton School 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!

“Big Four” Series.

Four in Camp.

Four Afoot.

Four Afloat.

“Forward Pass!”

The Spirit of the School.

The Arrival of Jimpson.

The Book of School and College Sports. $1.75 net.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

“He went staggering around the goal-post for a touchdown and victory.”

FORWARD PASS

A STORY OF THE “NEW FOOTBALL”

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL,” “THE
HALF-BACK,” “WEATHERBY’S INNING,”
“ON YOUR MARK,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1908

Copyright, 1908, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published September, 1908

TO

GILBERT H. SHEARER, Jr.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER |  | PAGE
I.— | Off to School | 1
II.— | Mr. Findlay Settles the Question | 14
III.— | The First Acquaintance | 24
IV.— | “28 Clarke” | 36
V.— | Yardley Hall | 56
VI.— | “Tubby” Jones Surrenders | 66
VII.— | Payson, Coach | 75
VIII.— | Dan Joins the Football Squad | 92
IX.— | The First Game | 105
X.— | Dropped! | 124
XI.— | A Rescue | 140
XII.— | At Sound View | 148
XIII.— | A Rich Man’s Son | 162
XIV.— | Dan Joins a Conspiracy | 170
XV.— | Gerald Visits Yardley | 183
XVI.— | An Afternoon Afloat | 194
XVII.— | Light Blue or Dark? | 205
XVIII.— | Loring Decides | 215
XIX.— | Football with Brewer | 225
XX.— | Mr. Austin Loses His Temper | 236
XXI.— | Mr. Pennimore Consents | 251
XXII.— | Nordham Springs Some Surprises | 261
XXIII.— | What Happened “Blue Monday” | 275
XXIV.— | Dan Wonders | 291
XXV.— | On Probation | 304
XXVI.— | “Tubby” Packs a Bag | 316
XXVII.— | Vinton’s Victory | 331

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING
PAGE

“He went staggering around the goal-post for a touchdown and victory”
Frontispiece

“He staggered to his feet, stumbled blindly through the doorway”

142

“‘Go in for Minturn.... Use your brains,’ he added”

232

“Tubby went over backward in his chair”

258

FORWARD PASS

CHAPTER I
OFF TO SCHOOL

“All aboa-a-ard!”

There was a warning clang from the engine bell and a sudden return to darkness as the fireman slammed the furnace door and tossed the slicer-bar back onto the tender. The express messenger in the car behind pulled close the sliding door and hasped it, pausing afterwards to glance questioningly at the cloudy night sky. At the far end of the train, which curved serpent-wise along the track, the conductor’s lantern rose and fell, the porter seized his footstool and Dan Vinton, after a final hurried kiss, broke from his mother’s arms and ran nimbly up the steps of the already moving sleeper.

“Good-bye, mother,” he called down into the half-darkness. “Good-bye, father! Good-bye, Mae!”

They all answered at once, his father in a hoarse growl, his mother softly and tearfully and his sister in a shrill, excited voice as she tripped along beside the car steps, waving frantically. The eastbound express carried ten cars to-night, and for a moment the big engine puffed and grunted complainingly, and the train moved slowly, the wheel flanges screaming against the curving rails. From across the platform Dan heard his father’s voice lifted irritably:

“Ma, if you’re coming I wish you’d come! Can’t expect me to keep these horses standing here all night!”

Dan smiled and choked as he heard. Dear old dad! All the way to the station he had been as cross as a wet hen, holding his face aside as they passed a light for fear that the others would see the tears in his eyes, and trying with his gruffness to disguise the quiver in his voice. Dan gave a gulp as he felt the tears coming into his own eyes. The dimly-lighted station hurried by, there was a flash of green and red and white lanterns as the trucks rattled over the switches and then they had left the town behind and were rushing eastward through the September night, gaining speed with every click of the wheels. There was a sudden long and dismal shriek from the engine, and with that the monster settled down into the stride which, ere morning came, was to eat up three hundred Ohio miles and bring them well into Pennsylvania. The porter, with a muttered apology, closed the vestibule door, and Dan, blinking the persistent tears from his eyes, left the platform and entered the sleeping-car.

“I put your suit-case under the berth, sir,” said the porter as he followed the passenger down the aisle. The lights were turned low, and Dan was glad of it, for he didn’t want even the colored porter to think him a baby. The green curtains were pulled close at every section and from behind some of them came sounds plainly indicating occupancy.

“Lower eight,” murmured the porter. “Here you are, sir. Hope you’ll sleep well, sir. Good night.”

“Thanks,” muttered Dan. “Good night.”

“We take the diner on at Pittsburg, sir, at seven. But you can get breakfast any time up to ten, sir.”

Dan thanked him again and the porter took himself softly away. When he was finally stretched out in his berth, with his pocketbook tightly wrapped up in his vest under his pillow, and the gold watch which his father had given him when he had graduated from the grammar school last June tucked into the toe of one of his stockings as seeming to him the last place in which a thief would look for it, Dan raised the curtain beside his head and rolled over so that he could look out. It was after eleven o’clock and he knew that he ought to be asleep, but he felt as wide awake as ever he had in his life. The moon had struggled out from behind the big bank of clouds which had hid it and the world was almost as light as day. For awhile, as he watched the landscape slide by, a panorama of field and forest and sleeping villages, his thoughts clung somewhat disconsolately to Graystone and his folks. But before long the excitement which had possessed him for days and which had only left him at the moment of parting crept back, and, although he still stared with wide eyes through the car window, he saw nothing of the flying landscape.

He was going to boarding-school! That was the wonderful, pre-eminent fact at present, and at the thought his heart thrilled again as it had been doing for two months past. And at last the momentous time had really arrived! He was absolutely on his way! The dream of four years was coming true! Do you wonder that his heart beat chokingly for a few minutes while he lay there with the jar and rattle of the train in his ears? When one is fifteen and the long-desired comes to pass life grows very wonderful, very magnificent for awhile.

Ever since Dan had been old enough to think seriously of the matter of his education he had entertained a deep longing for a course at boarding-school. In Graystone it wasn’t the fashion for boys to go away from home for their educations; Graystone had a first-class school system and was proud of it; a boy who wanted to go to college could prepare at the Graystone High School as well as anywhere else, declared the Graystone parents; and as for the Eastern schools—well, everybody knew that the most of them were hot-beds of extravagance and snobbishness. This is a belief that unfortunately prevails in plenty of towns beside Graystone. Dan’s father was quite as patriotic as any other citizen of the town and held just as good an opinion of its educational advantages. So when, during his second year at the grammar school, Dan had broached the subject of a term at a preparatory school in the East he was not surprised when Mr. Vinton refused to consider it.

“Pooh! Pooh!” scoffed Mr. Vinton, good-naturedly. “What’s the matter with our own High School, Dan? Isn’t it good enough for you, son?”

Dan tried to explain that it was the school life he wanted to try, and, unfortunately for his argument, mentioned “Tom Brown.”

“Tom Brown!” exclaimed his father. “Well, that’s a fine story, Dan, but it’s all romance. I went to boarding-school myself, and I can tell you I never ran up against any of the things you read about in ‘Tom Brown.’ No, son, if that’s all you want you might as well stay right here in Graystone. You’ll find just as much of the ‘Tom Brown’ romance in High School as you will back East.”

Dan wanted to tell his father that the kind of school he wanted to go to was little like the boarding-school which his father had attended. Mr. Vinton’s early education had been obtained at the Russellville Academy, an institution whose name was out of all proportion to its importance. Mr. Vinton had been born in one of the smaller towns along the Willimantic River in Connecticut, and Russellville Academy had possessed for him the advantages of proximity and inexpensiveness. The tuition and board was one hundred dollars a year, and on Friday afternoon he could reach home by merely walking twelve miles. Mr. Vinton’s schooling had terminated abruptly in the middle of his third year, when the death of his mother—his father had died years before—left him dependent on an uncle living in Ohio. So Russellville Academy was abandoned in favor of a position in the Graystone Flour Mills. To-day Mr. Vinton owned the mills and, for that matter, pretty much everything else in that part of the county. But the fact that he had succeeded in life on a very slim education hadn’t made him a scoffer at schools and colleges; on the contrary, he was a firm believer in those institutions and was determined that Dan, who was an only son, should have the best education that money and care could provide.

Dan’s private and unexpressed opinion of Russellville Academy wasn’t flattering. He believed that his father must have had a pretty forlorn, unpleasant experience there. But Mr. Vinton had come to look back upon his few years of school life through rose-tinted glasses.

“There were only about thirty of us fellows,” he would say when in reminiscent mood, “but maybe we had better times for that reason; every fellow knew every other fellow. Why, the first month I was there I fought more than half the school!”

“Did you ever get licked?” asked Dan eagerly.

“Licked!” laughed Mr. Vinton. “Lots of times, son. Why, seems to me as I look back at it, my nose was out of kilter more than half the time!”

“You must have been a set of young barbarians,” observed Dan’s mother with conviction on one occasion.

“Nothing of the sort, Mary; just a parcel of youngsters full of life. We didn’t think anything of a fight; used to make up half an hour afterwards and bandage each other’s heads.”

“Were the fellows nice?” asked Dan doubtfully.

“Nice? Of course they were, most of them. Still, I guess we had all sorts at the Academy. There was ‘Slugger’ Boyd and ‘Brick’ Garrison and ‘Fatty’ Thomas and—and others like them that maybe you wouldn’t just call ‘nice.’ ‘Brick’ got his nickname because of a way he had of grabbing up a brick or a stone when it came to a fight. No one cared to fight ‘Brick’ except in the barn where there weren’t any loose stones lying around handy.”

“Did you have a nickname, too?” Dan asked.

“Yes, they used to call me ‘Kicker.’ You know we didn’t have any special rules to fight by; every fellow just went at it the handiest way. I was a good kicker; used to jab out with my fist and kick at the same time. I won lots of fights that way, for some fellows can stand any amount of punching on the head or body and quit right away when you get a good one on their shins.”

“We wouldn’t call that fair fighting nowadays,” said Dan uneasily.

“No? Well, fashions change. It was good scientific fighting when I went to school,” answered Mr. Vinton smilingly.

“Well, I think your folks must have been crazy to let you go to such a place,” said Mrs. Vinton irascibly. “Fighting all the time and living on almost nothing and sleeping on corn-husks and walking twelve miles to get home and nearly freezing to death!”

“Oh, I only came near freezing once,” responded Mr. Vinton pleasantly. “But that was a close shave. I guess if Farmer Hutchins hadn’t come along just when he did that time—”

“I don’t want to hear about it again!” declared Dan’s mother. “If that’s your idea of having a good time it isn’t mine! And you can just believe that no son of mine ever goes to boarding-school!”

“Well, as for that, ma, I dare say boarding-schools have changed some since my day,” responded Mr. Vinton.

But in spite of this assertion Russellville Academy remained to Mr. Vinton a typical boarding-school, and remembering how little he had learned there and, when the rose-tinted glasses were laid aside, how many unhappy moments he had spent there, he was resolved in his own mind that his wife’s decision was a wise one.

In the end Dan had given up all hope of getting to boarding-school, without, however, ceasing to desire it. In June he had graduated high in his class at the grammar school with every prospect of entering the High School in September. But toward the last of July a conversation had occurred at the dinner table which later put a different complexion on things.

“Well, son, what you been doing to-day?” asked Mr. Vinton, absentmindedly tucking his napkin into his collar, yanking it quickly away again and glancing apologetically at his wife.

“Nothing much, sir. I played baseball for awhile and then ‘Chad’ Sleeper and Billy Nourse and Frank Whipple and I went over to Saunders’ Creek and went in bathing.”

Mr. Vinton frowned.

“‘Chad’ Sleeper, eh? Is that old Dillingway Sleeper’s boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And young Nourse and that Whipple boy, you said, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See a good deal of those boys, do you? Go around with them a lot, eh?”

“Yes, sir, a good deal.”

“I thought Frank Whipple was going to work this summer in his father’s store.”

“He did start to,” answered Dan, “but—I don’t know. I guess he didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t like it, eh? Did he tell you so?”

“Well, he said it was pretty hard work; said the store was awfully hot and his mother was afraid he’d take sick.”

Mr. Vinton grunted.

“All those boys in your class next fall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which one is your especial chum?”

“‘Chad,’ I guess. I like him better than the others.”

“What is it you like about him, son?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s a good baseball player, and a dandy half-back; you know he played half on the team last fall, sir.”

“Did he? I’d forgotten. Well, any other good points you can think of, son?”

Dan hesitated. He didn’t like his father’s tone. It was a tone which Mr. Vinton was likely to use when, to use Dan’s expression, he was “looking for trouble.”

“He—he’s just a good fellow, sir, and we get on pretty well together.”

“I see. Ever hear of him doing anything worth while?”

“He won the game for us last Thanksgiving Day,” answered Dan doubtfully, pretty certain that the feat mentioned wouldn’t make much of a hit with the questioner.

“Ever hear of him doing anything helpful, anything kind, anything useful to himself or anyone else?” pursued Mr. Vinton remorselessly. Dan was silent for a moment.

“I guess he would if he got the chance,” he replied finally.

“Well, did you ever see him shading his eyes with his hand and looking for a chance?”

“John, don’t talk such nonsense,” expostulated Mrs. Vinton, glancing at Dan’s troubled countenance.

“No nonsense at all, my dear,” answered Mr. Vinton. “Dan’s got three of the most useless, shiftless, no-account boys in town for his special chums and I’d like to know just what he sees in them. That’s all. ‘Chad’ Sleeper’s father never did a real lick of work in his life, excepting the time he did the State out of forty thousand dollars on that bridge contract, and ‘Chad’s’ just like him. And young Whipple is no better; and I guess Nourse belongs with them. Look at here, son, aren’t there any smart, honest, decent fellows you can go with?”

“‘Chad’ and Billy and Frank never did anything mean that I know of,” answered Dan resentfully.

“Did you ever know any of them to do anything fine?” asked his father. “Outside of winning a football game, I mean?”

Dan was silent, looking a trifle sulkily at his plate. There was a moment’s pause. Then Mr. Vinton said more kindly:

“Well, I’m not finding fault with you, son. Maybe the boys here are pretty much alike; and as I come to think about it I guess they are. But it’s going to make a difference with you what sort of friends you have during the next five or six years. And if you can’t find the right sort here in Graystone, why—”

But Mr. Vinton paused there and relapsed into a thoughtful silence that neither Dan nor his mother nor even his sister Mae, who was the privileged member of the family, cared to disturb.

CHAPTER II
MR. FINDLAY SETTLES THE QUESTION

Nearly a week later the conversation bore fruit.

“Son,” asked Mr. Vinton, “do you still want to go to boarding-school?”

Dan’s heart leaped.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Well, your mother and I have been talking it over and we’ve about concluded that a change of scene for the next three or four years won’t do you any harm. What do you say to the Brewer School?”

Dan hesitated. The Brewer School was in the southern part of the state and had quite a local reputation, but Dan was certain that it wasn’t the school he wanted. So he took his courage in hand.

“I’d rather go East, sir,” he said.

“Would, eh? Well, maybe you might as well. I tell your mother that as long as you have to go away it don’t make much difference how far it is. Takes all day to go to Brewer, anyway; put a night on top of that and you’re pretty well East. Any special school you’ve got in mind?”

“N-no, sir. I didn’t think you’d let me go, and so I haven’t thought about any special place.”

“Hm! Well, I dare say the old Academy is still running back in Russellville, but—I don’t know, son, that it would just suit you. What do you think?”

“If you don’t mind I’d like to go to one of the big schools, sir,” answered Dan.

“All right, all right, son,” said Mr. Vinton cordially. “You put your thinking cap on and study up on schools. When you find one you think you’d like you tell me and I’ll get particulars.”

For the next fortnight Dan perused the advertisements of eastern preparatory schools, sent for catalogues, read them, made up his mind and changed it at least once a day. It seemed that just as soon as he had settled upon one school as being the very place for him the postman tossed another catalogue in at the gate and Dan speedily discovered his mistake. He discovered several other things during that period, one of which was that you can’t always safely judge an article by its advertisement. There was one school in particular which won his admiration early. It was advertised in a magazine all across the top of a page. The picture gave a panoramic view of the grounds and buildings and Dan held his breath as he looked. At first glance there seemed to be at least a quarter of a mile of study halls and dormitories; by actual count the buildings in the picture numbered eleven; and, as Dan pointed out to his father, they were all of them “jim-dandies.” Mr. Vinton allowed that they were. He appeared rather aghast at the magnificence of the place; perhaps he was silently contrasting it with Russellville Academy as he remembered the latter institution. But when the forty-page catalogue came and Dan set out to identify the different buildings in the picture by means of the explanatory text he found to his dismay that only three of them were mentioned. This puzzled him until he came across a casual paragraph stating that “the grounds of the State Normal School adjoined the Academy on the east.” After that Dan viewed with suspicion all pictures until the text of the catalogues made good the pictorial claims.

In the evenings he showed his day’s “finds” to his father; Mrs. Vinton was practically exempt from the evening conferences, since she was called upon at all hours of the day for her opinions; and under the study lamp Mr. Vinton and Dan looked at pictures, read descriptions and weighed the merits of the different institutions under consideration. Of course Dan started out with a pronounced leaning toward the military schools; most every boy will own to the fascination exerted by stirring pictures of long lines of youths in trim uniforms drawn up in battalions on an immaculate parade ground, or dashing recklessly over four-rail gates on splendid white horses, or grouped with stern authority about a field-gun from whose muzzle a puff of white smoke hints stirringly of the aspect of war. But Dan’s father was very discouraging on the subject of military schools.

“If you want to be a real soldier, son,” he said, “I’ve no objection if you can get your mother’s permission. I guess I could get you appointed to West Point in the next year or two. But if you don’t want the real thing I wouldn’t monkey with the imitation. From what I can learn about most of these military academies they’re either play schools or else they’re reform schools in disguise. Of course there may be some very excellent ones, but I don’t believe you stand in need of a military training, son.”

After all Dan was going to school to prepare for college, probably Yale, and, recollecting that, he dropped the military schools and a good many others from consideration. What, he asked himself, was the good of learning to jump a horse over a four-rail fence or make pontoon bridges? He had never heard that equestrianism or bridge-building was required at Yale. And if it was merely a matter of physical exercise he guessed he could get all he needed of that from baseball, football and tennis. He was an enthusiastic lover of athletics; played a fair game of tennis, was an excellent baseman and had captained last year’s football team at the grammar school. And so, naturally enough, he was looking for a school where athletics flourished. But nevertheless one school, which advertised that “Blank Academy has turned out five victorious football teams in the last six years” earned only his contempt. For he shrewdly argued that a school which sought to attract students on the strength of its athletic success must be sadly deficient in other and more important departments. Football and baseball and things like that, thought Dan, were important adjuncts to education, but they weren’t what a fellow went to school for.

In the end, and that was along towards the third week in August, the choice, by an exhaustive process of elimination, was narrowed down to two schools, one in New Hampshire and one in Connecticut. I think all the other members of the family were heartily glad when the end was reached, but Dan had enjoyed it all hugely. He would have felt sorry for the boy whose school is selected by his parents. “Why, just think of all the fun he has missed!” Dan would have exclaimed. It was hard work making the final decision. The New Hampshire school, Phillips Exeter, appealed to him strongly. In Graystone a building thirty years old was considered venerable; one fifty years old—and there was only one such—was absolutely archaic. And Phillips Exeter Academy was a century and a quarter old; was turning out students years before the State of Ohio entered the Union! That appealed to Dan’s imagination. And Dan liked what the catalogue said about the school’s purpose: “The object of the Academy is to furnish the elements of a solid education. The discipline is not adapted to boys who require severe restrictions, and the method of instruction assumes that the pupils have some power of application and a will to work. The purpose of the instructors is to lead pupils to cultivate self-control, truthfulness, a right sense of honor, and an interest in the purity of the moral atmosphere of the school.” I think Dan’s final choice would have fallen on the New Hampshire school had not Congressman Findlay happened in one day to dinner while the decision was still in abeyance. The Congressman was very large and very deliberative, and when in the course of the conversation the subject of Dan’s choice of schools was brought up and his advice requested he demolished two of Mrs. Vinton’s excellent lemon tarts before he replied. Then:

“Both fine schools,” he said. “Not much to choose, Mr. Vinton. Don’t know as I ought to advise you, sir. I’m prejudiced.”

“Eh?” inquired Mr. Vinton. “How’s that?”

“Yardley man myself, sir,” replied Mr. Findlay.

Well, that settled it. Mr. Findlay was one of the State’s best citizens, a man admired by all, even his political enemies. Dan, who was always somewhat in awe of him, liked him thoroughly, and was convinced that a school which could turn out men like the Congressman was all right. After dinner some of Dan’s awe wore off, for Mr. Findlay told about Yardley Hall School and indulged in reminiscences of his own four years there and he and Dan became very chummy. When Dan went up to his room that night he had the Yardley Hall School catalogue in his hand and before he went to sleep he had read it through from front cover to back, word by word, three times.

The following month had been an exciting period in his life. There were so many jolly things to attend to. Of course the first of all was to apply for admission to Yardley Hall, and until the reply was received Dan was on tenter-hooks of suspense. For the catalogue plainly stated that the enlistment was restricted to two hundred and seventy students, and Dan feared that he was too late. But fortune was with him and he learned later that his application was the last but one to be accepted that year. Then came a brushing up on one or two studies in which he felt doubtful of satisfying the examiners. And after that there were clothes to buy, and to this task Mrs. Vinton lent herself with an ardor and enjoyment that for the while soothed her sorrow over her son’s prospective departure. And then, quite before anyone realized it, it was the Day Before, and Dan was listening to a few words of advice from his father.

“I don’t know that I’ve got much to say to you, son,” said Mr. Vinton. “We’ve let you choose your school and after you get there you’ll find that you’ve got to choose lots of other things for yourself. We’ve started out by letting you have your own say, pretty much, and I guess we’ll keep it up. So far you’ve shown pretty fair sense for a youngster. If you want advice about anything, why, you know where to come for it, but unless you ask for it neither your ma nor I will interfere with you. You’re getting along towards sixteen now, and at that age every boy ought to have a mind of his own. You’ll make mistakes; bound to; everyone makes mistakes except a fool. Just so long as you don’t make the same mistake twice you’ll do well enough. You’re going to a pretty expensive school, son. I don’t object to the cost of it, but I want you to see that you get your money’s worth. The extravagant man isn’t the man who pays a big price for a thing; he’s the man who doesn’t get what he pays for. So you’ll have to work. You’ll find all sorts and kinds of boys there, I guess, and I want you to use good sense in picking out your friends. A whole lot depends on that. A fellow can know other fellows that will be good for him if he goes about it right. Don’t make your friendship too cheap; if a fellow wants it let him pay your price; if he has the making of a real friend he will do it. Of course I expect you to behave yourself; but I’m not worried much about that. I’ve never seen anything vicious about you, son, and if you choose your friends right I don’t ever expect to. I might tell you not to do this and not to do that, but I guess if you’ll just make up your mind not to do anything you wouldn’t be afraid of telling your ma or me about you’ll keep a pretty clean slate.”

Next day had come the final frenzied excitement of packing, succeeded by an interminable wait for the moment of departure. Dinner that evening had been an uncomfortable meal, with only Mae looking cheerful or eating anything to speak of. And afterwards how the hours had crawled until it was time to get into the surrey and drive to the station! Dan had felt pretty miserable several times before the carriage came around and his mother spent much of the time out of the room, returning always with suspiciously moist eyes and smiling lips. Then had succeeded the drive to the train through the silent streets, past the darkened houses—for Graystone retires early to bed—with everyone by turns unnaturally animated or depressingly silent. And now here he was whizzing away through the moonlight, leaving Graystone farther and farther behind, the great adventure really and truly begun!

Of course he wasn’t really sleepy; there was too much to think about to waste time in slumber; but the silver and purple world rolled past his eyes with hypnotic effect, the clickety-click of the wheels sounded soothingly, and—and presently he was sound asleep with the moonlight smiling in upon him through the car window.

CHAPTER III
THE FIRST ACQUAINTANCE

Dan’s train rolled into the station at Wissining, Connecticut, at a few minutes before five. All the way from New York, and more especially since the Sound had suddenly flashed into view, he had been vividly interested in the view from the window of the parlor car, so palpably eager, in fact, to see this new country through which he was traveling that a kind-hearted, middle-aged gentleman whose seat was on the shoreward side of the car and across the aisle from Dan had insisted on changing chairs with him. Dan had at first politely refused the offer, but the gentleman had insisted with a little tone of authority in his voice and in the end Dan had accepted the coveted seat.

“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” he explained with a deprecating smile as he moved his bag across.

The gentleman smiled and nodded as though to say “I surmised as much, my young friend.” Then he settled down in his new chair and half hid his face behind a magazine. But a few moments later, when Dan happened to glance across, he encountered the gaze of the other fixed upon him speculatively. At once the eyes dropped to the pages of the magazine once more. Dan read the name on the cover, “The Atlantic Monthly,” and wondered whether the magazine was devoted to news of the fascinating ocean upon which he had been eagerly gazing. Then the absurdity of the idea struck him and he turned back to his window smiling.

Not only had Dan never seen an ocean before, but he had never looked on a body of water broader than the Ohio River. This doesn’t necessarily imply that he had spent his entire life in Graystone, for as a matter of fact the family spent an occasional summer away from home, usually in the Cumberland Mountains, and, besides this, Dan had made short trips now and then with his father to Cincinnati, Columbus, Springfield, and once as far South as Memphis. But Lake Erie, which was the nearest approach to an ocean in Dan’s part of the world, was two hundred miles north by rail and it happened that he had never reached it. And not only the ocean interested Dan to-day. The country itself engaged his pleased attention, for, although he had been born in Graystone, yet Connecticut had been the home of his father’s people for many generations and it seemed to him that the smilingly rugged, bay-indented country was holding out a welcome to him.

He had armed himself with a railroad map and had located his father’s old home some eighty miles north. The map even showed Russellville, and the tiny word there seemed a veritable welcome in itself! And so the time went quickly enough for him and almost before he knew it the porter was brushing his clothes and the train had slowed down at Greenburg, which, as he knew, was just across the river from his destination. As he tipped the porter and sank into his chair again he saw that the platform outside was thronged with boys who had left the train from the day-coaches ahead. They must be Yardley Hall boys, he thought; perhaps the train didn’t stop at Wissining and he should get off here! He looked around for someone whom he could ask and his gaze encountered that of the gentleman across the aisle, who, the magazine stowed away in his bag, had donned his light overcoat and was also apparently ready to leave the train. He noticed Dan’s anxious countenance and leaned across.

“Are you for Broadwood?” he asked.

“No, sir; that is, I’m going to Yardley Hall. Should I get off here?”

“No, your station is Wissining, the next stop. This is Greenburg and those boys are going to Broadwood Academy.”

Dan thanked him as the train started again. Suddenly the buildings dropped away from beside the track and in a flash he was looking along the estuary of a little river which wound away between low meadows for a short distance and then opened into the Sound. The sun had gone behind the clouds and a gray evening was succeeding a sunshiny day. Miles away across the quiet water the eastern end of Long Island lay like a purplish smudge against the horizon. He had time to see this, and time to catch a glimpse of a hamlet of scattered houses as the train crossed the little bridge and slowed down beside the station.

“Wissining,” announced the porter as he took up Dan’s bag. “This is your station, sir.”

He took the bag of the gentleman across the aisle also and for the first time it occurred to Dan, as he followed his cursory acquaintance toward the door, that perhaps the other was for Yardley Hall, too; that perhaps he was one of the teachers. But out on the platform he abandoned that theory, for a smart man in automobile livery took the gentleman’s bag and led the way to a big chocolate-brown touring car, and almost before Dan had had time to look about him the car was whisking itself off down the road. Some thirty other boys of various ages had left the train, and Dan, uncertain of his directions, followed them down the platform to where a number of carriages were drawn up, the drivers vieing merrily and loudly for custom. Dan hesitated. He had had in the back of his head an idea that when he left the train there would be someone looking for him. The idea had not been sufficiently concrete for him to know now whether he had expected the Principal himself or merely the school janitor. While he hesitated the other arrivals rushed for the carriages and tumbled themselves in after their luggage and in a twinkling the conveyances were all filled to overflowing and Dan alone remained on the platform, bag in hand, looking somewhat blankly about him. Several of the carriages—tiny affairs they were, holding not more than seven fellows no matter how you packed them in—had already started away when a voice hailed him from one of the remaining vehicles and a boy’s head was thrust out of the door.

“Hi, there, you chap! Coming up?”

Dan supposed that “up” meant to Yardley Hall; and of course he was coming up if he could get up, but—

“Come on in here,” called the boy. “Lot’s of room! Hold your horses, Mike!”

The driver, seated on a pile of bags and suit-cases where his seat had once been, had chirped encouragingly to his horse, but at the command he called “Whoa!” and the horse obeyed instantly, one might say almost with enthusiasm. A chorus of loud and long drawn-out “Whoas!” supplemented the driver’s injunction. Dan strode across and looked doubtfully into the interior of the carriage. At first glance there seemed dozens of occupants, but—

“Climb in,” said his rescuer merrily. “Give me your bag. Here, Tubby, hold the gentleman’s bag.” The bag was passed forward by eager hands until it was deposited unceremoniously in the lap of a stout, round-faced youth who showed no pleasure at the honor conferred upon him.

“Hold the old bag yourself,” he growled.

“Why, Tubby,” cried an outraged voice. “Such manners! I am surprised! Hold it nicely; be a gentleman, Tubby, even if it hurts you.”

“I—I’ll stand up,” said Dan as he pushed his way between the almost touching knees of the occupants. But that was out of the question, for the roof was too low to permit of it.

“Sit down,” said the boy who had hailed him, a youth of about seventeen with a good-looking, merry face. He gave a sudden tug at Dan’s coat and Dan went over backward on to his knees. “That’s the ticket. You’ve got an upper. Sit still.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find it uncomfortable,” said Dan anxiously.

“Not a bit of it! All right, Mike! Go ahead, but do drive carefully!”

This remark caused an appreciative howl from the others, during which progress began again. Dan felt a trifle embarrassed at first, but everyone seemed to forget all about him on the instant, even the boy on whose knees he sat paying no more attention to him. Once as the carriage rattled and shook its way along, Dan had a brief glimpse of a cluster of stone and brick buildings crowning a low hill to the left of the road and felt comforted to know that the school catalogue had not lied either as to the number and attractiveness of the buildings or the commanding situation of them. Then he did his best to maintain his seat and listened to the chatter of the fellows around him. The talk was loud and merry and incessant, but Dan couldn’t make very much of it until the word “football” reached him. There followed a confused and animated discussion of the Yardley Hall eleven, its probable make-up, its chances of success against Broadwood and the date of arrival of a Mr. Colton, whom Dan guessed to be the head coach. The discussion was at its height when the vehicle stopped.

“All out!” was the cry and Dan struggled to his feet and stumbled down on to a stone pavement and found himself in front of a flight of broad granite steps leading to a deep, arched entrance. Rescuing his bag, he looked about him indecisively. The other boys were scattering in all directions, some few entering the doorway before him. The boy who had rescued him at the station was taking his departure with the others. Dan hurried after him and touched him on the arm.

“Where do I go, please?” he asked.

The other boy, Alfred Loring, turned and gazed at Dan in mild surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean where shall I go to—to find someone?”

“Oh, are you just entering?” asked Loring. “I thought you knew the ropes. Well, come on and I’ll show you the office.”

He led the way up the steps and into the building. A broad hall traversed the building from front to rear and was intersected by a narrower passage running lengthwise. The woodwork was dark, and the plaster statues standing at intervals upon their high pedestals gleamed ghost-like against it. Loring turned to the right and led the way down the ill-lighted corridor, past the partly-open doors of recitation rooms, until a door with a ground-glass light in it blocked their further passage. On the glass was printed the legend: “Office of the Principal.” Loring opened the door and nodded his head.

“There you are,” he said. “Tell the chap at the right-hand that you want to register. He will give you a room and look after you.”

“Thanks,” answered Dan gratefully. The other nodded again carelessly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Glad to help you. See you again, I hope.” He took his departure, whistling softly and swinging his suit-case gayly along the corridor. Dan entered the office and closed the ground-glass door behind him. The room was large and less like an office than a library. A thick carpet covered the floor. On two sides shelves ran from floor to ceiling and were filled with books, filing-cases and wooden boxes lettered mysteriously. There were two low, broad-topped desks, one at each side of the room, and between them, opposite the door from the corridor, was a second door marked “Private.” There were three boys ahead of him and so Dan dropped into one of the four high-backed, uncomfortable chairs near the door and waited. Two deeply-recessed windows at his left admitted a flood of white light, and through them he could see an expanse of turf, traversed by red brick walks which converged in the center of the space where an ancient-looking marble sun-dial stood. Across the grass the end of a modern brick and limestone building, three stories in height, met his gaze. Beyond that again were woods. The picture was framed in the green leaves of the English ivy which surrounded the big windows. In the gray failing light of early evening, the quiet vista gave Dan an impression of age and venerability which thrilled him pleasantly and which was quite out of proportion with the real facts, for Yardley Hall School, as Dan well knew, was less than forty years old. Even the glimpse of Dudley Hall, a dormitory erected but three years before, failed to disturb the impression of ancientness.

“Now, if you please.”

Dan aroused himself and approached the desk where a keen-eyed man was regarding him a trifle impatiently over the tops of his glasses.

“What name?”

“Daniel Morse Vinton.”

The gentleman, who was the school secretary, ran his finger down the pages of a book beside him until it stopped at an entry. Then he took a filing card from a drawer and wrote on it.

“Residence?”

“Graystone, Ohio.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Class?”

“I don’t quite know, sir. I hope to get into the Third.”

“Father’s name and business?”

“John W. Vinton, manufacturer.”

“Mother’s name, if living?”

“Mary Vinton.”

“Street address?”

“Seventy-four Washington Avenue.”

“Religious denomination?”

“Baptist.”

“Bills to be sent to father or mother?”

“Father, please.”

“That’s all. Examinations in Room N to-morrow at nine-thirty. Your room is Number 28 Clarke Hall. Your room-mate is Henry Jones, a Third Class boy. I hope you will pass your examinations and enjoy your stay here. You have a check for your baggage? Thank you. It will be delivered this evening, probably. When you go out turn to your left, please; Clarke is the second dormitory. Dr. Hewitt receives the new students to-morrow evening from eight to nine in the Assembly Hall. I hope you will attend. If any question as to dormitory accommodation arises please see the matron, Mrs. Ponder, Room 2, Merle Hall. If there is anything else you want to know about you will find someone here from nine until six every day. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” answered Dan. “Thank you, sir.”

But the secretary was already absorbed again, and Dan lifted his bag and went out. To the left was a second building of granite, a very plain, unlovely structure which the ivy had charitably striven to cover. Beyond this a handsome, modern building of brick came into sight. There were two entrances and Dan went in at the first. A sign at the foot of the stairs announced “Clarke Hall; Rooms 1 to 36.” Dan climbed two flights and sought his number. He found it at length on the last door in the entry and knocked.

“Come in!” called a voice.

Dan entered. Before him, scowling interrogatively at the intruder, was the boy who had held his bag in the carriage.

CHAPTER IV
“28 CLARKE”

“Hello,” exclaimed Harry, alias “Tubby” Jones. “Who do you want?”

The tone was decidedly uncivil and Dan would have resented it had he been feeling less strange and lonesome. As it was he smiled ingratiatingly as he set down his bag.

“They told me at the office,” he replied, “that I was to room in 28 Clarke. This is 28, isn’t it? And you’re Jones, aren’t you?”

Tubby gave a growl of disgust.

“Gee, I knew I’d draw a freak,” he muttered. Dan heard and flushed. In momentary confusion he picked up his bag and deposited it on the window-seat at the end of the room. Tubby watched him with no attempt at concealing his disgust. Now, lest you gather the impression that our hero is a most unprepossessing youth, I’ll explain that Tubby Jones would have shown displeasure had his new room-mate been an Apollo in appearance, a Chesterfield in manners, a Beau Brummel in attire and a paragon of all virtues. Tubby, who, by the way, was none of these things himself, was what might be inelegantly called a chronic kicker. Tubby had a ceaseless quarrel with the world at large and things in general. He was a stout youth of sixteen with a round, pasty face on which there was habitually an expression of discontent and usually a scowl of sulky wrath. Tubby always had a grievance; he would have been dreadfully unhappy without one. Oddly enough, he was not unpopular in school, although he had few friends. The fellows never took him seriously—which was itself a grievance—and usually treated him with good-natured tolerance, using him as a butt for their jokes. The fact that Tubby couldn’t take a joke made it all the more fun.

When Tubby intimated that Dan was a freak he was more unflattering than truthful. And Tubby was forced to acknowledge unwillingly that this new room-mate of his was a mighty prepossessing chap; well-made, pleasant-mannered and attractive of face. Which was quite sufficient to make Tubby dislike him cordially. You see, Tubby wasn’t well-made, nor pleasant-mannered, nor attractive to look upon. And envy was at the bottom of many of Tubby’s grievances. Tubby stood with his hands in his pockets and looked aggressively at Dan. What he saw was a boy rather large for his age, fairly tall and “rangey,” with little superfluous flesh on his bones and a quick, alert way of looking and moving. He also saw a pair of steady, quiet brown eyes, a short, straight nose, brown hair and a nice mouth which at the present moment was trying bravely to smile. Perhaps Dan’s attire wasn’t quite the thing judged by Tubby’s standard; the clothes had been bought in Dayton “ready-to-wear” and didn’t fit very well; but the material was good and the color unobtrusive.

“Where do you live?” asked Tubby, as Dan, having unstrapped his bag, looked around for places in which to deposit the contents.

“Graystone, Ohio,” answered Dan. “Is that my bureau over there?”

“Yes, only it’s a chiffonier,” replied Tubby with a grin. “Say, do you reckon I could get a hat like that if I sent the money?”

Dan glanced in surprise at his straw hat on the window-seat. Then he looked doubtfully at Tubby.

“Sorry you don’t like it,” he said. “But I guess it’s pretty near time to call it in, anyhow. Which is my bed?”

“Everything on that side of the room is yours. Who said I didn’t like the hat? It’s a beaut! Did they give it to you when you bought the clothes?”

“No,” answered Dan quietly, “I paid for it.”

“Well, they must be robbers out your way,” laughed Tubby.

Dan made no answer. He was feeling too dejected to even get angry; besides Tubby’s ill-nature was so obvious that it lost its effect. Dan cleared out his bag and put it on the top shelf of his closet. Then he went back to the window-seat, took one knee in his hands and looked about him. The room was on the corner of the building, was some twenty feet long by twelve broad and was well if not luxuriously furnished. There was an iron cot-bed against each of the side walls, a chiffonier at the foot of each bed and a stationary washstand beside it. A broad study table stood under the chandelier, flanked on each side by an arm-chair. The floor was of hard wood and an ingrain “art-square” covered all but a narrow border. Beside the arm-chairs there were two straight-backed chairs, and the shallow bay window held a comfortable window-seat. On the walls, which were painted a light gray, hung four pictures, two on each side. These were part of the furnishings supplied by the school and were all framed alike in neat, dark oak frames. There was a photograph of the ruins of the Forum, an engraving of dogs, after Landseer, one of Napoleon on the deck of the Bellerephon and a cheerful colored print of the Christmas annual sort. There was a rule that forbade the hanging or placing of any other objects on the walls, but above each chiffonier a series of narrow shelves were built and on these the students arranged their photographs and posters.

“It’s a real nice room,” observed Dan sincerely.

Tubby sniffed.

“Glad you think so,” he sneered. “I think the rooms here are the limit. You nearly freeze in cold weather.”

“There’s steam heat, isn’t there?” asked Dan, with a glance at the radiator.

“Supposed to be, but you’d never know it. You’ve got the warmest side of the room.”

“On account of that side window there? I don’t mind the cold. I’ll change if you’d rather.”

“What’s the use? You’re cold anyhow, wherever you are. Are you one of those fresh-air cranks that want all the windows open at night?”

“No, one’s enough, I guess,” answered Dan.

“Well, you see that it’s the one nearest you, and don’t think you’re going to have it open all the way, either. I’m susceptible to cold, I am. I had the grippe last winter.”

“All right. When do we have supper?”

“Half-past six.” Tubby looked at his watch. “It’s twenty minutes after. Say, have you got any kind of a clock?”

Dan shook his head.

“Well, we need one,” continued Tubby. “If you’re thinking of adding anything to the furnishing of this palatial abode a clock’s the thing to get.”

“I see. Are you allowed to have furniture of your own?”

“You can have an easy chair if you like,” said Tubby. “Maybe you’d better get one. I usually use the window-seat and it only holds one comfortably.”

Dan stifled a smile.

“I guess we can take turns at it,” he answered quietly. He began to wash in preparation of supper. Tubby stared scowlingly at his back.

“What class are you in?” he asked presently.

“Don’t know yet; Third, I hope.”

“I’m in that. You’d better keep out. It’s an awful roast. They work you to death.”

“You mean you are in the Third Class this year?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I thought you said, but I wondered how you knew so much about it if you were just starting.”

“I know what fellows say,” answered Tubby crossly. “You’d better go in for the Fourth.”

“Maybe I’ll have to,” responded Dan cheerfully. “I’ll tell you more about it this time to-morrow.”

“Huh! You’re one of those smarties who think they know it all, aren’t you?”

“I hope not. If you’re going to supper I wish you’d show me the way, if you don’t mind.”

“All right. Come along. You won’t get much to eat, though, I can tell you that. They simply try to starve you here. Wish I’d gone to Broadwood, like I was going to.”

But Dan found that Tubby’s croakings about the supper were misleading. The food was very good and there was no evident attempt on the part of the waiters to force anyone to leave the table hungry. The dining hall, or commons as it was called, occupied most of the first floor of Whitson Hall, the unlovely granite structure which Dan had passed on his way to his room. There were thirty tables, holding from eight to ten boys each. Some of the tables were presided over by instructors, while in one corner of the hall a small table was occupied by Dr. Hewitt, the Principal; Mrs. Ponder, the Matron; Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and the Secretary, Mr. Forisher.

When Dan and his room-mate reached the hall they found it already well filled and Tubby gazed disgustedly at his watch, comparing it with the big clock over the fire-place. “Ten minutes slow!” he growled. Then he ambled over to a nearby table, leaving Dan to fend for himself. But a waiter came to his assistance, Dan gave his name, it was checked off from a list, and he was conducted down the hall. It was a long trip, for the table at which Dan finally found himself was quite at the other end of the room from where he had entered, and he tried his best neither to jostle the hurrying waiters or run into any of the occupants of the tables. He succeeded in both attempts and sank thankfully into a chair.

He might easily have thought himself in the dining room of a hotel, save for the absence of color lent by women’s dresses. As his eyes ranged about the hall they fell presently on a youth who was seated across the table. It was the boy who had come to his assistance at the station. As Dan’s eyes rested for a moment on him he wished that his acquaintance of the afternoon would look up and speak to him. He was an attractive, jolly looking chap, with brown hair that was slicked down very carefully on either side of his well-shaped head, a slightly aquiline nose, and dark eyes—probably brown, although Dan couldn’t be certain of that—that were frank and merry. Dan liked his looks very much and hoped they would become friends. After Tubby Jones the boy across the table was decidedly refreshing. But Dan was forced at last to withdraw his gaze without having secured a glance of recognition, and turned his regard to the other fellows at the table.

They were of all sorts, it seemed; in age, from fourteen to eighteen; attractive and unattractive, light and dark, sober and merry. But they seemed to Dan to be all much alike in one thing, and that was their air of absolute self-possession. For some reason he felt himself in comparison awkward and rough. No one spoke to him save the fellow on his left, who once asked for the pepper and once for the bread. Dan ate his dinner with a good appetite, glancing now and then across the table at his acquaintance of the afternoon and listening interestedly to the conversation about him. Much of it was unintelligible, abounding as it did in names and terms that were strange. But he learned in the course of it that the boy who had shown him the way to the office was named Alf Loring; for some of the fellows called him Alf and some Loring. Alf, reasoned Dan, was probably short for Alfred. As in the coach coming from the station, the subject of football claimed a good deal of attention, and it was evident from the deference paid to his opinions that Loring was to some extent an authority. By the time his dessert came on many of the fellows had finished their dinners and left the table, and Dan, for very loneliness, turned to his neighbor on the left, who had not quite finished, and ventured an inquiry.

“Are we—” Then he corrected himself; perhaps he had no right to say “we” yet. “Is the school going to have a good football team this year?” he asked.

His neighbor glanced at him curiously, but with nothing of unfriendliness, and shook his head.

“Pretty fair, I guess,” he answered. “We lost a lot of fellows last Spring, though.”

“I see,” said Dan. He couldn’t think of anything more to say at the moment and his informant paid no further attention to him. A chair scraped at the other side of the table and Dan looked across in time to see Loring arise. A moment later their glances met. Loring’s swept by and then returned, while a little pucker of indecision creased his forehead. Then recognition came and he nodded across, pausing with a hand on the back of his chair.

“Hello,” he said. “How’d you get on? All right?”

“Yes, thanks,” answered Dan, feeling a little self-conscious as the remaining boys turned their eyes to him. “They gave me a room in Clarke Hall.”

“You might have done worse,” said Loring. “Who are you with?”

“With?” repeated Dan, puzzled.

“I mean who’s your room-mate?”

“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Dan. “A fellow named Jones.”

“Not Tubby Jones?”

“I think so. He was in the coach with us.”

“That’s Tubby,” answered Loring with a smile. Several of the others laughed outright and a boy at the end of the table remarked as he pushed back his chair: “I wish you joy!” It wasn’t intended for Dan’s ears, but Dan heard it.

“Well, Clarke’s a pretty good dormitory,” said Loring. “You might have had worse luck.” He smiled again in friendly fashion and took his departure. Dan thought that the two or three fellows who remained at the table seemed a trifle more interested in him than they had before, but none of them spoke and presently he left the table himself.

Tubby Jones was not in the room when he got back to Clarke. His trunk was there, however, and for the next hour Dan was too busy unpacking to feel lonesome. But afterwards, when everything had been put away he wished that someone would come in; even Tubby would have been welcome. But no one came and so Dan glanced over the books on Tubby’s side of the table, selected a battered copy of one of Henty’s stories and settled himself in a chair. He made up his mind to get interested in the story and keep his thoughts away from Graystone and the folks there; he had thought at first of writing a letter, but he knew that if he did he would be homesick in a minute. Luckily the book captured his interest before a half-dozen pages had been turned and he was thoroughly absorbed in the startling adventures of the hero when the door flew open and Tubby entered. Behind came a second boy, a sharp contrast to Tubby. He was about the same age, but there all likeness ended, for the stranger was thin and sallow with untidy hair of a nondescript shade of light brown, a mere apology for a nose and a wide, loose mouth that was always smiling in a nervous, ingratiating way just as Tubby’s was forever set in lines of displeasure. His eyes were quite as indecisive as his hair in regard to color and had a shifty look that Dan didn’t find prepossessing. The first thing that Tubby saw was the book in Dan’s hand.

“Hello,” he said with a scowl, “isn’t that my Henty?”

“Why, yes, I guess so,” answered Dan. “I found it on the table!”

“Well, I don’t lend my books,” growled Tubby.

“Oh!” Dan looked at him rather blankly and then at the stranger. The latter was grinning as though in appreciation of his friend’s discourtesy, but tried to straighten his mouth when Dan looked at him.

“Sorry,” said Dan. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” He got up and put the book back in its place. “I don’t think I’ve hurt it,” he added dryly.

“Well, if you’d asked me—” began Tubby a trifle more graciously.

“You weren’t here, you see,” said Dan. He picked up Tubby’s cap, which the latter had just tossed on the desk, and placed it on top of the row of books.

“What’s that for?” asked Tubby suspiciously.

“This is my side of the table,” answered Dan quietly, “and I don’t like things put on it.”

Tubby scowled angrily and muttered to himself. Then he took up the cap and tossed it onto a hook in his closet, closing the door with a vindictive slam. The stranger had seated himself on the edge of Tubby’s bed and was grinning like a catfish; the expression is Dan’s, not mine. The possibility of a quarrel between the room-mates seemed to fill him with the most pleasant anticipations. But, as before, when he caught Dan’s gaze on him he strove to dissemble his enjoyment. Perhaps Dan’s glance had in it something of the instinctive dislike which he felt for the other, for the stranger seemed a little embarrassed and turned to Tubby.

“I say, Tubby, you might introduce me, you know,” he challenged.

“I forgot,” muttered Tubby. “Mr. Hiltz, Mr. Vinton. Jake is in the Third and he will tell you just what I did, it’s a mighty tough job.”

Dan shook hands with Jacob Hiltz, wondering as he did so how Tubby had learned his name; for Tubby had not asked it and Dan had not volunteered it. As a matter of fact, Tubby had paid a visit to the Office after supper and asked Mr. Forisher, a course quite typical of Tubby, who, as Dan learned later on, would much rather obtain his information in a round-about way than ask a straightforward question. Hiltz laughed nervously as he dropped Dan’s hand.

“Yes, it’s a tough class all right,” he corroborated. “They say the Latin is fierce.”

“Yes,” said Tubby. “We have Collins in Latin, and he’s a regular slave-driver.”

“He’s the Assistant Principal, isn’t he?” Dan asked.

“Yes, that’s what they call him, but he really does most of the work. Toby’s a figure-head. All he does is to interfere with things and spoil our fun.”

“Toby?” repeated Dan vaguely.

“Doctor Hewitt,” Jake Hiltz explained. “His first name is Tobias, you know. He’s not a bad old sort.”

“Oh, he makes me tired,” growled Tubby. “Doesn’t do a thing that’s any good and draws a big salary for doing it.”

“How old is he?” Dan asked.

“Oh, pretty near seventy, I guess.”

“Does he teach?”

“Yes, some. You’ll have him in Greek when you get into the First Class. He’s a cinch, though, the fellows say. Wish Collins was like him.”

“Are the exams very stiff?”

“You bet they are,” said Tubby. “That’s why you’d ought to try for the Fourth instead of the Third. You’d be certain to make the Fourth, you see.”

“Well, but if I miss the Third, there’s still the Fourth, isn’t there?”

“Yes.” Tubby shook his head dubiously. “But it’s a bad plan to start out that way; Faculty doesn’t like it. Does it, Jake?”

“Dead against it,” answered Jake promptly and with conviction. “If I were you I’d try the Fourth. Then, if you wanted to you could take two extras next year and maybe skip the Third. Two or three fellows are doing that.”

“Sounds a bit difficult,” mused Dan. “What class are you in?”

“Third,” answered Tubby.

“Oh, then you really don’t know very much about it from experience, do you?” asked Dan carelessly. Jake was at a loss for a moment, but Tubby came to his assistance.

“He’s heard plenty of fellows talk about it, I guess. Jake’s been here two years.”

“I see. Still, maybe you fellows are more scared than you need be. I shall try for the Third, anyway.”

“Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said Tubby irritably.

“No, and I’m much obliged to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” answered Jake sweetly. But Dan didn’t like his tone. They talked for awhile longer desultorily. Dan tried to learn something about football at the school, for he meant to try for the team, but neither Tubby nor Jake seemed to be the least bit interested in the game.

“One thing’s sure, though,” said Tubby, “and that is that we will get licked again this year just as we did last.”

“How’s that?” Dan inquired.

“Rotten coaching,” Tubby growled. “They’ve got a fellow named Payson for Head Coach and he’s no good. A conceited chap who thinks he’s the whole show. He doesn’t know enough about football to coach a girls’ school!”

“Do you play?” asked Dan suspiciously. Tubby shook his head.

“No, not on your life! I know how, all right, but there’s no use trying to make the team here unless you’re a swell or a particular friend of Payson’s.”

“Oh, then you don’t think there’s any use in my trying for the team?” Dan asked.

“You!” Tubby and Jake viewed him derisively. “You’d have about as much show as—as—”

“As I would,” Jake assisted.

Dan looked at Jake’s thin, flat-chested figure and tried not to smile. But he wasn’t wholly successful and Jake flushed.

“Oh, you may have the build all right,” he said, “but it takes more than that to get on the team here. Payson won’t pay any attention to a fellow unless he’s had a lot of experience.”

“Well, I’ve had three or four years of it,” said Dan.

“Oh, Western football doesn’t count,” Tubby sneered. “You’ll find we play a different game here.”

“That so? By the way, who is Loring?”

“Alf Loring?” asked Tubby quickly. “He’s quarter-back on the eleven and he thinks he can play football. Do you know him?” Dan shook his head.

“I sat at table with him to-night,” he said.

“Huh! You ought to feel honored! He’s a cad, he is. There’s lots of them here, and he’s the top-notcher of them all. He makes me sick. Conceited fool! If you want to play football you’d better try for the class team; you’ll be lucky if you make substitute on that!”

“Well, I’m going to bed,” said Jake. “Good night. Glad to have met you, Vinton. I’m in Whitson; Number 7. Get Tubby to bring you over some time. Hope you get through exams O.K. Good night.”

Tubby went off with his friend and Dan went to bed. He had just pulled the covering over him when Tubby returned. Dan feigned sleep and Tubby, after one attempt at conversation, let him alone. Soon the light went out and Dan, lying with wide-open eyes, considered the day’s events. On the whole he wasn’t very well satisfied. He had been at Yardley Hall five hours and had been spoken to by exactly four of the two hundred and seventy boys. And of the four two he already cordially disliked. Of the others, one, his neighbor at table, had neither repelled nor attracted him, while Loring, if he was to accept Tubby’s estimate, was not promising. But he had a suspicion that Tubby’s estimates were not always just, and what little he had seen of Loring he liked. Unfortunately, Loring hadn’t shown any reciprocal sentiments. Dan smiled ruefully as he recalled his father’s advice on the subject of forming friendships. “Don’t make your friendship too cheap,” he had counselled. “If a fellow wants it make him pay your price.” Dan wondered now whether anyone was going to want his friendship at any price whatever! Perhaps, after all, he would have done better to have gone to a western school. At Brewer, for instance, he would have by this time, he was certain, known half the school. Yes, there was undoubtedly a difference between western ways and eastern. It wasn’t that Yardley fellows don’t make friendships, for after supper he had passed boys in Oxford Hall with their arms over each other’s shoulders as chummy as you pleased. Perhaps it was merely that it was harder here to make friends, more difficult to become acquainted. Perhaps after you got to know the fellows you would like them immensely. Only—well, Dan wondered whether he would ever get to know the right sort, for certainly, with Tubby and Jake as examples, he hadn’t made a very brilliant beginning! And still wondering, Dan fell dejectedly to sleep.

CHAPTER V
YARDLEY HALL

It may be that you who are reading this story know Yardley Hall quite as well as, maybe even better than I do. If so you will think me a bit cheeky for describing it. But as this is likely to fall into the hands of those who may, at the most, have only heard the name of Yardley, I think we owe it to such to say a little about the scene of the story. But I’ll make it as brief as I can, for I don’t like descriptions any better than, possibly, you do. And if you are not satisfied with this, why, it’s the easiest thing in the world to skip this chapter. I shall think myself lucky if you don’t skip more than that before you have finished my tale.

Yardley Hall School, then, is at Wissining, Connecticut, and Wissining is a very little town—so little that some maps do not even show it—situated on Long Island Sound about midway between Newport and New Haven. A little river—not much more than a good-sized creek, to tell the truth—leaves the Sound there and meanders back through marsh and meadow until it finally loses all likeness to a river—even a little one—and becomes simply a bog. But that is seven or eight miles inland. At Wissining it makes quite a showing in a small way; it is broad enough to accommodate a couple of islands, and that is something, you’ll have to allow!

Coming from New York, and after you have left New Haven quite a distance behind, you reach Greenburg. Greenburg is on the west bank of the river and is something of a town. It has a good many factories of various sorts; factories for silverware, brass tubing, clocks and builder’s hardware. There are others beside, and a big boat-building yard where they turn out gasoline launches. Whenever you come across a launch whose engine bears the inscription, “Wissining Launch and Engine Company,” you may be certain that it came from Greenburg. Of course if you want to reach Wissining you pay no attention to the conductor’s cry of “Greenburg! Greenburg!” You keep your seat in the car and after a minute or two the train goes on, past the backs of the houses and stores and over a little bridge across the river, and stops at a very much less imposing station. That is Wissining.

If you stand on the platform after the train has gone and look about you the first thing you will probably notice is a mass of stone and brick buildings which stand on a plateau about a quarter of a mile away. You are looking now directly north-east. Between you and the collection of buildings, which, as the station master will tell you, is Yardley Hall School, there lies nothing but a field and a country road which starts off straight and level and very business-like only to waver uncertainly a little distance away and then make a long curve up a hill until it has reached the top of the plateau and is skirting the fronts of the big buildings.

The school buildings are arranged in such a way that they form in outline a letter J, the loop toward Greenburg and the straight part facing the Sound. Clarke Hall is at the top. Then comes Whitson. Then, forming the first curve, Oxford. Next is Merle and finally, supplying the final twirl, the Kingdon Gymnasium. Back of Whitson and Clarke, and having no part in the J, is Dudley Hall. This completes the list, save for a heating plant tucked away near the gymnasium, and the boat house on the river-bank.

If you stand on the steps of Oxford Hall you have a noble view before you. In the immediate foreground there is a wide lawn, known as The Prospect. Below and beyond are fields through which the road runs to the village, a modest collection of some thirty or forty houses and stores. Further beyond is the river, with the railroad bridge, the wagon bridge and Loon Island for points of interest. Across the river lies Greenburg, quite a city in appearance, her tall chimneys forever spouting smoke. To your right, looking along the front of Oxford, is field and wood, the river, and, beyond that, Meeker’s Marsh, a mile-wide territory of reeds and rushes, streams and islands, where there is good duck and plover and snipe shooting in season, or used to be. There is a good-sized pond there, too; Marsh Lake they call it; and if you have a canoe or a flat-bottomed boat and know the way you can reach it from the river. In the far distance are wooded hills and occasional farms.

Turning and facing the Sound you have in front of you a path which leads straight across The Prospect, past the flag-pole, until, at the edge of the plateau, it becomes a rustic bridge and crosses the railroad. That bridge is a favorite lounging place, for you can look right down into the funnels of the smoke-stacks as the engines whirr by beneath you; that is, if you don’t mind a little smoke. The bridge leads across the railroad cut and the path begins again, running down hill now and parting to left and right at the edge of the woods. If you go through the woods a few minutes’ walk will bring you to the beach with the broad Sound before you. But from The Prospect the Sound is well in view, for the woods and the village and the big Pennimore estate, which fronts the Sound and river both, are all below you. Almost due south those little specks of islands are The Plums. More to the east that purple smudge on the horizon is the eastern end of Long Island. I doubt if any school has a more wonderful outlook.

Yardley Hall School was founded in 1870 by Tobias Hewitt, M.A., Ph.D., Oxford. Then it was called Oxford School and there were only Oxford and Whitson Halls. For a quarter of a century the Doctor did well and the school flourished. But some fifteen years ago the Doctor met reverses and the property, forty acres of land, and, by that time, four buildings, passed into the hands of a stock company. The School was renamed and the business reorganized, the Doctor retaining a sufficient interest to give him an important voice in affairs. The new owners spent a good deal of money. A fine gymnasium was built, a new athletic field was laid out, the grounds were vastly improved, and, finally, in 1903 I think it was, Dudley Hall was erected. About the same time the buildings, all save Dudley, were connected with each other by covered colonnades, the gifts of graduates.

Of the buildings Oxford and Whitson are of granite, the former in Gothic style and the latter without claims to any. In Oxford the basement is given over to the chemical and physical laboratories and store rooms. On the first floor are recitation rooms, the school offices, and, at the eastern end, the Principal’s apartments. On the second floor are recitation rooms and the library. The Assembly Hall is on the third floor, as are the rooms of the rival debating societies, the Oxford and the Cambridge. Whitson contains the kitchens and commons downstairs and two floors of sleeping rooms above. Clarke is entirely a dormitory, one of the new brick and limestone buildings put up in 1892, Merle, erected in the same year, houses the students of the Preparatory Class, for at Yardley there are five classes, First, Second, Third, Fourth and Preparatory. It is in Merle that the Matron, Mrs. Ponder, has her office. (Mrs. Ponder is popularly known as “Emily,” but no disrespect is intended.) Dudley, the newest of the dormitories, is the best in point of comfort, although its situation is not especially desirable. In Dudley you can have a room all to yourself if you want it, or you can go in with another boy and have a suite of study and bedroom. The latter is the more popular way. Rooms in Dudley are awarded first to the members of the graduating class and then, if there are any left, to the Second Class boys.

Yardley is proud of its gymnasium, and justly so. When it was built, in 1895, it was the best preparatory school gymnasium in the country, and even to-day few, I think, excel it. The basement floor is given over to locker rooms, bath rooms and a commodious baseball cage. On the first floor is the gymnasium, Physical Director’s office and bowling alley. Above is the running track of twenty laps to the mile, the trophy room and the boxing room. Four hours a week of physical exercise in the gymnasium are required of all students save those engaged in active sports as members of school or class teams. Mr. Bendix, the Physical Director, is what the fellows call “a shark for work,” and there are those who would never utter a regret if Indian clubs, chest weights, dumb bells, single sticks, foils and boxing gloves suddenly disappeared from their ken. But such fellows form a minority of the whole, you may be sure.

If you take the path that leads down the slope toward the river from the gymnasium you will see Yardley Field spread before you; six acres of smooth ground leading with an imperceptible slope toward the river. First come the gravel tennis courts an even dozen of them in the two wire-netted enclosures. [The little red shed is where the nets are stored.] Then you find yourself at the back of the grand stand, which, built in sections of steel frame and wooden seats, can be moved as desired from one part of the grounds to another. The track is a quarter of a mile oval of hard, well-rolled cinders enclosing the gridiron and diamond. If you skirt the track to the left you reach the boat-house, a picturesque little building of weather-stained shingles about which ivy and shrubbery grow.

Now follow the well-worn path along the river to the right until you have reached the other end of the oval. That low expanse of grass and rushes up-stream there, is Flat Island. It’s a joyous loafing place in Spring before the mosquitoes begin business. To the right is the golf links and in front of you is the Third Hole. There are only nine of them and the course doubles back and forth perplexingly for the newcomer. But it’s a pretty good course for all of that. The first tee is up there on the hill, a little way back of the gymnasium and on the edge of the woods; and there is a school legend to the effect that once an “Old Boy,” visiting his son at Yardley, stood up there and drove the ball clean into the river. And—well, I have nothing to say; you can see the distance yourself. But I know that I wouldn’t like to have to do it!

There’s a story at Yardley which tells how Doctor Tobias Hewitt, when he came to this country from England to start a school, had, because of his Oxford predilections, intended settling on the Thames River, and how when he arrived there was a dense fog blowing in from the Sound and he made a mistake in the rivers and didn’t discover his error until it was too late. Then, so the story goes, he tried to have the Wissining called the Thames and the Thames the Wissining; but the State of Connecticut wouldn’t humor him. Of course the story was made up only to illustrate the Doctor’s fondness for things English and, more especially, Oxonian. And true it is that during the early days of the school English customs were followed very closely. The Doctor was Head Master then, the instructors were Masters, the classes were “forms” and the dining hall was the “commons.” It is said that the Doctor even tried to install the “fag” system among the boys and that it went well enough until an unsympathetic youth from the free and enlightened West mutinied. The effects of his mutiny were: item, a disfigured nose for the boy whose fag he was supposed to be, and item, an immediate declaration of independence from all other fags resulting in a death-blow to the system. But all this was thirty years ago and more, and to-day both Doctor Hewitt and his school are American to the backbone, the Doctor rampantly so on occasions. To be sure, Oxford Hall still holds its name and the dining hall is still known as commons; the rival debating clubs clung to their original titles and the school color had never been changed from dark blue. But these things merely served to prove the school’s emancipation from the British yoke; and, as for the school color, Yardley fellows will wither you with a glance if you suggest any similarity in hue between it and the Oxford’s color, informing you crushingly that it is “Yale blue.” Which, as Yardley sends more students to Yale than to any other college, is as it should be.

CHAPTER VI
“TUBBY” JONES SURRENDERS

Dan passed his examinations and was admitted to the Third Class, to the very evident disappointment of Tubby. For the first few days, life in 28 Clarke was not altogether peaceful. Study hours were observed from eight to ten in the evenings. After eight no visiting was allowed outside the building except by permission of the instructor in charge and visiting inside the building was discouraged. But Tubby, who did very little studying at best, always felt especially sociable between eight o’clock and bedtime and liked to have his friends, notably Jake Hiltz and another boy named Caspar Lowd, visit him. Hiltz and Lowd appeared to find no more necessity for study than Tubby, and for several nights they turned up at Number 28, together or separately. This wasn’t conducive to concentration of thought on Dan’s part, and Dan was desirous of staying in the Third Class now that he had got there. He stood it for four nights and then mildly called Tubby’s attention to the rules. Tubby was indignant.

“We don’t stop you from studying, do we?” he blustered. “Can’t I have my friends in here if I want them? Is this room any more yours than mine?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Dan answered, “but you know mighty well that I can’t keep my mind on my books when you fellows are talking three feet away from me!”

“Well, that isn’t our fault, is it?” asked Tubby with a grin. “You’ll get used to it pretty soon. I can study anywhere.”

Dan wanted to ask him why he didn’t do it, but refrained. Instead—

“I have equal rights here with you, Jones,” he said. “I don’t have fellows here in study hours, and you don’t have to, either.”

“You don’t know anybody,” Tubby retorted.

“And if I did I’d have some consideration for my room-mate,” Dan replied tartly.

“Is that so? Well, maybe you think you can keep my friends out of here. Do you?”

“Yes,” answered Dan shortly. “I do. And I’m going to.”

“How?” shouted Tubby angrily. Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll have to go to Mr. Frye.” (Mr. Frye, instructor in physics, lived on the first floor and was in charge of the dormitory.) Tubby sputtered with indignation.

“I’d do that!” he cried. “I’d go and act the baby! You do and you’ll see what the fellows think of you!”

“Who? Hiltz and Lowd, do you mean? I guess I can stand having them think what they like.”

“Yes, and other fellows, too! They’d hear about it!”

“Yes, I guess you’d see to that,” answered Dan.

“Of course I would,” Tubby blustered, “if you carried tales to Noah.” Mr. Frye’s first name was Noah, and by that name was he usually known.

“I don’t like carrying tales any more than you do,” Dan replied, “but I intend to study in the evening, and I can’t do that if you have your friends in here.”

“That’s just what I am going to do,” said Tubby. “There isn’t any rule, anyhow, against visiting in study hours.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to do it often. Besides, there is a rule against visiting outside the building, and that’s what Hiltz and Lowd are doing.”

“They get permission, of course!”

“Oh, come now, Jones! You know Hiltz doesn’t get permission every night. They wouldn’t give it to him four nights running.”

“Well, that’s not my affair,” growled Tubby. “He comes and I have a right to let him in.”

Dan was silent a moment. Then—

“I tell you what I’ll do, Jones,” he said. “You let me study until nine and I’ll let you give house-parties from nine until ten. How does that suit you?”

“I’ll do as I like,” answered Tubby ungraciously.

“Then I’ll do as I like,” said Dan. “And if you have fellows up here to-morrow night between eight and nine I’ll go to Frye and tell him I can’t study.”

“Yah!” said Tubby.

Before this controversy, however, they had fallen out regarding the airing of the room at night. Dan was for having the window on his side of the room wide open, while Tubby declared that it was more fresh air than his constitution would stand.

“I had grippe last winter,” he said. “And I’m susceptible to cold; the doctor said so.”

“I don’t want you to catch cold,” said Dan, “but I can’t sleep with the room closed up tight. I’ll get a screen and you can put it around the head of your bed.”

“Don’t want a screen,” Tubby growled. “I don’t mind having your window open a little, say two or three inches, but I can’t stand a draft, and—”

“If you had more fresh air,” interrupted Dan impatiently, “you’d be a lot better and wouldn’t look so much like the other side of a fried egg!”

That, of course, didn’t help matters much, for Tubby got very red in the face and fumed and sputtered—very much, as Dan reflected, like the egg in the pan—and for the rest of the day the two boys didn’t speak to each other. This didn’t bother Dan much, for he had never found Tubby’s conversation very interesting. It was probably much more of a hardship for Tubby, for that youth was very fond of talking and seemed never happier than when well launched in a scathing criticism of someone or some thing. That night Dan pushed his window half-way up from the bottom and half-way down from the top. Then he put out the light. Just as he was dropping off to sleep he heard Tubby’s bed creak and Tubby’s bare feet on the floor. Then the window was closed very softly. Dan grinned and waited until Tubby was safely in bed again. Then he jumped up and slammed the window up from the bottom as far as it would go. He returned to bed and waited. Tubby got up again, this time walking into a corner of the study table and emitting a groan of pain. Dan pulled the clothes over his face and chuckled. When Tubby was once more between the sheets Dan again opened the window. After that he laid awake for some time, waiting for a continuance of the contest, but nothing happened and finally he fell asleep. But when he awoke in the morning the room was close and warm and every window was tightly shut. Only the transom into the hall was open. Tubby was smiling triumphantly. Dan said nothing.

Gymnasium work came at half-past eleven and lasted until half-past twelve four days in the week. To-day, however, Dan’s class didn’t meet and so after a mathematics recitation at half-past ten he had two hours before dinner time. He resolved to use a portion of the time in the interests of hygiene. So he set out for the village in search of a hardware store. He found the store, but not what he wanted to purchase. He was told, however, that he could get it in Greenburg, across the river. So he found the bridge and had soon covered the quarter of a mile which lay between it and the business part of Greenburg. The town proved to be quite a busy one and Dan found lots to interest him, especially in the store windows. After he had made his purchase in the hardware store he gave himself up to a veritable orgy of shopping. He bought pencils and blue-books and tablets in a stationery store, picture postcards and a glass of root-beer in a druggist’s, a dark blue necktie in a haberdasher’s and a box of candy at a confectionery store. Then he looked at his watch and discovered that he had barely time in which to reach school before dinner. He did it, arriving at Oxford much out of breath, just as the hands of the big clock in the stone tower pointed to four minutes of one. Later he made the discovery that luncheon was the one meal of the day at which tardiness was permitted, the doors of commons remaining open until a quarter to two.

Tubby seemed to have recovered from his ill-humor and the dove of peace perched itself in Number 28 Clarke. But when bedtime came the dove fled precipitately, and probably out the window. For Dan’s last act was to raise the lower sash and pull down the upper one. Then he produced a small chain such as are used for dog leashes and tossed one end of it over the tops of the sashes, bringing it back into the room underneath. Where the ends came together he made them fast with a small padlock. During this procedure Tubby, raised on his elbow in bed, watched silently. Then Dan put out the light and crept between the sheets. He hadn’t dared to so much as glance at Tubby for fear the expression on that youth’s face would move him to laughter. But after he had got the bed-clothes well over his head Dan chuckled to his heart’s content. There was no necessity for staying awake, for Tubby might lower the sashes or raise them to his heart’s content; whether up or down they must stay together.

The next morning Tubby was inclined to be distant, and his only conversational efforts were sniffs and snuffles designed to appraise Dan that he had caught cold through exposure to the night air. But Tubby’s cold didn’t last beyond breakfast.

For two more nights Dan used his chain and padlock. The third night he left it off and opened the window only a foot at the top and a like distance at the bottom. When he awoke in the morning it was just as he had arranged it. Tubby had given up the struggle. And Dan won out in the other affair as well, for, in spite of Tubby’s pretended disdain for his room-mate’s ultimatum he was pretty certain that Dan would do as he said he would, and it was part of Tubby’s philosophy never to present himself to the notice of the instructors. So thereafter Hiltz and Lowd, or (very occasionally) someone else, paid their visits to 28 after nine o’clock.

To Dan’s surprise these victories, instead of antagonizing Tubby the more, seemed rather to increase his respect and liking for his room-mate. Dan didn’t for one moment flatter himself that Tubby was fond of him, for it seemed doubtful if Tubby was capable at that period of being fond of anyone save himself; and Dan preferred that he shouldn’t be. For Dan’s sentiments toward Tubby were a mixture of tolerance and good-natured contempt, and a liking on Tubby’s part would have been embarrassing. But they got on pretty well together after these first skirmishes. Dan realized that Tubby’s companionship was better than none. For so far, and Dan had been at Yardley six whole days, he had made no friends and had but three or four acquaintances. His preconceived ideas of Eastern boarding-school life were getting some hard knocks.

CHAPTER VII
PAYSON, COACH

Those first six days were busy ones, yet Dan found plenty of time in which to be homesick. I don’t mean that he wept or went around with a long face; he was pretty nearly sixteen years of age, and, of course, a chap when he gets to be that old has altogether too much pride to act like a baby no matter how much he may feel like one. But on his first and second days at Yardley he went for long walks along the shore or struck inland along the river bank and thought a good deal about Graystone and the folks there and wished heartily that he could see them. The East and Yardley Hall in particular seemed to him then a very lonely, unfriendly place, and the three months which stretched ahead between the present and the Christmas recess looked interminable. Once—it was a dull, cold afternoon with an unfamiliar salt tang in the damp air—he even considered giving it up and going home. He had only to get his bag from his room, walk to the station and take a train. He had plenty of money for all expenses and he felt certain that his father would forgive him even though he would be disappointed in him. The knowledge that it was possible to cut and run at any moment was comforting and reconciled him to remaining for awhile longer. Perhaps he might manage to hang on until the recess. Then, once home, trust him to stay there!

But on the third day, when as usual he started out in the afternoon for a tramp, he suddenly discovered what he had not noticed on the preceding days; that the Sound, aglitter in the afternoon sunlight, dotted here and there with white sails and feathered with the trailing blue smoke of distant steamers, was very beautiful; that the curving shore, clothed in green turf and mellowing trees, edged with gray boulders or warm white sand, was vastly pleasant; that the blue sky, tranquil and summer-like, flecked here and there with streamers of cottony clouds, looked kindly after all; that, in short, this eastern world wasn’t so different from Ohio. He swung along that day with a lighter heart, whistling as he went. He cut a stick from an old willow that grew back from the shore and flourished it merrily. His walk was a series of surprises. The shore curved and capered along the edge of the Sound, revealing all sorts of interesting little coves and nooks and promontories. Once a stone wall came straggling down a hill across a meadow and wandered right out into the water like a bad little boy insisting on getting his feet wet. Dan followed it out, balancing himself on the big stones, and, at the end, jumping from one to another until he stood precariously on the last one of all with the blue sunlit water before him and around him. At a little distance a sloop lay moored. The tide was well out and Dan believed that he could reach it by wading. So he sat down and pulled off shoes and stockings and rolled his trousers as high as they would go and started out. The water was surprisingly warm and save that he once stepped into some sort of a hole and went down until his trousers were wet, he reached his goal without misadventure. The sloop was an old one, broad of beam and snub of nose, and it wasn’t very clean. But Dan pulled himself up onto the deck and dropped from there into the cockpit, where, the tiller under his arm, he sat a long while and watched the sea and the distant boats and made believe—for even at nearly sixteen one may still make-believe—that he was asail.

After awhile he noticed that whereas he had begun by looking eastward he was now looking in quite the opposite direction. That was strange! But the mystery was soon solved. The tide was coming in again and the sloop had swung around until her blunt nose was pointing straight toward the open. Dan glanced toward the shore and the end of the stone wall in dismay. Even as he looked a little wave crept up the side of the last boulder and playfully lapped the toe of one of his stockings. It was time for action. So he slipped over the side and found the water almost to his hips. When he reached the stone and rescued his shoes and stockings he was pretty wet. He went back up the wall and picked out a nice warm spot to dry off in and there with his back to a comfortable rock he spent another half hour, rousing himself at length to finish dressing and go home. There was a good four miles between him and the school, but he felt as though he could walk forty, and so, his willow cane swinging, he stepped out briskly. For the first time since he had reached school he was thoroughly glad just to be alive, to feel the springy turf underfoot, the sun on his face and the little salty breeze about him.

When he reached the turn of the path at the corner of Whitson he remembered that down on the football field practice was going on. Until now he had thought little about football. Before he had reached Yardley he had entertained notions of trying for the team, but what Tubby and Jake had told him had rather discouraged him; and besides that he had seen some of the players and they were so much older and larger than he that it seemed silly to offer his services; doubtless he would be only laughed at. And then, too, he had been so low-spirited that sport, even football, which of all sports held first place in his affections, had failed to appeal to him. But to-day there was a change in his spirits and he decided that he would go down to the field and look on awhile. So he went, and as he passed along the front of Merle Hall a nice-looking boy with a blue cap tucked rakishly on the back of his head smiled and nodded to him, and Dan’s heart lightened still more. He didn’t know who the boy was, couldn’t even recollect his face, but it was nice to be noticed. Dan never became well acquainted with the youth with the blue cap, but he always felt grateful to him for just that little smiling nod which meant little to the giver but so much to Dan.

The tennis courts were all in use and the players, for the most part white-clad, darted back and forth, to and fro, in a merry scene. Up towards Flat Island two canoes, each manned by a pair of white-shirted boys, were racing down with the tide, the paddles catching the sun as they rose from the water. But the busiest scene was on the gridiron. Dan sought a place along the side-line near the middle of the field and looked on. There were fully sixty candidates in sight, and Dan noticed hopefully that several of them were no older than he and no whit larger nor stronger. Perhaps, after all, he reflected, he might stand a show. If he could make a place with the scrubs it would be better than having no football at all. He realized that when the frost came into the air he would feel strangely lost of an afternoon were he not chasing a pigskin over the yellowing grass.

At the farther end of the field a dozen candidates were punting and catching. These were fellows trying for the backfield positions. An awkward squad of a dozen or so more were falling on the ball. Then there were four squads trotting about the gridiron learning the simpler plays, each squad commanded by a hard-working quarter-back. No signals were used. As one of the squads came abreast of Dan he heard the quarter shout his directions:

“Left half between guard and tackle on his own side!”

Then the ball was passed, left half sprang forward, clutched the ball and went stumbling through the line.

“What’s the matter?” cried an impatient voice. “Who is that man, Watkins? Well, you’ll have to learn to keep your feet under you, whoever you are. Try that again and let me see you hit the line as though you meant it!”

Dan put the speaker down for Payson, the coach. He was a large, broad-shouldered man of about thirty with a determined jaw and a pair of quick, restless black eyes that seemed capable of seeing the whole field at once. In weight he must have been nearly two hundred pounds, but he had the height to carry the weight; and, besides, there was an alertness about him and an easy manner of carriage that gave him a suggestion of speed as well as weight and strength. In college—he had played on both the Cornell and Yale teams—he had been known as “Whopper” Payson, and that was in an age of big men, too. He had played guard, and for one year full-back in those days, and there are plenty of folks who remember his work in the Yale-Princeton game in his last year at New Haven. At Yardley the older boys liked him well, but the younger ones, and especially those who had failed to please him, called him hard names, “bully,” “bear” and “big brute” were some of the more popular ones. He was a hard taskmaster; Dan soon saw that for himself; and he was impatient of shirking or awkwardness or stupidity. When he spoke—and he was not a man who talked when he had nothing to say—he said things in a quick, decisive manner that reminded one of cold steel.

There were a good many fellows at Yardley who believed that Payson didn’t take enough trouble with new candidates, that every year he missed good material for the reason that he was not willing to accord a sufficient amount of patience to green players. There may have been truth in this, yet, on the other hand, Payson, although he had failed the preceding year, had managed during his four-year régime to turn out two winning teams. There was his side of it, too.

“I can’t bother,” he said once, “to spend valuable time teaching the rudiments of football to fellows who may never make good. I have only eight weeks at the most to build my team, and I need every moment of those eight weeks for perfecting. Let the novices learn how to handle the ball on their class teams. Next year I’ll try them out. But a coach can’t conduct a kindergarten and turn out a decent team in eight weeks. Anyhow, I can’t.”

That was John Payson’s side of it, and doubtless there was a good deal of sense in his contention.

Dan liked the coach’s looks very well on the whole. He seemed honest and capable and dependable; above all dependable. He was just the sort of a fellow, thought Dan, that one would want to find on the bridge of a steamer when the rockets were soaring, and just the sort one would be glad to find waiting on the side-line when you trotted off after having been worsted in the first half of your Big Game. Dan approved of Payson. That sounds rather presumptuous, to be sure, but in the same way that a cat may look at a king, doubtless a candidate may pass judgment on a coach.

It was a warm afternoon, and presently Andy Ryan, the trainer, a brisk little, middle-aged Irishman with sandy hair, red face and a pair of eyes as green as his own beloved emerald sod, sought out the coach and secured the release of all candidates save a half-dozen or so unfortunates who, having unwisely taken on unnecessary fat during the summer, were doomed to two laps around the track. The others trotted up the path to the gymnasium and showers, the little gallery of spectators melted away, Andy busied himself with gathering the footballs into the big canvas bag and Dan found himself practically alone with the head coach. Payson was watching the little bunch of players jogging along the cinders across the field, but he was thinking of other matters, wondering, in fact, just how much recognition it would be best to accord to this “new football” which was entering on its second season. He had all of the old-style player’s contempt for the new-fangled tricks like the forward pass and the on-side kick. Last Fall the game with Broadwood had gone against him just by reason of one of those same idiotic tricks, a forward pass, which, after having been handled and dropped by most of the players of the two teams, had been finally captured by a Broadwood tackle on Yardley’s five yards, the tackle managing to fight his way across for a touchdown with the entire playing force struggling about him like chips on the edge of a maelstrom. Instead of accepting this as a vindication of the new game Payson declared it the veriest fluke and added it to his arguments in opposition.

“What science,” he demanded of Andy, “is there in throwing the ball down the field for the whole bunch of players to claw at? What if you do make it go once in ten times? or once in five times? Why, I dare say I could kick a placement from the middle of the field as often as that, but you wouldn’t call me anything but an idiot if I tried it! The onside kick has some sense to it; it might be possible to develop that into a scientific play, but this forward pass business—! Piffle!” And Andy, who was still smarting over Yardley’s defeat, agreed enthusiastically.

Still, Payson wasn’t blinding himself now to the fact that this same forward pass had possibilities in the hands of a fast, well-drilled team, and he would have given a good deal at this moment to have known what Myers, the Broadwood coach, was planning. As far as Yardley was concerned the new football would suit better than the old, for the material was not the sort which promised a powerful attack. Well, he would know better what to do in another week. Probably a mixture of old football and new would be the safest campaign to prepare for. As he turned his eyes encountered Dan’s and he presumed that the boy had been waiting to speak to him.

“Well?” he demanded sharply.

Dan didn’t know whether he had intended speaking to the coach or not, but the opportunity had presented itself and he decided to seize it.

“Is it too late to try for the team, sir?” he asked.

“No.” Payson’s gaze swept him from head to foot swiftly. “Ever played before?”

“Yes, sir, three years.”

“Where?”

“At home on my grammar school team; Graystone, Ohio.”

“What position?”

“End.”

Payson’s face brightened.

“What do you weigh?”

“About a hundred and thirty-eight, I think.”

Payson’s face fell again.

“Can you run?”

“I think so, sir.”

“What’s your time for the hundred?”

“I never tried it.”

“Can you punt?”

“Pretty well.”

“Catch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. See Ryan, get yourself examined by Mr. Bendix, and report to me to-morrow.”

Payson nodded and turned away toward the gymnasium. Dan gave him a start and then followed. Half way up the hill Payson heard the footsteps behind him, turned and waited.

“Know much about this new football?” he asked as Dan joined him.

“We tried it last year, sir, and it went pretty well—sometimes.”

“Sometimes! Yes, I dare say.”

“I think we’d have done pretty well with it,” said Dan, “only we lost our quarter in the middle of the season and I had to break in a new man.”

“Oh, you were captain, were you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Payson. “I never had a captain show up here to me that amounted to a hill of beans. Think you could forget it in time?”

Dan flushed at the note of sarcasm in the coach’s voice.

“I don’t think it troubles me much,” he answered stiffly.

“Sounds as though it did,” said the coach dryly. “Still, you didn’t start off your conversation with the announcement, and that’s promising. What’s your opinion of the forward pass?”

Dan hesitated, rather taken aback. He wondered whether Payson was mocking him, but a glance at the coach’s face dispelled that supposition.

“I think,” answered Dan finally, “that it ought to be a good play this year under the changed rules. Last year if the pass failed you lost the ball, no matter what down it was, but this year on the first or second downs you are penalized fifteen yards and keep the ball.”

“Yes, that makes it easier going,” said Payson. “But do you think that the forward pass can be developed into a certain play?”

“No, sir, no more than any other play. It will be perfected a good deal this year, I guess, but the defense will be perfected, too.”

“Do you think it can be developed to a point where you can depend on its gaining once in two tries?”

“Yes, sir. I think it might be made to do better than that if you could keep your opponent in the dark.”

“As how?”

“Well, of course I don’t pretend to know much about it,” said Dan with a note of appeal in his voice. The coach nodded. “But it seems to me that the best thing about the forward pass is its unexpectedness. It ought to be made always from some regular formation, don’t you think so, sir?”

Payson nodded again. They had reached the corner of the gymnasium now and had halted in front of the steps.

“I—we tried it last year by having the quarter make the pass, but it didn’t work. He had to run five yards and by that time the other team was through on us enough to spoil the throw. Then we made it from a kick formation and that worked better, although we lost about seven yards at the start from throwing the ball from a position farther back of the line. But it worked better, for the other fellows could never be sure whether we were going to kick or pass.”

“But it gave them a chance to cover their backfield,” objected the coach.

“Yes, sir, but toward the last of the season we’d all got so we were on the lookout for forward passes whenever anything except close formation was used by the opponent.”

“I suppose so. Well, we will have to try the crazy play ourselves this year, I suppose. You seem to be able to use your brain, my boy, so study this forward pass business up. See what you can contrive for attack and defense. Come and see me some time. By the way, what did you say your name is?”

Dan hadn’t said, but he forbore to mention the fact.

“Vinton, sir; I’m in the Third Class.”

“Vinton, eh? Sounds like an automobile, doesn’t it?” The coach absolutely smiled, which so surprised Dan that he hadn’t the presence of mind to smile back. When he had recovered himself the big oaken door was swinging shut behind the coach’s broad shoulders.

Dan crossed the colonnade between the gymnasium and Merle Hall and cut through the Yard. It was getting well toward twilight and the old stone sun-dial cast a long purple shadow across the turf. Some of the windows were still open in Dudley and Whitson and Clarke, and Dan caught glimpses of groups of fellows at the casements. But this evening the sight neither made him depressed nor envious. At last someone had recognized his existence, someone who counted. Dan climbed the stairs of Clarke with a light heart and when he reached the door of Number 28 flung it open with a bang, for all the world as though he was a person of importance!

Tubby Jones was sprawled Turk-fashion on his bed, with his own pillows and Dan’s at his back, reading a novel. He looked up in scowling bewilderment.

“What do you want to do?” he gasped. “Knock the building to pieces?” Dan laughed gayly as he tossed his cap onto the window-seat.

“If I do,” he answered, “I’ll build a new one and a better one, and I’ll call it Vinton Hall. And I’ll see that you have half a dozen pillows of your own, Jones, so that you won’t have to use these two, which—” Here he deprived Tubby of half his support, sending him rolling against the wall like a football—“happen to belong to me, my friend.”

“I wasn’t hurting them,” declared Tubby in injured tones.

“Oh, no, just getting them nice and dirty,” answered Dan as he threw the pillows onto his own bed, “and—Hello, you’ve been eating that messy popcorn again! It’s all over the shop. Jones, do you know you’re an awful little fat pig? You ought to have a sty of your own, you really ought!”

“Look here, Vinton—” began Tubby wrathfully.

But Dan strode over to Tubby’s bedside and with his hands in his pockets viewed the recumbent one with a broad smile.

“Jones,” he announced, “if I hear one tiny little grunt from you, one fretful squeal, I’ll turn you over and paddle you with your own tennis racket!”

And Tubby was so amazed at the sudden transformation of his sober, taciturn room-mate that he could merely gasp open-mouthed until it was too late for a suitable reply. So he relapsed into a silent condition of wounded dignity, while Dan raked his football togs out of the closet and examined them closely, whistling merrily the while.

CHAPTER VIII
DAN JOINS THE FOOTBALL SQUAD

The next afternoon at four o’clock Dan joined the throng of candidates in the big locker room in the basement of the gymnasium. He had been examined that forenoon by Mr. Bendix, had been put through strength tests, had been measured and at last presented with a chart which showed his size, strength and development in comparison with a normal youth of his age. He passed well and received official permission to play football. “Your chest, abdomen and upper-arm muscles are very well developed,” Mr. Bendix had told him, “but the lower part of your body seems to have been neglected. But we’ll fix that for you.”

Then Dan had given his name to Andy Ryan and been welcomed like a long-lost son. “Sure, you’re a well-made lad,” declared Andy, “and we’ll find a place for you, never fear. End, is it? Well, why not? Faith, it’s ends we need, I’m thinking. This new-fangled football is just the game for the lightweights like you. Just you take hold right, Mr. Vinton, and we’ll make a real football player out of you.”

This was all very encouraging, but Dan had a suspicion that Andy talked just that way to every new candidate. At a little after four he trotted down to the field with the others, looking very trim and fit in his new khaki trousers and faded, battle-scarred brown sweater. If he had expected any especial consideration from the coach he was disappointed. When he reported Mr. Payson looked at him silently for an instant and then asked:

“What’s the name?”

“Vinton, sir.”

The coach pulled a little memorandum book from his pocket and entered it.

“Let me see, you are trying for quarter?”

“No, sir, end.”

“Been examined?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Go down there and report to Captain Colton.”

Dan turned away a trifle chagrined. Payson had forgotten all about him since yesterday! But he hadn’t gone far when the coach summoned him back.

“Ever played before, Vinton?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, three years.”

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“Is that all? Nothing else you want to tell me?”

“No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. We haven’t any use for stars here. Tell Mr. Colton I sent you.”

Dan smiled as he trotted away. Payson had laid a trap for him and he had escaped it. He wondered what Payson would have said if he had mentioned his captaincy again. Something pretty tart, he was certain of that! The coach hadn’t forgotten him, after all, and Dan took comfort from that knowledge.

Oliver Colton, the captain, was a strapping big fellow of nineteen, a fine football player, a good all-around athlete and an excellent student besides. Yardley Hall was proud of Colton. He had been Honor Man for the last two years, held the school records for the broad-jump and the hammer, was a good pitcher, batted around three hundred and, above all, was one of the best guards that had ever played on a Yardley eleven. He was good-looking, with rather curly brown hair and such soft eyes of the same color that one would never have suspected him of being the hard, aggressive player he was. His voice, too, was soft, and he had a way of making a command sound like the most courteous request. And yet the fellows who knew Colton jumped just as quickly at his voice as at Payson’s. When Dan found him he had two lines of forwards under instruction in breaking through and blocking, and Dan had to stand by for a moment until the big chap was at leisure.

“That’s better, Hadlock,” said Colton as the lines disentangled themselves. “But you must keep your back down, you know. Don’t double yourself up like a pair of scissors. Maybe you think you can play a slashing game that way, but you can’t.”

The panting players laughed at the pleasantry as they took their places again, and Dan claimed the captain’s attention.

“Mr. Payson told me to report to you,” he said. “I’m trying for end. My name’s Vinton.”

“Glad to see you out,” answered Colton with a genial smile as he shook hands. “We need good ends this year, and if you’re quick enough to make up for your lack of weight you ought to make good. Know the rules pretty well, do you, Vinton?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, it won’t do any harm to study them a bit more. If you haven’t a rule book you’d better get one. There’s a quiz on the rules to-night in the trophy room. Better polish up this afternoon. Now you go over there where you see those chaps and join them. Played before, have you?”

“Yes, on my grammar school team.”

“That’s good. Buckle down to it, for we may need you badly before long.”

He nodded pleasantly and turned back to his charges, and Dan walked across the field and joined a ring of candidates who were falling on the ball. It was the awkward squad, but Dan didn’t mind that; he didn’t mean to stay there very long. Later there was practice in starting and running down under kicks, and when practice was over Dan was quite ready to quit work. When he stepped out of the shower, glowing from head to foot, he bumped against Alfred Loring, who, with a big bath towel clutched about him, was talking over his shoulder to another chap.

“Beg pardon,” exclaimed Loring. “Hello, are you with us? Glad to see you. What are you trying for?”

“End,” answered Dan.

“Good work! Played there, have you?”

“Yes, a couple of years. But I guess I’m too light for the team here.”

Loring stepped back, put his head on one side and looked Dan over.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “What’s your weight?”

“A hundred and thirty-six, but I suppose some of that will come off.”

“Well, I only weigh a hundred and forty-four myself,” said Loring encouragingly. “And you look fast. Hope you’ll make it.” Then he disappeared into the bath and a blood-curdling yell and a bath towel floated out at the same instant.

Dan went back to his room that afternoon feeling as though he had found himself again. Tubby, as usual, was curled up on his bed reading something that didn’t look like a text-book, but this evening he hadn’t borrowed Dan’s pillows.

“Well, I suppose everyone was tickled to death to see you,” he said sarcastically. “Had a brass band out, I dare say, to welcome you.”

“Tubby, you’re a cynic,” answered Dan good-naturedly. He hadn’t meant to address Tubby by his nickname; it came out without thought. Tubby looked surprised, was secretly pleased and made believe that he didn’t relish the familiarity.

“I don’t call you Dan, do I?” he growled.

“Oh, you can if you like,” was the answer. “It’s shorter than Vinton, and as we’re destined to see a good deal of each other for awhile you might as well take things easy. I shall call you Tubby, anyway. It fits you like a coat.”

“Go to thunder,” muttered Tubby, returning again to his book. Dan laughed cheerfully.

“Tubby,” he said, “to judge by your manner sometimes one would almost think you bad-tempered.”

Silent contempt on the part of Tubby Jones.

When Dan entered the trophy room in the gymnasium at a few minutes before seven he found the room already well filled. At least half a dozen fellows nodded to him, Alf Loring amongst the number, and Dan was secretly much elated. There followed a short talk by Payson on the new rules and then the “quiz” began. Some of the questions were not easy to answer:

What happens when a legal forward pass crosses the goal line on the fly without being touched by a player? When the same ball has been legally touched by a player?

When is a player of the side which has kicked the ball put on-side?

Is tackling below the knees illegal for all players? And, if not, what are the exceptions?

What is the penalty for holding or unlawful use of hands or arms when the offending side has the ball? When the offending side is not in possession of the ball?

What is the signal for a fair catch? What is the penalty for interference with a fair catch?

If marks had been awarded I doubt if many of the fellows would have received an A. At a few minutes before eight they were dismissed with the advice to study the rules. Dan obeyed the instructions so implicitly that when ten o’clock came he found that he hadn’t so much as glanced at his lessons for the morrow. So he burned the midnight oil, greatly to Tubby’s disgust, and got Cæsar’s Gallic War so mixed with the football rules that he might just as well have gone to bed at ten.

A few days later Dan awoke one morning to find the sunlight streaming into the room, to feel the crisp air of a frosty October morning blowing in through the window and to realize that, should the traditional fairy princess appear on the scene ready to transport him with a dip of her wand to any place in the world he would choose to stay just where he was. He lay there with his knees hunched up, the sunlight glaring on the white spread, and smiled at the knot in the left-hand upper panel of his closet door. The knot and he were getting to be pretty good friends. When he awoke in the morning the knot was always the first thing to meet his gaze, and of late it had seemed to have a welcome for him. There is a lot of expression in a knot if you look at it a long time, and sort of half close your eyes and—and—

Dan gave a start. He had almost gone to sleep again. That wouldn’t do, for it must be fully time to get up. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at the watch in his vest pocket. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction and tumbled back on the pillow. There was a good ten minutes yet. Across the room Tubby was represented by a round mound under the bed clothes. Not an inch of him was showing, for Tubby slept with his head under the covers to guard against those drafts which were forever troubling him. Dan put his hands under his head, stared contentedly at the knot in the closet door and went through the day in anticipation.

Chapel at half-past seven in Assembly Hall, the fellows sitting by classes on the old, knife-scarred benches, and “Old Toby,” as the principal was called, reading from the Bible in his pleasant, mellow, English voice; afterwards an invocation by Mr. Collins or Mr. Frye, the boys joining together at the end in the Lord’s Prayer; then announcements by Mr. Collins, the singing of a hymn and a decorous exit as far as the door turning to a wild, riotous stampede down the two flights of stairs.

Breakfast at eight; a good breakfast, too—all the milk you wanted to drink, or coffee or cocoa; steak or chops or eggs and bacon, with big steaming-hot baked potatoes and toast or rolls. Dan’s expression grew beatific. He had his regular place in commons now, and if all went well he would go to one of the football training tables in a week or so. He didn’t know any of the fellows at his table very well yet, but he was becoming better acquainted every day. The chap at his left—his name was Paul Rand—kept a jar of orange marmalade and was very generous with it. Dan rather liked Rand—or the marmalade; he wasn’t certain which.

At nine o’clock there was a Latin recitation in Oxford G, with Mr. Collins. Dan wasn’t awfully fond of Latin, but he accepted it philosophically as a necessary evil. French was better. That came at half-past nine. The instructor was Mr. von Groll, a great favorite with the fellows. He was just out of college, an Amherst A.B., and hadn’t yet forgotten what it was to be a boy. After French there was a half-hour in which to brush up on math. And it was a pretty good thing to brush up on, as Dan had already learned. For Mr. McIntyre—“Kilts” was his popular name—was pretty severe. “Kilts” wasn’t very well liked; there was a general idea prevalent that he had long since forgotten the first two letters of the alphabet; anyhow, it was an event in school when he awarded a B to anyone, while as for an A! Tradition had it that he had never marked a student with an A but once, and that it so upset him that he was ill for a week.

In the school catalogue he figured as Angus McIntyre, A.A., Edinburgh. That “A.A.,” which really stood for Associate of Arts, was variously interpreted by the boys as “Almost Anything,” “Abominable Algebra” and “Acrimonious Angus.” They said he had tacked so many A’s onto his name that he had none left for his pupils. In age he was somewhere about fifty, tall, lean, smooth-shaven, with a shock of iron-gray hair and piercing, deep-set eyes. Yardley didn’t love Kilts, but at the same time it was proud of him. He had written numerous books on higher mathematics, and, as one of his students had said in a moment of grudging admiration, “could take Euclid by the back of the neck and shake the change out of his trousers.” So far Dan had got along pretty well with Kilts.

After mathematics there was nothing to do to-day until dinner time, unless he was wise enough to study. At two there was English with Mr. Gaddis, a big, bullet-headed, good-natured man of thirty-six who would have looked more at home on the football field than in the class room. Old Tige was the name awarded him, probably because of a likeness to an unlovely, kind-dispositioned bulldog. The fellows liked Old Tige, even while they made fun of him; and there was no doubt about his ability as an instructor of the English Language.

At four came football practice. Dan’s heart warmed at the thought of it. He was getting on down there on the field, was Dan. Already he had been accepted as a possibility at end. That didn’t mean a great deal, for early-season possibilities often become late-season impossibilities, but Dan was encouraged and was doing his level best to make good. He had plenty of speed, followed the ball as a cat follows a mouse, and barring lack of weight, seemed to have the making of an ideal end. And whether he made the team or not, he was having a lot of good fun out of it and, better yet, was making acquaintances and friends. He knew lots and lots of fellows well enough to speak to now, while several had asked him to their rooms. He hadn’t gone yet, but he meant to. Alf Loring was very friendly, but Dan didn’t seem to get very far with him. He was sorry, too, for he liked Loring thoroughly, liked him better than ever since he had seen him run the first team in the scrimmages with which the practice ended nowadays. Loring was a wonderful quarter-back; there was no doubt about that. Dan wished that he might know him better. But Alf Loring was one of the popular fellows in school and doubtless had as many friends now as he wanted, Dan reflected. Perhaps in time—. Well, meanwhile there was his fidus Achates, Tubby Jones. Dan looked across at Tubby’s inert form and smiled.

After practice came a jolly half-hour in the gymnasium, while the fellows took their showers, dressed and talked over the day’s events. Then supper and a clear hour of loafing; only to-night was letter night for Dan, and letter writing would take the place of a loaf. Then study from eight to nine or half-past, or, in case Tubby’s friends didn’t happen in, until ten. And then bed again. A busy day, but a happy one, thought Dan.

But now the knot on the closet door was looking back at him warningly and Dan, his thoughts returning at a bound to the present, leaped out of bed, shut the window and called to Tubby.

“Seven o’clock and past, Tubby! You’ll be late for Chapel!”

“Don’t care if I am,” growled Tubby.

CHAPTER IX
THE FIRST GAME

“Say, you got stung, didn’t you?” asked Tubby with a grin of delight.

“How?” questioned Dan. Tubby pointed to the copy of the Yardley Scholiast which Dan held.

“Didn’t you subscribe?”

“Yes; why not?”

“You must want to waste your money, that’s all,” sneered Tubby. “The Scholiast never has anything in it. I wouldn’t give fifty cents a year for it; and they stick you two and a half. But they never got me. What’s the good? If there’s anything in it I want to read I go to the library for it.”

“But it seems to me,” answered Dan, “that it’s a mighty good sheet for a school paper; well printed, well written and pretty newsy.”

“They’ve got a better one at Broadwood,” replied Tubby. “Theirs is a fortnightly called the Portfolio; it’s a dandy.”

“Say, Tubby, why the dickens didn’t you go to Broadwood instead of coming here?” asked Dan impatiently. “You’re always cracking Broadwood up and running Yardley down. You make me weary, Tubby.”

“Huh!” said Tubby. “I wish I had. My dad wouldn’t let me; he went here himself; they used to call it Oxford School then. I’d go to Broadwood in a minute if he’d let me.”

“Well, any time you want to change, Tubby,” said Dan wearily, “I’ll do what I can to help.”

Tubby scowled deeply.

“Want the room to yourself, I suppose,” he said. “Well, you won’t get it. I’ll stay here as long as I like!”

Dan made no answer, but took up the school weekly again and continued the article he had been reading when Tubby entered. It was a criticism of the football material, which, declared the Scholiast, was well up to the average.

“Of the men who played on last year’s team five are eligible this Fall. These are Captain Colton, guard; Hill, center; Mitchell, tackle; Loring, quarter, and Kapenhysen, full-back. There are consequently but six places to fill and there seems a wealth of material to choose from. The center and right side of the line will be as it was last season, barring accidents. Hill at center, while not heavy, is very aggressive and fast and is a veteran player. Captain Colton, at right guard, is one of the best line-men representing the Blue in recent years. He has weight, speed and aggressiveness and last year more than held his own against every opponent he faced. He uses his head every moment of the time and opens holes well. Mitchell, at right tackle, went into the Broadwood game last Autumn at almost a moment’s notice and, in spite of lack of training and experience, played his position capitally. This season, with the proper attention, he should show up as one of the best on the team. On the left of center the positions of guard and tackle are to be filled. For guard, Hadlock, who played on the second team last year, seems the most promising. Ridge, a substitute last year, plays a good game. There are also Smith and Merriwell, both of whom did excellent work on the Second Class Team last Fall. Folwell, who ran a close race with Poole a year ago for the position of left tackle, seems the natural selection for the place this season, but he has been ill this summer and so may not be able to make good. Other possible candidates for that position are Coke and Little. The end positions will probably prove troublesome to the coach. The material looks good but is practically inexperienced, if we except Dickenson, who substituted last year in one or two games. Norton, Williams and Sayer played on the Second last year with varying success. Williams is a fast man for his size and gets down the field well, but his tackling is usually uncertain and indecisive.

“At quarter Loring, who held the position last year and put up a star game against Broadwood, is first choice. In fact, his closest competitor, Clapp, is hardly in the same class. Loring is in many ways an ideal quarter. He plays fast, is well grounded in the rudiments of the game and handles his team excellently. He uses his head on all occasions, and it was this fact that enabled him to stave off defeat twice last year in the Broadwood game. Two new half-backs will have to be found, but it is likely that Connor and Capes will start the season, with Dyer and Roeder pushing them hard for the honors. Connor is a fast man in a broken field and is hard to stop. Capes hits the line hard and keeps his feet well. He can usually be depended on for short gains through the line, and although not brilliant is a steady, dependable player. At full-back Kapenhysen is head and shoulders above all competitors at present. He is a veteran of two seasons, having been First Team substitute in 1905 and regular full-back last year. He is one of the cleverest players on the team, a hard worker and a brilliant performer in close formation plays. As a punter he is one of the best on the school gridirons, and he will be depended on for long kicks, Loring sharing the work when short punts are wanted.

“Besides the material mentioned there is the usual supply of green men who may develop into First Team candidates. At present only two have shown any great possibilities. Of these Sommers, who has entered the Second Class, and who played with Myrtledale High School last year, is a candidate for tackle and may make good before the season is over. Vinton, a Third Class man, played on his grammar school team last year at end. He is very fast and follows the ball closely. If he carried more weight his chance of making the First Team would seem excellent.

“On the whole our team promises this year to be quite up to the average, and distinctly better than the eleven which held the fast Broadwood team to a single score last year. In Mr. Payson the school has a fine coach. During his four years with us he had turned out two winning teams, while, all things considered, last year’s contest was more of a victory than a defeat. Mr. Payson may rest assured that Yardley Hall will support him and the team enthusiastically and do its share toward securing a victory over its old rival, Broadwood Academy. The first game of the season takes place to-morrow on Yardley Field with Greenburg High School. A hard contest is not looked for. Last year Yardley won 24—4, and this year the score should be no closer. The game, however, will give the school its first opportunity to see the 1907 team in action, and all who are able to do so should attend to-morrow’s game.

“The schedule is as follows. Unless otherwise specified the game will be played here.

Oct. 5. Greenburg High School.

Oct. 12. Forest Hill School.

Oct. 19. St. John’s Academy.

Oct. 26. Carrel’s School at East Point.

Nov. 2. Porter Institute.

Nov. 9. Brewer A. A. at Brewer.

Nov. 16. Nordham Academy.

Nov. 23. Broadwood Academy.”

Dan would have been less—or more—than human had he not read the few lines relating to himself several times. In the end, but this was not until Tubby had wandered away in search of a new book to read, he cut that part of the article out and stowed it away in a corner of his pocketbook. And next day he bought an extra copy of the Scholiast, marked the place modestly and mailed the paper home.

The game with Greenburg was played with the thermometer well up toward seventy degrees and was a slow and stupid performance. Yardley put in twenty-six men before the game was over. Dan, who saw it from the side-line, believed ruefully that he was the only player who didn’t get in. A blocked kick gave Greenburg a safety in the first few minutes of play, but after that the high school was never dangerous. In one fifteen and one twelve-minute half Yardley managed to pile up twenty points. In each case Kapenhysen missed goal. The playing was very ragged and slow, and the warmth of the day was undoubtedly responsible for much of this. Greenburg, having repeated her last year’s feat and scored, went away as happy as larks, and the Yardley players trailed tiredly back to the gymnasium unable to think of anything to be proud of. Payson had little to say, but he looked unusually sober and seemed to be doing a good deal of thinking. One of the things he was thinking was this: If Greenburg had been clever at forward passing and a little shiftier all around what would the score have been? As it was the high school had tried the forward pass but once in each half. The first time she had recovered the ball almost without opposition only to lose it on a fumble the next instant. The second time the throw had been poor and the ball had struck the ground without being touched. Payson couldn’t deny the fact that the outlook for the game with Forest Hill School next Saturday was depressing. Forest Hill always gave Yardley a hard struggle and always knew a lot of football. This year she would probably come to Wissining with a whole pack of new tricks to try out. Of course defeat at the hands of Forest Hill would be a small matter enough, and something that had happened before, though not often. But Payson feared that a defeat coming now at the beginning of the season, and especially a defeat encompassed by this “new football” of which Yardley knew little, would prove a discouragement to his charges. He decided that before next Saturday the team should be drilled to some extent in a defense to meet the forward pass.

After supper that evening Payson settled himself in front of the table in his little sitting-room in the village and did some studying. At his elbow lay a thick scrap-book of newspaper and magazine clippings and a number of small memorandum books, while in front of him was a small blackboard, some thirty inches long and correspondingly wide, ruled with white painted lines into the likeness of a miniature football field. On it were placed twenty-two little disks of wood, eleven of them blue and eleven green, each lettered on top, “L.E.,” “L.G.,” “R.H.,” “Q.,” and so on, each representing a player. With these imaginary men on his imaginary gridiron Payson figured out most of his plays and solved his problems. To-night he arranged and rearranged his little blue and green disks over and over, traced queer lines on the blackboard with a piece of chalk and made copious notes on a sheet of paper. But when bedtime came he put aside his playthings with a dubious shake of his head and a dissatisfied frown.

There was light work on the field Monday afternoon, but in the trophy room that evening there was a blackboard lecture that filled every minute of the hour at the coach’s disposal. Two kinds of forward passes were illustrated on the blackboard, the “bunch” pass with three backs and one end going down and forming a group to receive the ball, and the “one man” pass in which the backfield fakes to one side and the ball is thrown to an end who has gone through unnoticed at the other side. Next Payson showed how poorly prepared a team would be to cope with either of these plays from ordinary defense formation. In ordinary formation Yardley played her quarter some thirty yards up the field, the rest of the backs reinforcing the line some three yards behind it.

“You can see that this formation,” explained Payson as he sketched it on the board, “won’t work against a forward pass. We’ve got to have a special formation for this play. Here’s one we will try out to-morrow. Left half and quarter split the field, back about thirty yards, as for a punt. Right half and full drop back fifteen yards at each end of the line. To-morrow the second eleven will try the forward pass and the first will see what they can do against it from this formation.”

During the rest of the week the second eleven was drilled in the forward pass and the first was coached in defense during a portion of each practice. By Friday the first team had learned the first principles, at least, of defense on this play, and Payson’s fears of a disastrous overthrow at the hands of Forest Hall had somewhat subsided. He was not yet ready to teach the forward pass to the first; it was to rely on ordinary football for another fortnight.

Forest Hill’s eleven proved to be light, fast and brainy. In the first ten minutes of play it simply swept Yardley off its feet and did about as it wanted to, scoring twice as the result of the new football which Payson so despised. In that first ten minutes Forest Hill tried the forward pass seven times and made it go every time but twice. One of her gains was over fifty yards and several netted from twenty to thirty. The new defense formation was all right, the weakness was with the Yardley players who allowed themselves to be fooled time and again. Forest Hill made her passes from almost every sort of formation and Yardley was kept guessing every instant. Never once did she recover the ball on the opponent’s passes, Forest Hill’s two failures resulting because the ball struck the ground without being touched. Forest Hill obligingly missed both goals, thus leaving the score at 10 to 0.

Loring, realizing that the only way to prevent another score in that half was to keep the ball out of Forest Hill’s hands, went to work with his backs and plugged away at small gains through the opponent’s line, using up all the time possible and finally, after taking the ball the length of the field, was held for downs on the opponent’s eight yards. Forest Hill kicked from behind her goal and Colton nabbed the ball on the enemy’s thirty-five yard line. But before the teams could line up again the whistle sounded. Yardley trotted off the field with sensations of vast relief, while Forest Hill got together on the side line and planned new atrocities to spring in the next half on an apparently helpless opponent. Up in the gymnasium Andy and Paddy, the latter trainer’s assistant and rubber, were busy with witch hazel, arnica and liniment, bandages and surgeon’s plaster. There were no serious injuries; just a strained wrist here, a twisted ankle there, contusions all about. Oliver Colton, stretched at full length on a bench, with Paddy Forbes, the rubber, hard at work on his left knee, spoke to Alf Loring who was seated behind him viewing approvingly a nice clean strip of adhesive plaster about his wrist.

“What’s the matter with us, Alf?” asked Colton anxiously.

“Matter?” was the reply. “Nothing, except that we’re up against a team that knows a kind of football we don’t.”

“Well, we ought to have scored down there inside their ten yards, just the same,” said Colton.

“Yes, and we’ll do it next time. That was on me, I guess, Ollie. I should have given the ball to Kap.”

“It was on all of us. But this half we’ve got to score twice.”

“Fifteen minutes, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Where’s Mr. Payson?”

“Over there.” Alf nodded across the room.

“I want to see him. That’s enough, Paddy, thanks.” Colton pulled himself up and limped across to where the coach was talking earnestly to the two ends, Williams and Dickenson. Alf watched him a moment and then turned to the fellow beside him.

“Hello, Vinton,” he said. “What did you think of it?”

“Sort of disgusting,” answered Dan. “We’ve got to keep the ball away from them this half or they’ll score again.”

“That’s right. Well, it’s their kick-off. You going to get in this half?” Dan shook his head.

“I guess not,” he answered. “Williams and Dickenson did pretty good work, didn’t they?”

“I guess so; Dickenson did, anyway. But they got fooled on those forward passes every time.”

“All right, fellows,” called Mr. Payson. Silence followed. “We’re going to change our defense a little this half and I expect it to work better. On every formation that Forest Hill tries except an ordinary close formation, with their backs close up, I want you to open out your line. Guards will play two yards from center, tackles three yards from guards and ends five yards from tackles. Understand?” He repeated the directions. “It will be tackle’s place to get through and spoil the pass if possible, and the end will put out the opposing end, crowd him into the center of the field. Quarter and left half will play five yards nearer in than they’ve been playing. We’re going to kick this half until we get inside their twenty-five yards. Then I expect the ball to go over on straight plays. We want three scores. All right. Loring, I want to see you a moment.”

Forest Hill kicked off and Loring caught the ball on his twenty yards and started off with it. He covered ten yards and then, as the enemy closed in upon him, he passed the ball back to Kapenhysen, who caught it neatly, let up on his pace and punted far down the field. Forest Hill was caught napping and the ball went over the heads of her backs. Her quarter turned quickly and raced after the sphere, which had struck on his thirty-five yard line, and was now bouncing erratically toward the goal. The Forest Hill right half was close behind him, but Williams, the Yardley left end, had streaked down the field and was ready to take a hand in the fun. A cry of warning from the Forest Hill half went up as Williams shouldered him aside. The quarter dove for the ball and Williams dove for the quarter. The next instant he had snuggled the pigskin under his arm and was trying to find his feet again, with the Forest Hill quarter holding him by the left leg. Then the half crushed down on top of the invader and the ball was down on Forest Hill’s twenty-four yards.

Forest Hill arose nobly to the demands of the occasion, but she was plainly bewildered by the sudden turning of the tables and Yardley was not to be denied. Loring sent Capes against the center for four yards and Dyer on a cross-buck outside of tackle for seven more. Kapenhysen punched a hole through left guard for two yards and Capes followed him for four more. With four to go on the third down the prospect looked dubious, but on a tandem attack at center with the whole back-field pushing, Capes kept his feet until he had been shoved through for the required distance. The ball was on the three yards and it was first down. Kapenhysen made a scant yard on the first try, but on the next attempt went over, broke away from the enemy, and romped around back of goal. Loring kicked an easy goal. The score was 10—6, and only four minutes had elapsed.

On the kick-off Forest Hill captured the ball on her ten yards and brought it back to her twenty-two. On an ordinary formation two plunges inside of right tackle netted her nine yards. But a third attempt in the same place was a failure and the ball changed hands. Loring tried a quarter-back kick, which was recovered by the enemy on her ten-yard line. Her full-back went back apparently for a punt, but Yardley was suspicious and opened her line. The ball went back and a forward pass came hurtling down the field. Dickenson kept Forest Hill’s right end out of the play, but the ball was luckily recovered by a Forest Hill forward after having been fumbled by Folwell of Yardley. This netted the enemy twenty yards and more. Another pass on the other side of the line found no one awaiting it and Forest Hill was set back fifteen yards. Again the kick formation was used and again the ball was thrown forward by the full-back. It was intended for a “bunch” pass, but Yardley broke up the gathering and the ball plumped into the arms of her right tackle.

Yardley kicked and again Forest Hill started back up the field. But now she saw that the forward pass could no longer be relied upon with certainty. So she started running the ends, but made little profit. In the middle of the field the ball went again to Yardley. Some changes in the line were made now, Smith taking Colton’s place and Berwick going in at center for Hill. Kapenhysen punted and the ball was Forest Hill’s on her ten yards. A fake kick, with full-back slashing through between guard and tackle, netted six yards and five more came as a result of a desperate attack on the new center. Then a run around Williams took the ball to the forty-yard line. Yardley stiffened and two attacks at the line were thrown back. Forest Hill punted and Capes gathered in the ball on his fifteen-yard line and ran it back twenty. Again Kapenhysen punted and Dickenson nabbed the Forest Hill back before he could take a step. Yardley tried a double pass and gained eight yards. A plunge at center gave her the rest of her distance. An on-side kick was tried, but resulted disastrously. Hadlock blocked it and although Forest Hill’s right half fell on the ball it was down for a twelve-yard loss. A delayed pass netted four yards and a run outside tackle three more. The Forest Hill quarter-back started out to gather in the rest of the required distance by a run around right end, but Williams managed to get past his opponent and down the runner behind the line.

DELAYED PASS NEAR SIDE LINE

Kapenhysen fell back for a punt, but the ball went to Capes instead and he reeled off fifteen yards before he was captured. Then Loring punted from close up to the line and the ball was Forest Hill’s on her twenty yards. She was playing on the defensive now, had abandoned all hope of adding to her score and was eager only to keep her opponent from crossing her goal-line again. She kicked on first down and the punt went high in the air and fell out of bounds at the twenty-seven yards. There remained six minutes of playing time and Loring settled down to smashing football. Connor was sent in at right half in place of Dyer and Norton took Dickenson’s place at right end. It was hard going at first and the white lines passed slowly underfoot. But after a few terrific plunges at the right side of the Forest Hill line something weakened there and Connor and Capes went through for gains of three and four yards. On her ten yards Forest Hill called time for an injured player and put in a new man at right tackle. That wrought an improvement, but Kapenhysen got by the newcomer for a couple of yards and made it first down. There remained some eight yards to go for a score and Loring and Colton put their heads together. The ball was well over toward the side-line and it was advisable to work it back toward the center of the field. There were two ways to do this. One was to bring off a play toward the left of the line and the center of the field and the other was to send a play at the other end in the hope of gaining and then being pushed over the side-line. Colton and Loring decided on the latter.

The ball was passed to Loring and the other backs started toward the left of the line. Loring made the motion of passing the ball to right half and right half appeared to have caught it and doubled his arms about it. Meanwhile left half had dropped to his knees and Loring had kept the ball, hiding it as well as possible from the opponents. As the fake attack reached the end of the line to the left, the left half-back arose and ran hard for the right end of the line, taking the ball from Loring at a hand-pass. The trick worked even better than expected, for Forest Hill had been drawn away from the side-line and Capes reeled off the remaining eight yards without going out of bounds and was only tackled as he went over the goal-line. A punt-out was necessary and this was a failure. But the score stood 11—10 in Yardley’s favor and she had pulled herself out of a bad hole. The whistle sounded a minute later and the game was at an end.

Over on the stands Yardley Hall shouted long and blissfully in honor of the team.

CHAPTER X
DROPPED!

On the Monday following the Forest Hill game the final cut in the football squad was announced. For two weeks the process of elimination had been going forward quietly and mercilessly until of the original seventy-odd candidates who had started the season only forty-two remained. To-day after practice a list was posted on the bulletin board in the gymnasium. It contained two columns of names headed respectively “First Eleven” and “Second Eleven.” In the first column there were sixteen names, in the second fourteen; twelve unfortunates had been dropped.

Dan, coming up from the locker room, sought the notice with anxious heart. He was almost certain that Payson was going to retain him on the second squad, but there was always the chance—“Second Eleven,” he read, “Coke, Connor, Eisner, Flagg, Fogg—” and so on down to “Roeder, Sommers, Trapper.” His heart sank as he reread the list. Nowhere was his name written. Three times he went over the list, hoping each time to find that he had blundered. Then he read the first team names; it was just possible, he told himself, that Payson had got his name there by mistake. But he hadn’t. Dan was dropped from the squad.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs and of laughing voices sent him hurrying away from the bulletin board and out into the twilight. He didn’t want anyone to find him there just then.

Of course it didn’t much matter, he argued as he made his way along in front of the buildings. Even had Payson kept him on the squad he might never have made the First Team. Still, there was the pleasure of playing, and one could always hope. Well, there was nothing to hope for now. They didn’t want him. Dan threw his head back and thrust his hands into his pockets. That was all right, he muttered; they didn’t have to have him. He knew blamed well he could play better football than some fellows who had been kept on the squad, though. There was Sayer, end on the second, for instance. Dan knew well enough that he could play all around Sayer. However, there was no use thinking about it. They didn’t want him; that was the plain English of it.

He recalled what Tubby had said the evening of his arrival: “There’s no use trying for the team here unless you’re a swell or a particular friend of Payson’s,” Tubby had declared. Dan told himself now that he guessed that was about so. But the next moment he retracted it. They could say what they liked, but Payson was a gentleman, and if he had dropped fellows from the squad it was because he believed they weren’t necessary to the success of the team. Even if you did feel hurt and a little bit angry there was no sense in saying mean things—or thinking them—when you knew they weren’t so. Dan took a deep breath, thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and discovered that he was at the edge of The Prospect, looking unseeingly down at the village with its yellow windows. He turned, smiled just to make certain that he could still do it, and walked back to Clarke. He even whistled a tune as he went. It wasn’t a very merry tune, but it answered. Tubby was in the room when he entered, Tubby grinning broadly.

“Got dropped, didn’t you?” he demanded triumphantly.

“Yes,” answered Dan cheerfully. “How’d you know so soon?”

“Lowd told me. What did I tell you weeks ago, Dan? Didn’t I say you couldn’t make the team unless you were one of those swell snobs like Loring or Colton or Hadlock or the rest of them?”

“You did, O Solomon,” answered Dan. “You were right and I was wrong, as you always are.”

Tubby puzzled over that for a moment and then gave it up. He chuckled.

“You wouldn’t believe me, though, would you?” he asked.

“No, Tubby, and I don’t believe you yet. There are lots of fellows on the squad who aren’t swells. There’s Ridge, who’s captain of the Second, and Mitchell and Kapenhysen of the First. You don’t call them swells, do you, Tubby?”

“They’re protégés of Payson’s, though,” answered Tubby. “It’s the same thing.” He paused while Dan dropped into his chair and drew his books toward him. “I say, though, Dan, I’m sorry. You can play better than lots of those fellows they’ve kept.”

“Much obliged,” Dan replied, “but you’re wrong there, Tubby. I was dropped because I was trying for end and because they’ve got four good players for that position. That’s all, Tubby. Next year I’ll try again if I’m here.”

“If you come back next year you’re crazy,” growled Tubby. “I’m not going to, you can bet! I’m going—”

“Tubby, if you mention Broadwood I’ll murder you,” interrupted Dan wearily.

“I will if I like!” said Tubby defiantly. Dan made no reply. Presently, “Why don’t you try for the class team?” asked Tubby. “They begin to make them up this week.”

Dan nibbled the end of his pencil and looked reflectively at his room-mate.

“Maybe I will, Tubby,” he said at last. Tubby took up the book he was reading and settled back again against his pillows.

“I would,” he said. “If I could play the way you can I’d get on the Third Class team and show that idiot Payson and the rest of them what I could do.”

“Oh, I don’t want them to die of chagrin,” answered Dan mildly. “Still, I think I’d like to try for the class team. We’ll see.”

His glance dropped on the little two-fold photograph frame which shared the table with his books and papers and writing materials, and the pictures of his mother and father which it held brought a sudden frown to his forehead. He wished he had not sent that clipping from the Scholiast home to the folks!

The next forenoon Dan encountered the coach in front of Whitson Hall. He didn’t see Mr. Payson coming until he was almost up to him and so he had scant time in which to fix his features into the desired expression. What Dan would have liked to have conveyed by his expression was a polite affability, slightly tinged by contemptuous amusement and haughty indifference. Rather a large order, but Dan was pretty certain that he could have managed it had he had time. What he didn’t want Mr. Payson to read on his face was disappointment, or even concern. Unfortunately, however, the coach came out of Whitson and ran down the steps just as Dan came abreast of the entrance, and he never knew just what his countenance did express at that moment. The coach saw him at once and nodded. Dan said “Good morning,” and was for passing on, but Mr. Payson was going the same way and in an instant had ranged himself alongside. He seemed to be in very good spirits, Dan thought.

“A fine morning, Vinton,” said Mr. Payson “What’s next on the programme?”

“Math, sir.”

“Who do you have?”

“Kil—that is, Mr. McIntyre.” The coach smiled.

“Kilts will do, Vinton. They call me worse than that and I never make a whine. By the way, have you been thinking about this forward pass business? Remember a talk we had?”

“Yes, sir, but I haven’t had much time.”

“Oh.” Dan thought the coach’s voice expressed something of disappointment. “Well, that’s all right, of course. But when you have a spare moment now and then I wish you’d think it over. We’ve got to work out a good forward pass offense, Vinton, and several heads are better than one. You led your team last year and you had to do some thinking for yourself, I guess. Now see if you can’t plan something that will help us this fall. You’re a new boy here, but you want to see Yardley win just as much as anyone else, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course you do. And so—am I keeping you?”

They had paused in front of Oxford.

“No, sir, there’s five minutes yet,” answered Dan.

“All right. What I was going to say was that if every fellow would use his brains a little it would be a help. I don’t profess to have mastered this ‘new football’; I was brought up on the old style, you know; and I’ve got a heap to learn myself. But if every fellow will think a little about it, and come to me with the result, why, we may light on something that will make Broadwood open her eyes. Now you, for instance, Vinton. You’ve been up against this problem and you solved it after a fashion. Supposing you face it again; imagine that it’s up to you to find a way of pulling off forward passes that will beat anything Broadwood can show; make believe, if you like, that you’re captain and coach all rolled into one and that everything depends on you. I’m not talking to every fellow this way, for some of them can’t use their brains. But I’ve spoken to Colton and Loring and Hill and Capes and one or two others and they’ve agreed to tackle the problem. And some night pretty soon we’ll meet in my room in the village and talk it over. It’ll be a sort of advisory council, do you see? Now what do you say?”

Dan hesitated a moment. At first it had seemed to him that the coach was adding insult to injury in asking him to work for the success of a team that he was not considered good enough to play on. But his resentment was short-lived. If he could aid, it was his duty to do it. Yardley was as much his school as it was Colton’s or Loring’s, and if he couldn’t fight for it on the gridiron he could fight on the side-line. Besides, after all, it was pleasing to his vanity to be asked to help in this way. Even if Payson didn’t think very highly of him as a player he evidently respected his football knowledge and wits. So he looked up at Mr. Payson frankly and answered:

“I’ll do what I can, sir. I don’t suppose I can help much, but I’ll try.”

“That’s the way to talk, Vinton,” answered the coach. “And I’m much obliged. Whatever you can do will help me and it will help the school. Whenever you want to talk anything over you look me up. You’ll find me at home usually in the evenings if you care to drop in. I’ll be glad to see you any time. Hope I haven’t made you late.”

But Dan wouldn’t have cared if he had. It was worth one of Kilts’ sharpest “call-downs” to have that comforting sensation of being Somebody again. Since he had read the list in the gymnasium yesterday afternoon Dan had felt like a very unimportant Nobody! As he hurried up the steps and down the corridor to the recitation room he strove to recall a line that he had read or heard somewhere. “He also serves who only sits around and waits;” wasn’t that it? Well, something like that, any way. It wasn’t quite applicable to the present case, but it expressed the right idea.

But when it came time for football practice Dan discovered that even the re-establishment of his self-esteem didn’t give him the courage to go to the field and stand around on the side-line in his everyday clothes to be pointed out as one of the fellows who hadn’t “made good”! Perhaps after a day or two he could face it with equanimity, but to-day the wound was too fresh. So, although he would have much preferred watching practice, he went for a walk in the other direction, crossing the bridge above the railroad cut and waiting while an east-bound express roared by beneath him with a suffocating cloud of smoke and steam, and turning at the foot of the hill to the right to follow an unexplored path to the beach. There were three paths through the woods and Dan knew the other two by heart, but this one, the more westerly and the more roundabout, was new to him.

It started off in a leisurely way toward the river, winding and twisting prettily through the beeches and oaks and maples, and then, as though weary of indecision, swerved toward the Sound and marched away as straight and uncompromising as though laid out by an engineer. But the reason of its sudden reformation was apparent, for almost beside the path ran a high rustic fence. This fence, as Dan knew, marked the boundary of the school grounds on the west. Beyond it lay the country estate of John T. Pennimore, the Steamship King, as the newspapers loved to call him. He was one of the country’s rich men and Dan had heard of him often enough. Once Mr. Vinton had received a business letter from him and had brought it home to exhibit, not without a trace of pride, to his family. Sound View, as the estate was named, comprised some eight or nine acres fronting on the Sound and the Wissining River. There was an immense stone residence, barns and stables, hot houses, gardeners’ lodge and several smaller buildings of which one was known as the Bungalow and stood just above the beach near the Yardley line. Much of the property was wooded and only an occasional glimpse was to be had of the residence and stables. Now and then, however, as Dan followed the path a sudden thinning of the trees gave a brief view of velvety lawn or brilliant flower bed, and once the back of the big house was fairly in sight.

Where Sound and river met there was a long stone pier and a boat house. In front of the pier, a few hundred feet off-shore, lay the Pennimore steam yacht, a magnificent craft, resplendant in white and brass, large enough to cross the ocean in had the whim seized its owner. But John T. Pennimore was not a man of whims, and from June to late in the Autumn the Princess made almost daily trips to and fro between the summer home and the city, reeling off the miles like an express train. When the Princess lay at anchor off Sound View it was known that the Steamship King was at home. Dan wondered idly whether he would see the big yacht when he reached the end of the path. It must be jolly, he thought, to own a place like Sound View, and a yacht, and horses and carriages, and automobiles and—

His thoughts got no farther, for at that moment the dismal howling of a dog broke on his ears. The sounds seemed to come from a short distance ahead and from the other side of the fence and spoke of such fear and suffering that Dan caught his breath as he heard it. He raced forward down the path, and as he ran he caught the pungent odor of burning wood. Then between the rustic palings of the fence he saw a strange scene. Back from the fence a yard or two stood a small play-house, fifteen feet long by ten wide, with slab sides and shingled roof. It stood quite by itself amidst the shrubbery, its back to the fence. There was a window on the side nearest to Dan and another on the back, and from both of them, closed though they were, grayish-brown smoke crept out. At the corner of the little building stood a slim boy of apparently fourteen years. He had on a red flannel shirt and a red helmet such as firemen wear, and in his hands he held an axe. Beside him was a two-wheeled vehicle carrying a coil of hose and two fire-extinguishers. As Dan stopped and stared bewilderedly the boy lifted the axe as though to feel its weight, sniffed the smoke with evident relish and lifted his voice above the terrified howling of the dog which Dan could not see but which he surmised to be inside the house.

“Courage, Jack!” called the boy loudly. “I am coming to your rescue!”

But he seemed in no hurry about it, for instead of opening the door to release the dog he merely ran to the side window and peered in, drawing back coughing and laughing.

“Keep your nose to the floor, Jack,” he shouted, “and whatever you do don’t jump!”

At another time Dan might have found the instructions amusing, but now he was boiling with indignation.

“What are you doing over there?” he cried.

The boy turned in surprise and finally glimpsed him through the fence.

“Hello,” he answered smilingly. “I’m having a fire. I’m going to put it out in a minute. Want to help?”

“Isn’t there a dog in there?” asked Dan impatiently. The boy nodded his head.

“Yes, Jack’s in there. I’m playing that he’s a person, you know, and I’m going to rescue him from the flames.”

“He will die of suffocation, you silly chump, if you don’t let him out at once,” said Dan angrily. “You ought to have a good licking! Open the door and let him out, do you hear?”

“I can’t open the door,” was the untroubled reply, “because I locked it and threw the key away.”

“Where’d you throw it?”

“Somewhere over there in the bushes.” The boy nodded toward the fence. “I’m going to break the door down with the axe. If you can climb over I’ll let you squirt one of the extinguishers.”

“I can’t climb this thing,” cried Dan, impatiently. “Bring your axe here and knock off some of these sticks.”

But at that moment the dog ceased his howls.

“Never mind me! Knock in one of those windows,” ordered Dan, “and give him some air. He’s probably dying!”

The boy looked troubled, hesitated an instant and then crashed his axe through the glass of the side window.

A volume of smoke poured out and sent the rescuer reeling back. With a muttered exclamation of anger Dan gave a short run, caught somehow at the top of the high pickets and pulled himself up. The next instant he was down on the other side and had wrenched the axe from the boy’s hands. There was a strict rule at Yardley against trespassing on Sound View property, but Dan didn’t stop to think of that now.

“Get your fire extinguisher and look alive,” he shouted. “Put those flames out—if you can!”

For flames were mingling with the heavy smoke that rolled through the window. Dan ran to the door of the play-house and sent the axe smashing against the lock. Once, twice, and then the door flew inward and Dan retreated against the smother of smoke that assailed him. Inside the house was a dim chaos of swirling clouds illumined by little spurts of flame that ran along the window-casing on one side of the room. Now that door and window were open, the fire, which had almost smothered itself out, took new life. From the burning woodwork came a sound of crackling, drowned the next instant by the hiss of the stream from the extinguisher which the boy was playing through the window.

But Dan was thinking of the dog, and after the first outburst of choking smoke had driven him away he hurried back to the door and peered in. But so heavy was the murk that for a moment his smarting eyes could see nothing distinctly. He called over and over, and from the window the boy added his entreaties. But there was no answering whine. And then, as the smoke lessened, blown upward by a sudden draft of air from the door, Dan saw a dark object stretched motionless on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. At that instant the flames, having reached the top of the window, reached out with a hungry roar and the flimsy ceiling curled apart with a shower of sparks.

CHAPTER XI
A RESCUE

“Can you see him?”

The boy had dropped his extinguisher and was peering into the room, his hand clutching Dan’s arm frantically.

“He’s there in the corner by the table, but he won’t come,” answered Dan with something very much like a sob.

“Jack! Jack!” cried the boy. “Come here, sir! Good dog! Come here!”

But there was no answer.

“He will be burned to death!” shouted the boy in Dan’s ear. “I must get him out!”

“You can’t,” answered Dan miserably. “You’ll be burned yourself if you try it.” The heat and smoke were driving them further and further from the door.

“But he’s my dog,” cried the boy, turning a white, scared face to Dan, “and I told him I’d rescue him!”

“Well, you can’t,” answered Dan, angrily, half crying. “You had no business shutting him in there! You ought to be burned up yourself! You—you—”

But no one was listening to him, for the boy had suddenly darted through the doorway and was already lost to sight in the dense smoke.

“Come back! You mustn’t do that!” cried Dan. “You’ll be burned up! Do you hear?”

He ran to the door and looked in, forgetful of the fierce heat that assailed him. He heard a sound as from an overturning chair or table and, he thought, a faint cry. But he could not be certain, for the flames were roaring across the ceiling and the little room was filled with a lurid gloom that baffled sight. Dan reeled away from the door, his eyes smarting and streaming, his lungs gasping for air. For an instant longer he waited, watched, his heart thumping chokingly. He was dreadfully frightened. He wanted to turn and run, run until the sight and sound of the burning building were miles behind him. But he mustn’t do that, he mustn’t even seek help at the house or the stables! He was the only one who could help, and he knew it; knew that unless the boy came out in the next instant he must go in there for him! His knees weakened at the thought of it, and it seemed that to play the part of the coward was the most desirable thing in the world! It wasn’t his affair; the boy was no friend of his! Why should he risk his life?

These thoughts came and went in a moment, while his eyes regained their sight and his breath came back to him. Then he was tying his handkerchief across his white face with fingers that shook so that they could scarcely make the knots. He looked toward the house in the forlorn hope that help was in sight. But the stretch of shrubbery and lawn was empty of life. He turned his face toward the doorway, took a long breath and dashed forward.

The next instant he was on his knees at the end of the room. His head was already reeling, but he opened his eyes and, in the brief moment that he could see, the sprawled shape of the boy met his sight. He had only to stretch out his hand to reach him. But now, somehow, the idea of rescue was slipping from his mind. It was easier to lie there, face down upon the floor and keep his eyes tight closed. The heat beat down upon him and the smoke was filling his lungs, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. And then there was a sharp twinge of pain in his right arm that brought his senses rushing back to him. His sleeve was on fire. He beat out the smoldering flames, got a firm hold on the boy’s coat collar and, squirming and tugging, made for the gray oblong that was the doorway.

The place was a veritable furnace, and although there was but a few feet to traverse, it seemed that he must certainly fail. For the boy seemed to weigh tons, and the heat was like a living monster that sought to beat him to the ground with its fiery breath. More than once the thought of loosing his hold on that hateful thing behind him that was keeping him back assailed him, but each time he set his teeth and groped blindly on. And then a breath of fresher air met him, and he staggered to his feet, stumbled blindly through the doorway and finally fell flat upon his face on the grass.

“He staggered to his feet, stumbled blindly through the doorway.”

For several minutes he lay there unmoving, only dimly conscious. Then he came to himself with the knowledge of an aching, throbbing head and a scorched throat and threw out his arms and rolled over on his back with his face to the blessed blue sky and the soft breeze. He took a deep breath that pained him badly, and then another, and found that each succeeding breath hurt less than the one before. And full consciousness came back to him in a sudden rush of thankfulness. A groan from beside him recalled the boy to his mind and he sat up, swayed dizzily and blinked his eyes. Beside him lay the boy, his clothes burned in places and his hair singed. And beside the boy lay the dog, a red setter, the boy’s fingers clutched tightly about his collar. Dan looked for a moment from boy to dog. The boy stirred and moaned. The dog’s eyes were half closed, but his sides rose and fell with long, shivering breaths. They were both alive, Dan told himself contentedly. Then he lay down again and went into a dead faint.

When he regained his senses there were men about and a troubled, anxious face was bending above him. He looked up at it a moment, and then a smile of recognition curved his lips.

“I remember,” he murmured. “It was on the train.”

“How are you feeling?” asked a voice.

Dan considered a moment, opening his eyes widely and looking about. Then—

“Pretty good now, thanks,” he answered cheerfully. He tried to raise himself, but the man put a hand against his breast and held him down.

“Stay where you are, please, and we’ll have you in the house in a moment.”

“How’s—he?” asked Dan. “And the dog?”

“No worse than you, I hope,” answered the man with a break in his voice. “Here comes the car.”

Dan turned his head at the sound of the soft chugging of an automobile and saw the big chocolate brown car which he remembered coming across the grass.

“Are you his father?” asked Dan.

“Yes,” replied the man. “I’m Mr. Pennimore.”

Dan digested this a moment. Then he shook his head and remarked more frankly than politely:

“He’s a silly kid. He might have been burned up. I told him to keep out, but he wouldn’t do it.”

“After you feel better you may tell me what happened,” was the answer. “Here, Porter, lift him in. Tell Nagle to carry the dog up to the kennels and look after him.”

“How about the play-house, sir?”

“Let it burn,” was the answer.

Strong hands bore Dan to the car and he found himself sitting in a corner of the tonneau on the softest leather cushions he had ever felt. Then the boy was put in beside him and Mr. Pennimore sat beyond. The boy seemed half-dazed and looked at Dan as though he wondered who he was and what he was doing there. Dan felt rather weak and funny, but for all that he watched the two grooms crowd into the front seat with the chauffeur and watched the latter as he pushed a lever slowly forward and turned the big brass wheel. It was Dan’s first ride in an automobile and he felt that it was something of an event; he wished that he felt in better condition to enjoy it and wished that it was going to be longer. Mr. Pennimore was very silent as they went slowly across the grass, dropped with a lurch into the curving road and then whizzed toward the big stone house. That ride was over all too soon for Dan. Almost before he knew it he was lying on a wonderful brass bed in a room that was all pink roses, and a doctor, who had suddenly and marvelously appeared from nowhere, was unceremoniously taking his clothes off of him and feeling his pulse all at the same time.

“There’s nothing the matter with me, sir,” said Dan, but his voice didn’t sound just right to him, and he decided he’d shut up for awhile.

“Supposing you let me find that out for myself,” answered the doctor cheerfully. Well, that sounded sensible, and so Dan laid still and let the doctor do whatever he pleased. It seemed to please the doctor to bandage his left arm and his leg just above the ankle, to look very attentively at his eyes and finally to make him swallow two spoonfuls of something that tasted the way liniment smelled. Dan wondered amusedly whether the doctor was making a mistake and dosing him with what ought to go outside.

“That will do for you,” said the doctor presently, drawing the clothes up under Dan’s chin. “You go to sleep for awhile and when you wake up you’ll feel as fine as ever. Better let fires alone for awhile, though. They’re rather dangerous.”

He nodded and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Dan lay for awhile and looked at the roses. The house was very quiet. The flutter of a shade at an open window and the faint break of the waves on the beach were the only sounds that reached him. Then his thoughts went back to the afternoon’s adventure and he wondered how the Pennimore boy was. Then he wondered how Jack was. Then he wondered whether they had saved the fire extinguishers. He hoped so for he wanted to see how they worked. Then telling himself that the stuff the doctor had put on his arm and leg certainly did smart, he dropped quietly to sleep.

CHAPTER XII
AT SOUND VIEW

When Dan woke up he found that it was supper time. The room was lighted softly and a man—Dan concluded that he was the butler, and having never seen a butler before examined him with disconcerting intentness—was placing a tray on a stand beside the bed. Dan had a very healthy appetite, he found when he had got the sleep out of his head, and was a little disappointed to discover that the repast was quite spartan in its simplicity. There was a good deal of gleaming white napery and much silver and many dishes, but when it came right down to brass tacks, as Dan’s father would have said, there was only hot bouillon, a soup-stick, some graham bread cut into wafer-like slices and buttered, two slices of cold chicken, a “dab” of white current jelly and a saucer of some sort of cornstarchy stuff that did more than aught else had done to impress upon Dan the fact that he was supposed to be an invalid. He had vivid recollections of that sort of pudding. It was inextricably mixed in his memory with mumps and scarlet fever.

“Shall I lift you up, sir?” asked the servant.

But Dan assured him that he was still capable of lifting himself up, and proved it. The man put the pillows behind him and then in a most surprising way swung the top of the stand around over the bed so that the tray was right under Dan’s nose. By this time, having got his eyes fully open, Dan saw that the man wore a swallow-tail coat and showed a vivid expanse of white shirt-front. Perhaps he wasn’t a servant, after all, Dan reflected.

“If there’s anything you want, sir, just ring the bell,” said the man. The bell, a little silver affair, stood on the tray. “One of the maids is in the hall, sir, and will hear it.”

“Thank you,” said Dan. “Are you the butler?”

“No, sir, I’m the second man.”

“Oh,” said Dan vaguely. “Thank you.” Then he took up his spoon and set to work and the servant left the room with noiseless tread. As he ate, Dan looked about him and sighed comfortably. There were lights on all sides of the big room but the pink silk shades subdued them so that the room was filled with a soft, roseate glow. On the big dresser the silver toilet articles and cut glass bottles caught the light and glimmered richly. The big roses on the walls were repeated in the draperies at the windows and looked so fresh and natural that Dan was almost convinced that he could pick them off were he able to reach them. Over the footboard of the gleaming brass bedstead lay a silk quilt, and that too, was a mass of pink roses. This, he concluded, was the guest chamber. He recalled the guest chamber at home. It had always seemed to him a very magnificent apartment until now. Then he recollected the fact that his soup was getting cold and that he was very hungry.

Ten minutes later that repast was only a memory and not a crumb was left to tell the tale. And he was still hungry. He wondered what would happen if he rang the bell and demanded a sirloin steak and a baked potato. Probably he would get it, but a sirloin steak in that room would seem a desecration, and he resisted the temptation. He found that he had only to swing the tray around to get it out of the way. That was interesting, and he amused himself for a minute in swinging it back and forth. Then he thumped the pillows and settled down in bed again. His burns smarted a good deal, but he told himself that it was worth a little pain to be installed in the midst of such luxury and be waited on by the second man. Presently he became sleepy again and dozed and awoke and dozed again and felt very comfortable and contented. Once, just what time it was he didn’t know, he got quite widely awake and found that tray and stand had disappeared and that all the lights were out save one. That, thought Dan sleepily, meant that it was bedtime. So he did the sensible thing and went to sleep in a business-like way and didn’t wake up again until the sunlight was streaming in at the two big east windows.

Breakfast appeared after awhile and Dan learned that he was free to get up and make his toilet and dress himself. The breakfast was as generous as the dinner had been frugal, and after he had finished it Dan was doubtful of his ability to get up. But a quarter of an hour later he was dressed and a maid knocked on the door and brought a message that Mr. Pennimore would like to see him downstairs. So Dan slicked his hair down again, glanced ruefully at his burnt coat and trousers and found the maid waiting for him outside. Dan was heartily glad of her assistance, for he was certain that he would never have reached Mr. Pennimore alone because the house was like a hotel, and doors and passages and stairways turned up everywhere. Mr. Pennimore was in the library, a big high-ceilinged apartment whose walls were hidden behind book-cases and tapestries. There was a cracking log fire in an immense stone fireplace half way down one side of the room, and in front of this Mr. Pennimore was standing reading some letters as the maid held aside the curtains at the door and Dan entered. Mr. Pennimore looked up and came forward to meet him.

“Well, my boy,” he said, “how do you feel?”

“All right, sir, thanks,” answered Dan as he shook hands. Mr. Pennimore led him to a big leather chair in front of the fire and pushed him gently into it. Then he laid the letters he held on the high stone mantel and took his stand on the hearth rug. What bothered Dan about Mr. Pennimore was the fact that he didn’t look at all as one would imagine a Steamship King ought to. There was nothing nautical in Mr. Pennimore’s appearance. Instead he looked like a retired banker. He was rather a small man, very trim, scrupulously attentive to details of attire, with a thoughtful face and a pair of black eyes that were kindly and shrewd. In age he appeared to be between fifty and fifty-five and his dark hair, grizzled a little at the temples, had not retreated very far from the forehead. He wore a mustache and a short beard and had, Dan soon noticed, a habit of tugging gently at the latter with thumb and forefinger. He was doing it now while Dan waited for him to speak.

“Well, Vinton, my boy has told me what happened yesterday and I quite agree with your estimate of him. He is a silly kid, as you remarked.” Mr. Pennimore smiled. Dan colored up.

“I didn’t mean that, Mr. Pennimore. What I meant was that he was silly to go into that house, sir.”

“I understand, my boy. But he is silly. By that I mean that he does a great many silly things such as he did yesterday. Unfortunately he hasn’t a mother; she died soon after he was born; and I am away from home a good deal. Gerald has an excellent tutor, but of course Mr. Faunce can’t look after him every minute, and so Gerald is frequently in scrapes. Yesterday he managed to outdo himself. The idea of shutting that poor dog in the play-house and then setting fire to it! Gerald had been reading some story or other about firemen, he tells me, and wanted to try his hand at a rescue. Of course he had no idea that the fire would get out of his control; and it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that the dog might smother to death before he was rescued. He is very fond of Jack; I gave the dog to him on his twelfth birthday; and he wouldn’t intentionally cause him any pain. The whole thing seems to have been a piece of childish thoughtlessness. What do you think, Vinton?”

“I don’t think he realized what he was doing,” answered Dan eagerly. “I was sort of out of patience with him, sir, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to hurt the dog anyway.”

Mr. Pennimore suppressed a smile. Gerald had told him that Dan had said he ought to be licked!

“Well, I’m pretty fond of that boy of mine,” continued Mr. Pennimore. “He’s the only child I’ve got, you see. I suppose I’m rather foolish about him, but parents are liable to get that way. And so what am I to say to you, my boy? What can I say that will express my feelings, my gratitude?”

Mr. Pennimore’s voice shook, and Dan, rather alarmed and very red and uncomfortable, wished himself away from there. Perhaps Mr. Pennimore saw his embarrassment, for he cleared his throat and went on in quite an ordinary tone of voice.

“All I can do is to thank you, Vinton, and I do that very earnestly. If you were a poor boy I could show my gratitude by making you a present. But as it is I suppose there’s nothing you want, nothing I can give you that you will accept?”

“Thank you, sir,” muttered Dan. “I don’t want anything.”

“You’re a lucky person,” said Mr. Pennimore with a little laugh. He sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “You have everything in the world that you want, then?”

“Yes, sir, at least—.” Dan stopped and his face broke into a smile.

“Oh, so there is something after all?”

“The only thing I want,” replied Dan with a laugh, “is to make the football team.”

“I see. Well, that, I fear, is something beyond me. I’m sorry, for there’s nothing in reason I wouldn’t gladly do for the boy that saved my boy’s life. I’d like you to feel sure of that, Vinton.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think I deserve much—much gratitude. You see, Mr. Pennimore, I ought to have kept him from going in there. But I didn’t have any idea he’d really do it. Why, the place was like a—a furnace, sir! It was mighty plucky of him to do it, sir!”

“Maybe it was, but I’m inclined to think,” answered Mr. Pennimore dryly, “that he didn’t know what he was in for. The real pluck and heroism, my boy, was yours, for you realized what it meant to go into that house. Didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did,” acknowledged Dan. “In fact—in fact I—I was scared to death, sir, and that’s the truth. I guess there wasn’t much heroism about me. I’d have given anything if I could have cut and run!”

“Then why didn’t you?” asked the other gently.

“Why—I—I couldn’t!” answered Dan, with a look of surprise at the questioner. “You wouldn’t have, would you, sir?”

“Not if my boy had been in there,” answered Mr. Pennimore thoughtfully, “but—if it had been anyone else, who knows whether I’d have found the courage?”

Dan laughed.

“You’d have gone all right, sir,” he answered with conviction.

“Well, I’d prefer to think that I would have, but I’m not too sure, Vinton. I’ve lived a good deal longer than you, my boy, and I’ve seen the time when a little heroism was hard to come at. Perhaps moral heroism is more difficult than physical, but—However, we’re not discussing such weighty questions this morning, eh? What’s your first name?”

“Dan, sir.”

“Dan, Dan Vinton. That’s a good-sounding name,” mused Mr. Pennimore. “I’ve often thought that there was a good deal in names. I mean that a person’s name maybe expresses his character if we were only able to read it aright. Now your name to me expresses courage and grit and fearlessness. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes, sir, I think so. But, you see, I was afraid, sir.”

“Yes, afraid to be afraid, my boy. That’s the right kind of fear. To take a risk when you’re not afraid is one thing and to take that risk when your heart’s in your boots is another. The biggest hero of all is the man that does a thing when he’s scared to death, merely because he knows that it’s right. Isn’t that so?”

“I suppose so, sir. I never thought much about it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Pennimore with a sudden laugh, “don’t think about it now; this is too fine a morning for problems. You’ll find when you get to know me better, Dan, that I have a weakness for problems. I call you Dan because you and I are going to be pretty good friends, I hope. Now tell me something about yourself. Where do you live when you’re at home?”

“In Graystone, Ohio, sir.”

“You have a mother and father living?”

“Yes, sir, and a sister. She’s thirteen.”

“What’s your father’s business, Dan?”

“He’s a little of everything, sir. He owns the flouring mills at Graystone and he’s president of the First National Bank and owns a lot of buildings and things all around. His name’s John W. Vinton, sir.” And Dan watched eagerly to see if Mr. Pennimore showed acquaintance with the name.

“Doubtless I’ve heard of your father,” said Mr. Pennimore, politely. “Is he like you, my boy? Has he got everything that he wants?”

Dan had to consider a moment. He had never thought about that.

“I don’t know, sir,” he answered finally. “But I guess he has. He doesn’t go in for much outside of his business. And when he wants anything he usually gets it,” added Dan with a trace of pride. “I guess the only thing he ever wanted that he hasn’t got is the new railroad.”

“What railroad is that?” asked Mr. Pennimore.

“The Sedalia, Dayton and Western. Father has been trying to get them to come through Graystone. He says the town needs a competing line, sir. But when I left home they’d finished the survey and father said the road was going past Graystone on the north.”

“Is your father interested in the road? Does he own stock in it?”

“I don’t think so. It’s an Eastern company that’s building. It’s a connecting line between two other systems.”

“Ah, I don’t seem to remember the—the Sedalia, Dayton and Western, you said?” Mr. Pennimore took out a small note-book and jotted down a word or two. “I must look it up. Perhaps I may know some of the interested parties. In that case, unless there are very good reasons why the road should leave Graystone out, I don’t see why your father shouldn’t have what he wants.” He smiled at Dan and slipped the book back into his pocket.

“That would be bully!” cried Dan. “Could—could you do that, sir?”

“I think so. I’ll look into it and let you know. Perhaps you will be able to present the Sedalia, Dayton and Western railroad to Graystone as a Christmas present. Like that, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dan eagerly. “Father would be awfully tickled. And—and so would I. Only I—I wouldn’t want you to do it just on account of what I did, Mr. Pennimore. It—it wasn’t worth it.”

“Perhaps I’m the better judge of what it was worth, my boy. Now I must be off. I telephoned to the school last evening, so that’s all right. I guess they won’t give you a licking, eh? Now I’m going to send Gerald down to see you and after awhile he will run you over to school in the car. I want you and Gerald to be friends, if you will. And you must come and see me often. I want you to take dinner some evening soon. Good-bye for the present, Dan.”

They shook hands, and Mr. Pennimore, with a kindly nod, went towards the door. But he had turned the next moment.

“Of course, Dan,” he said. “I want to replace those clothes that were burnt in my service. I’ll just mail you a check. And, by the way, the doctor promised to look in this morning. You’d better wait until he comes.”

“Yes, sir; but, if you don’t mind, I’d—I’d rather you wouldn’t pay for these clothes, sir. They are my oldest ones, and—and, anyway, I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

“Then I won’t,” was the answer. “I won’t insist, for I know you are able to replace them yourself. Good morning, Dan.”

After Mr. Pennimore’s departure Dan roamed around the big room, looking at the backs of the books and admiring without understanding the old tapestries. Presently he skirted the monstrous table—quite the largest table in the world, he was sure—and went to one of the half-dozen French windows that opened onto the broad red-tiled veranda with its massive stone balustrade and its bay-trees in big terra-cotta tubs. Beyond lay the green lawn and the flower-beds, the seawall and the blue, blue ocean. The sun was shining brightly and against an almost cloudless sky a flock of gulls dipped and wheeled. Dan’s heart responded to the glamour of the morning. It was a fine old world, he thought, and after all, a fellow didn’t have to be on a football team to be happy! At that moment there was a voice behind him and Dan turned from the window to Gerald Pennimore.

CHAPTER XIII
A RICH MAN’S SON

Gerald Pennimore was fourteen years of age, slight of build and very fair as to complexion, having hair that was almost corn-color, light blue eyes and a clear pink and white skin of the kind that doesn’t readily tan. He was good looking, but seemed far from robust. When he smiled his face was eminently attractive, but in repose it very often held an expression of discontent. As he greeted Dan he exhibited some embarrassment.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” answered Dan. “How are you feeling after it?”

“Pretty good, thank you.” He hesitated and seemed trying to get rid of a lump in his throat. Then, “They say you pulled me out of that place yesterday and saved my life—and Jack’s,” he said in low tones. “And—and I’m much obliged!”

Dan had to laugh a little, the thanks sounded so perfunctory. But he sympathized with Gerald’s embarrassment and answered in an off-hand way:

“Pshaw, I guess I didn’t do much. You’re welcome, though, of course. I’m glad you didn’t get burned or—or anything. How’s the dog?”

“He’s as fit as a fiddle,” answered the other eagerly. “You see, he was lying under the table and didn’t even get scorched! Say, I wouldn’t have had anything happen to Jack for anything in the world! I’d rather get burned up myself. You bet I’m glad you got him out!”

“But I didn’t—exactly,” laughed Dan. “I pulled you out and you pulled the dog out. You had hold of his collar, you see, and when you came he came, too.”

“Really? Then I did rescue him after all, didn’t I? I’m glad of that because I told him I would.” Then his face fell. “But I guess it was you, though, that did it.”

“Well, it doesn’t much matter, does it, as long as someone did it? I’m glad he wasn’t hurt. But I wouldn’t try that sort of thing again if I were you.”

“I guess not. Why, I didn’t know the place was so full of smoke. I thought the flames would leap out and then I’d break in the door with my axe and rescue Jack. I was making believe I was a fireman, you know.”

Dan nodded. “Well, there wasn’t any harm done as it happened; except the house. I suppose that burned down.”

“I guess so. That doesn’t matter. I haven’t used it for over a year. Say, are you a Yardley fellow?”

“Yes,” Dan replied.

“I wish I was! I want father to send me to Yardley but he won’t do it. I have a beastly old tutor. I don’t learn much, I guess. Did you ever have a tutor?” Dan shook his head. “Well, don’t you ever have one. They’re no good. I’d rather go to school.”

“Why won’t your father let you?” inquired Dan.

“Oh, he’s afraid something might happen to me, I guess. You’d think I was made of glass, the way he fusses about me. I’ve never had any good times in my life. If I want to do anything I have to have a tutor or somebody right with me.”

“I didn’t see any tutor around yesterday afternoon,” observed Dan, dryly.

Gerald grinned.

“He went over to town to buy something. I was supposed to be studying, but I wasn’t. He got fired this morning,” he added cheerfully.

“That’s a shame!” exclaimed Dan. Gerald looked surprised.

“Why is it?” he asked.

“Because he’s lost his place and it wasn’t his fault.”

“Yes, it was, though. Father told him he wasn’t to leave the place except after six in the evening. And he disobeyed. It served him right. I told father, though,” Gerald added magnanimously, “that I didn’t mind if he stayed. It might as well be Old Faunce as anyone else. But father said he had to go. He’s upstairs now, packing his things. I won’t have to do any studying until we get a new one. I hope it will take a long time to find one.”

“You don’t seem to care much about lessons,” said Dan, smilingly. Gerald looked doubtful.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Some things I like to study. I like Latin and French and German and English literature, but I hate mathematics and about the human body and botany.” Dan stared.

“Do you mean that you study all those things?” he asked.

“Yes, don’t you?”

“No, I have only Latin, French, mathematics and English this year; and gym work.”

“I’ve got a gymnasium upstairs. Want to see it?”

“I’d like to, but your father said the doctor was coming. And after that I must go back to school. Perhaps, though, you’ll let me see it some other time. Your father invited me to come over again, you know.”

“Oh, you’re coming lots of times,” answered Gerald promptly. “And I’ll show you my gymnasium and the stables and the kennels and my stamp collection. Do you collect stamps?”

“I used to,” answered Dan, “but I haven’t done much for a year or two.”

“I’ve got over two thousand,” said Gerald, “and some of them are corkers. I’ve got one that cost eighty dollars!”

“I’d like to see them,” said Dan, politely.

“All right. To-morrow? Will you come over to-morrow? I’ll send Higgins for you with the car if you will?” But Dan shook his head.

“Not to-morrow, I guess,” he replied. “I’ll have to make up for what I miss to-day, you see.”

Gerald’s face fell and he kicked disconsolately at the leg of a chair.

“That’s mean,” he said. “I guess, though, you could come if you wanted to. I suppose I’m too much of a kid.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dan. “I’d like to come, and I would if I could. But they’re pretty strict about class-work at Yardley and I don’t want to get behind. If you’ll let me come Friday I will.”

“All right.” Gerald’s face brightened. “And, say, I’m going to ask father if he will let me go over to see you some day. I’ve never been inside the school in my life. If I come will you show me your room and everything?”

“Glad to, but my room doesn’t amount to much. Do you like football?”

“You bet! Do you play?”

“Some. I was trying for the team until yesterday.”

“Didn’t you make it?”

“No, they kicked me out,” laughed Dan. Gerald looked incredulous.

“Why?” he asked indignantly. “I’ll bet you’re a dandy player! Why don’t you make them take you on?”

“It can’t be done. There are too many fellows who play a lot better than I do. What I was going to say, though, was that if your father will let you come over some day we’ll go down and watch practice if you’d like to.”

“You bet I would! I’ve seen the fellows playing sometimes from the road. Maybe I can come Saturday. Would that be all right? Where do you live?”

“Saturday would be all right. There is a game Saturday. I room in Clarke Hall, number 28. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, I’ll remember it all right. There’s the doctor. Shall we have him in here?”

“Wherever you say,” answered Dan.

The doctor’s visit was soon over. Dan’s burns were healing nicely and Gerald had nothing to show but a contusion on his head and a slight burn on one wrist. He had stumbled over Jack when he had gone into the play-house and had struck the edge of the table in falling. The blow had partially stunned him, and he declared that he didn’t remember a thing until he found himself outside on the grass. When the doctor had gone, the big chocolate-brown touring car swung up the drive to the steps and the two boys climbed in.

“Go around by the station, Higgins,” ordered Gerald. “That’s the longest way,” he added gleefully, for Dan’s benefit. Dan felt that he ought to insist on being taken back the quickest and shortest way, but he didn’t want to offend Gerald, and, besides, the idea of lengthening the drive was far from distasteful to him. The big car skimmed its way down the immaculate gravel roadway, past the gardener’s lodge, through the big stone gateway and out onto the village street. It was the nearest thing to flying that Dan had ever experienced, never having tried tobogganing, and he was quite content to lean back against the yielding cushions and just watch things whizz by. But Gerald demanded conversation. It was an event in his life to have someone of about his own age to talk with and he made the most of it. Around the station they flew, with a musical peal of the chimes, and darted along the straight stretch of road toward the school. Above the Yardley buildings dozed in the forenoon sunlight and Dan felt as though he was going home. Then came the winding ascent and the engine took on a gruffer tone as the big car charged upward. Then a quick turn to the right at the top of the hill, a sudden jarring of brakes and the car stood, quivering and chugging in front of Clarke.

Dan leaped out, shook hands with Gerald, nodded almost gratefully to the chauffeur, who touched his cap smilingly in response, promised again faithfully to see Gerald on Friday and then ran up the steps. As the door closed behind him he heard the automobile taking the hill again. When he opened the door of his room Tubby looked around from the window at which he was standing with a sardonic grin.

“I suppose you think you’re a blooming hero,” said Tubby.

CHAPTER XIV
DAN JOINS A CONSPIRACY

The story of Dan’s adventure had preceded him up Yardley Hill, and when he reached the locker room in the gymnasium at a few moments before half-past eleven there was a murmur of interest from the fellows who were getting into their gymnasium suits. Several of the fellows Dan knew well enough to speak to and these greeted him heartily, while one or two others, who had never before accorded him more than nods, now went out of their ways to call him by name. Joe Chambers, one of the editors of the Scholiast, had to have the story of the affair while Dan was changing his clothes.

“This isn’t for publication, Vinton,” he assured him seriously, “but—”

“Well, I should hope not!” laughed Dan. “If you go and put anything about it in your little old paper I’ll sue you for libel.”

“No, but go on and tell about it,” begged Chambers. Dan glanced rather embarrassedly about the little circle which had collected.

“Why, there isn’t much to tell, Chambers,” he said finally. “I was going along the path by the Pennimore grounds when I heard a dog howling. And then I smelled smoke and looked through the fence and saw young Pennimore—his name is Gerald—”

“I know,” said Chambers, “a regular little runt.”

“Well, he had started a fire in a play-house that stood down there by the fence and was going to have the fun of putting it out with fire-extinguishers. Somehow the dog, a dandy Irish setter, had got inside and when I got there he was howling like the mischief. So Gerald and I started to get him out. But by that time the place was pretty full of smoke and Gerald couldn’t see and fell and hit his head against a table. That knocked him out and so I went in and got him. It was pretty hot, of course, but there wasn’t any especial danger.”

“Didn’t you get burned at all?” asked a small boy on the edge of the circle.

“No, only a couple of little places on my arm and leg.”

“Let’s see,” said someone, eagerly.

“Oh, they are bandaged. They took Gerald and me up to the house and put us to bed. Mr. Pennimore was dandy and I had a great old time; had my dinner and breakfast in bed. Then—”

But at that moment the gong clanged and they swarmed upstairs to the gymnasium and took their places at the chest-weights. At dinner time Dan had to tell his story over again to the fellows at his table.

“Pshaw, that isn’t the way I heard it,” said Paul Rand. “I heard that it was the kennels that was on fire and that you and the Pennimore kid went in to rescue the dogs and that he was overcome by the smoke and you carried him out in your arms. I’ll bet you’re lying, Vinton.” Dan assured him earnestly that his version was the correct one and Rand finally believed him. But everyone was especially attentive to Dan that day and for a day or two afterwards, and the school proclaimed him a hero. The Third Class got quite puffed up about it and put on so many airs that the Fourth Class took umbrage and started a rumor to the effect that the truth of the matter was that Dan had been stealing apples, had been caught by one of the grooms or the gardener and locked up in the stable over night. As a result there were several pitched battles between Third and Fourth Class boys during the next few days. But I am anticipating.

After dinner Dan was summoned to the office which he found occupied by Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and Mr. Forisher, the secretary. Mr. Collins greeted him cordially and shook hands with him. Mr. Forisher looked up an instant from his work and bowed almost pleasantly.

“Well, Vinton,” said the Assistant Principal, “I hear you have been making a hero of yourself.”

“Not much of one, sir,” answered Dan.

“No? Well, Mr. John T. Pennimore tells a different story. What you did was very well done, I should say. Just come inside here a moment, please; the Doctor wants to see you.”

The door marked “Private” was opened and Dan passed through at Mr. Collins’ heels. In front of a big, old-fashioned walnut desk sat Doctor Hewitt. Dan had never spoken to the Principal and felt a trifle alarmed. Doctor Tobias Hewitt was short, thick-set and very sturdy looking. In spite of his years—for he was almost seventy—his cheeks were ruddy, his face singularly free from wrinkles and he held himself perfectly erect. He had a fine, kindly face and a very pleasant voice.

“Doctor, this is Vinton, of the Third,” said Mr. Collins.

“To be sure,” exclaimed the Doctor, rising from his chair and taking Dan’s hand. “And a credit to the school, Mr. Collins. I’m glad to make your nearer acquaintance, Vinton. You did a splendid thing yesterday. I thank you on my own behalf. I’m glad that one of my boys showed such admirable courage.”

“It wasn’t anything, sir,” said Dan, sheepishly.

“Your modesty is commendable,” replied the Principal, “but that is as it should be; bravery and modesty should go together. Mr. Pennimore has spoken very highly of you, my boy, and Mr. Pennimore is a gentleman whom we hold in excellent regard. By the way, Mr. Collins, Mr. Pennimore requested that Vinton should be allowed to visit his house. I think we can give that permission, can we not?”

“Certainly, sir. Vinton shall have permission to visit Mr. Pennimore whenever he likes outside of recitation hours. Of course should you wish to go there in the evening, Vinton, it will be necessary to obtain special permission.”

“Thank you, sir,” murmured Dan.

“You are getting along well with your work?” asked the Doctor, genially.

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“That’s well, that’s well. School work is your first duty, Vinton, to yourself and your parents, you know; and to us, too; yes, yes, to us, too. Well, that’s all, I fancy, Mr. Collins. Good morning, Vinton. I’m very glad to have seen you. I hope our meetings will always be as pleasant as this has been.” And the Doctor laughed merrily.

Dan muttered his thanks and followed Mr. Collins back into the outer office. Mr. Collins drew a chair up to his desk and pointed to it as he took his own seat.

“Sit down a moment, Vinton,” he said pleasantly. “You have no recitation coming?”

“Not until two, sir. I have English then.”

Mr. Collins glanced at the clock.

“We have half an hour, then, but I shan’t keep you more than ten minutes. I suppose you saw something of Mr. Pennimore’s son yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, tell me quite confidentially what you think of him.” Dan hesitated. “I mean give me your opinion of him, Vinton. What does he seem like? Clever? Manly? The sort of boy you’d like to know?”

“Well, sir, of course I didn’t see a great deal of him, but I rather liked him. He doesn’t look very strong, but I think he doesn’t get enough outdoor exercise. And he studies pretty hard, I guess, from what he told me. He has a private tutor, you know.”

“So I understand. Should you say he was—well, a bit spoiled, Vinton?”

“Well, a little, maybe, but not so much, sir. I think that if his father would send him to school and let him know other fellows it would do him good.”

“I think you’re right,” said Mr. Collins heartily. “Mr. Pennimore spoke once to the Doctor of sending the boy here, but that was over a year ago and we’ve heard nothing more about it. We’d like to have him, to tell the truth, Vinton. This is quite between ourselves, if you please; I’d rather you didn’t mention our little talk to anyone. The fact is that Broadwood is after Mr. Pennimore to have him send his boy there. I know that for a fact; we learn of these things, you know. And of course it will be something of a feather in Broadwood’s cap if they get him, just as it would be a feather in our cap if he should come here. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you hear Mr. Pennimore or the boy say anything about this matter?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I understood that he was to have a new tutor, sir.”

“I see. I suppose, now, that you will see something of Mr. Pennimore and the boy, eh? You’re likely to go to the house pretty often?”

“I hardly know, sir. Mr. Pennimore has asked me to come, and so has Gerald, and I promised to go over Friday. And Gerald is coming to see me Saturday.”

“Excellent! I wonder—” Mr. Collins paused and frowned at the ink-well. “No, better not, maybe,” he muttered. “You might show him around the school, Vinton, when he comes; let him see what sort of a place we have here, eh?”

“I thought I would, sir.”

“Do! Try and interest him in our school. Look here, I’m going to make a clean breast of it to you. I want to get that boy here at Yardley. I want to beat Broadwood. You can understand that, I guess? Of course it will be a good advertisement for the school to have Mr. Pennimore’s son come to us, and in this age it is as necessary for a school to advertise as it is for any other business. But aside from that I want to get ahead of Broadwood. Now, will you help me?”

“Why, yes, sir,” answered Dan. “I’d like to beat Broadwood, too. Only—it sounds like a conspiracy, doesn’t it? Do you think it would be fair?”

“Quite,” answered Mr. Collins decisively. “You can be open and aboveboard about it. Tell the boy that you want him to come here; tell Mr. Pennimore so, too. Try and interest them both in the school life, in our athletics. If you can, introduce the boy to some of your friends here; get him to come over and see you now and then. I was going to suggest that when he visited you Saturday you might bring him over and introduce him to the Doctor; all boys like the Doctor at first sight; but maybe that had better come later. We’ll call it a conspiracy, if you like, Vinton, but it will be an honest and open conspiracy. Now what do you say?”

“I’m in on it, sir!” answered Dan eagerly. “I’d like to beat Broadwood and I’d like to have Gerald come here to school, anyway. It would do him good, Mr. Collins. I’ll do what I can, sir. I know that Gerald would love to go to school somewhere and I guess he would just as lief come here as anywhere.”

“Good! Well, the conspiracy is started then,” said Mr. Collins with a smile. “You do what you can, Vinton, and let me know what progress you make. I’d like to meet the boy myself, but I don’t want to let him think we’re trying to kidnap him, so maybe I’d better keep out of it until the right moment comes. I’m much obliged for your help, Vinton, and if the time comes that I can be of assistance to you—of course I mean without detriment to my duty—I hope you’ll call on me.”

If Dan walked down the corridor and out of Oxford with a suggestion of a swagger you can hardly blame him. It seemed to him that he was getting to be a rather important person, and he felt a little bit proud about it. Even if he had failed at making the football team he had been asked to help the team to success, and now his services had been enlisted by the school office to recruit Gerald Pennimore. Things were quite different from two weeks ago when he had known practically no one in the school and had seemed like the merest nonentity! His mind was so full of Gerald Pennimore’s capture that Old Tige shook his head sadly and remarked to the class at large that heroism and rhetoric didn’t seem to step together. Dan blushed and the rest of the fellows laughed.

After class Dan went to his room to study, for he had missed Latin and mathematics that morning. To his relief he found that Tubby was absent. Perhaps he had been coaxed forth by the glory of the Fall weather or perhaps he had run out of reading matter and had gone to borrow a book somewhere. At all events, he was not at home, and Dan was very glad of it, for Tubby had shown an inclination to be extremely sarcastic and disagreeable over yesterday’s affair.

At half-past five there was a sharp knock on the door and in response to Dan’s “Come in, whoever you are!” Mr. Payson entered.

“Hello, Vinton,” he said. “How badly were you hurt in that little rescue act of yours?”

“Not at all, sir,” answered Dan as he pulled a chair forward for the visitor. “At least, I only got a little burn on my arm and one on my leg.”

“Can you use them?”

“Yes, sir, they don’t hurt; just smart a little at times.”

The coach looked troubled.

“Well, you know if you hadn’t cut practice yesterday you wouldn’t have got into trouble. I suppose it was just as well to keep away to-day, but I guess you’ll be fit to-morrow. You’d better see Mr. Ryan in the morning and let him see your burns.”

“But—” began Dan bewilderedly.

“Now, look here, Vinton,” interrupted Mr. Payson sharply, “I don’t want to be nasty, for you did a plucky thing yesterday and we’re all proud of you. But it’s got to be understood that cutting practice doesn’t go. You’re a new boy and probably you didn’t understand. The only way you can stay away from practice without getting into trouble with me is to see Mr. Ryan. If he says you can lay off, all right. Otherwise I want you to be on hand promptly every afternoon.”

“But—”

“If you can’t do that I want you to say so and I’ll accept your resignation from the squad.”

“But I’m not on the squad!” exclaimed Dan.

“Not what?”

“I’m not on the squad, sir! I guess you’ve forgotten. You dropped me, Mr. Payson.”

“I dropped you? Nothing of the sort, Vinton! I posted a list on the board Monday afternoon. You should have read it.”

“I did read it,” answered Dan, smiling. “My name wasn’t on it.” Mr. Payson looked nonplussed.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“You bet I am! I read it three or four times, sir.”

“Well, I don’t see how that happened,” mused the coach. “I meant to put you down. Then it was my fault. I’m glad. I was afraid you were going to turn out to be one of those fair-weather chaps who don’t like to come out when the grass is wet or the wind is blowing. I’m sorry I made such a fool blunder. But you be on hand to-morrow, Vinton; don’t forget. Glad you got out of your scrape as well as you did yesterday. You might have got pretty well singed from what I hear. You’d better come over to training table to-morrow. Good night.”

“Good night, sir,” answered Dan. “And—and thank you, sir.”

“What for?” asked the coach, turning at the doorway.

“For letting me stay on the squad,” replied Dan.

“Humph! Maybe you won’t thank me later on. I don’t believe there’s a ghost of a show for you to get on the First, Vinton, although you may get into the Broadwood game for a few minutes. Good-bye.”

When the door had closed Dan listened until Mr. Payson’s footsteps had died away down the corridor. Then he gave a bound onto his bed and turned a somersault, his heels landing with a thump against the wall and seriously impairing the appearance of the wall-paper. When Tubby came in a moment later he found Dan lying on his back with his feet on the pillow. Tubby snorted derisively.

“I guess it’s gone to your head,” he said.

CHAPTER XV
GERALD VISITS YARDLEY

The next afternoon Dan got into the scrimmage for a few minutes at left end on the Second and put up such a snappy game that many of the fellows opened their eyes, while Norton, whose place he had taken watched him anxiously from the side-line. The Second was using the forward pass and onside kick for all they were worth, and Ridge, the captain, had taught it two or three rather clever variations of these. The First was learning to hold its own, but now and then the forward pass was pulled off successfully. In the second half of the twenty minute scrimmage which followed practice Dan got by Dickenson twice and in each case captured the ball on a forward pass for a good gain, the second time getting away from the First Team players and landing the pigskin on the twelve yards before being downed by Capes. It was a run of forty yards and it brought the handful of watchers in the grandstand to their feet. King, the Second Team quarter, hugged him ecstatically. The First held and got the ball away and kicked out of danger, but it had been a near thing for them and after the whistle had blown and the players were back in the gymnasium Dan was viewed very respectfully by the First Team fellows.

“That was a nice little romp of yours,” said Loring. “Someone told me, though, that you weren’t playing any more.”

“That’s what I thought myself,” panted Dan as he struggled out of his togs. “Payson forgot to put my name on the list and so I didn’t show up yesterday or the day before. And yesterday afternoon Payson came up to the room and began to give me fits for not reporting. I told him he hadn’t put my name down.”

“That was one on him,” chuckled Loring. “He ought to give you a show on the First before long. Hope he does.”

“I guess he won’t though. He told me yesterday that I didn’t have any show for the First.”

“Candid, anyway, wasn’t he?” Loring laughed. “But don’t you care, Vinton. I’ll tell you something about Payson. He’s a good coach and a dandy fellow when you get to know him, but he never could size up his men. He’s been fooled time and again. Last year he kept Mitchell on the Second all season until just before the Broadwood game. Then Hughes got hurt and Mitchell was moved over to substitute Littleton. In two days he had Littleton looking like a base imitation, got his place at tackle and played the dandiest sort of game against Broadwood. And he’s one of our best men this year.”

“Oh, well, I’m willing to wait until next year,” answered Dan. “All I want is the fun of playing. Of course I’d like mighty well to get on your team, but Dickenson and Williams and Sayer are all better than I am.”

Loring pursed his lips and looked doubtful.

“Well, Dickenson is a dandy, all right,” he said, “and Norton is good, but—Still, it isn’t my place to criticise. It’s early yet, and there’ll be plenty of changes before the twenty-third of November. Now it’s me for the merry shower.” And with a blood-curdling yell Loring disappeared behind the rubber curtains.

Dan had telephoned Gerald Pennimore at noon that he would not be able to make his promised visit that day. Gerald had been very much disappointed, and a little bit sulky. Eventually, however, Dan had made his peace and Gerald had agreed to come to Yardley the next afternoon. He arrived at a little before two o’clock. There were no recitations Saturday afternoons and as the game with St. John’s Academy was not called until three Dan had a full hour in which to show Gerald about.

The automobile was sent home and Dan conducted Gerald from building to building. They did Oxford from top to bottom, saw the commons and peeked into the kitchens, visited Merle and Dudley and then went up to Dan’s room. Tubby was in and so he and Gerald were introduced. Tubby was not at his best, and that’s saying a good deal. Gerald had found everything very interesting and fascinating, but when he told Dan and Tubby so the latter at once began to compare Yardley and Broadwood, the result being decidedly unflattering to Yardley. That, thought Dan would never do, and so he suddenly recollected that it was time for him to get dressed for the game, and he hurried Gerald off before Tubby could do any more damage.

“You mustn’t mind Tubby Jones,” said Dan as they cut across the yard. “He’s a chronic kicker. If he was at Broadwood he’d want to be here. Nothing ever quite suits Tubby.”

“Do you like him much?” asked Gerald.

“Oh, we get on well enough,” answered Dan. “But Tubby isn’t exactly what you’d call a lovable character, although he really isn’t quite as bad as he makes you think.”

“I don’t like him,” said Gerald decisively.

Gerald was vastly interested in the gymnasium and tried all the apparatus in turn. Then they visited the trophy room, where Dan showed him the football and baseballs which, inscribed with names and dates, commemorated various victories on gridiron and diamond. There were cups, too, and one or two banners dating back nearly thirty years, and numerous framed photographs of Yardley teams. Gerald had a stream of questions to ask, many of them quite beyond Dan’s ability to answer. They looked into the boxing room and Gerald wanted Dan to show him how to box, but Dan assured him that he hadn’t taken it up yet and hurried him off downstairs. Gerald was allowed only a peep into the locker room, for the football fellows were in possession. Then he was sent back to the gymnasium to amuse himself until Dan had changed his clothes. Later they went down to the field together and Dan bought a ticket and placed Gerald in a lower seat on the stand. After the substitutes had been sent to the side-line, Dan took his place beside him and explained everything to the best of his ability. Gerald didn’t know football very well and there was plenty of work for Dan.

St. John’s Academy had sent a pretty green team to Wissining and after the first few minutes of play it was evident that Yardley would not have to work very hard. Mr. Payson had taught his team no new plays as yet and so only the simplest of old-fashioned football was used by the home team. St. John’s was light and fairly fast and had been coached to play an open game. There were numerous tries of the forward pass but Yardley had little trouble in frustrating them. For the most part Yardley kept the ball and used plays through the line, especially outside of tackle, for good gains. The first half ended with the score 18 to 0 in favor of the Blue.

Gerald became much excited as the game went on and yelled himself red in the face. By the time the struggle was over he had become a zealous Yardley partisan and Dan secretly congratulated himself on his success. In the second half most of the first string men were laid off and substitutes took their places. But even so, Yardley managed to pile up eleven more points, so that the contest terminated with the very satisfactory score of 29 to 0 in Yardley’s favor. Gerald climbed into the automobile at half-past five, declaring that he had had a dandy time and that he was going to make his father let him come to all the remaining football games. Dan promised to go down to Sound View the next day, Sunday, for luncheon at one o’clock and Gerald went off supremely contented.

“Getting pretty swell, aren’t we?” asked Tubby as Dan entered the room after seeing his guest off. “Riding around in automobiles and leaving cards on John T.”

“Don’t be nasty, Tubby,” answered Dan good-naturedly. “What did you think of Gerald?”

“Got so you call him that, have you? I suppose you call his father Uncle John, don’t you? Is he going to make you a present of a steamship line or two to play with?”

“Tubby, your sarcasm isn’t delicate enough to amuse me. Cut it out!”

“Oh, I dare say! Getting kind of particular these days, aren’t you? Sort of finicky and—and fastidious. I’ll bet you’ll be wearing lemon-colored gloves to church to-morrow!”

“Now, look here, Tubby,” said Dan warmly. “That’s as much of your ill-temper as I’m going to stand. If you can’t talk decently keep still until you can. If you don’t you and I’ll get into trouble.”

As physical combat was something that Tubby had no love for, he subsided promptly. He kept up an angry muttering for some minutes, but he maintained all the time a careful eye on Dan who was getting ready for dinner. After awhile he summoned sufficient courage to say defiantly:

“You might as well keep that little Pennimore chump out of this room while I’m in it, for I tell you right now, Dan Vinton, that he makes me sick and I don’t intend to be sweet to him and lick his shoes even if he is as rich as all get-out!”

“Tubby,” replied Dan very politely, “I never thought for a moment that you could be sweet to anyone.”

“Is that so?” Tubby growled. “You think you’re smart, don’t you? That little chump isn’t any better than I am, even if his father has money. So has mine, for that matter. How did old John T. make his money, anyhow? By grinding it out of the poor, that’s how! He’s just a great big trust; owns all the steamships and puts the prices up, and—”

“Well, don’t let you and I worry about it,” said Dan. “We haven’t got to buy any of his steamships. So the price doesn’t matter to us, Tubby.”

“Oh, I suppose you think he’s going to give you passes on them,” Tubby jeered. “Why, he’s one of the meanest men in the country; everyone knows that! I’ll bet you didn’t get anything but a bunch of thanks for pulling his kid out of the fire!”

“Tubby!” said Dan warningly. “Cut it out now. I told you once!”

“Huh!” said Tubby.

The next day Dan walked over to Sound View from church and found Gerald impatiently awaiting him at the lodge.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” exclaimed Gerald. “I’ve been waiting half an hour. Say, I told father about the football game and he’s promised to let me go again some time. Isn’t that great?”

Dan agreed that it was, and all the way along the winding road to the house Gerald talked football with the enthusiasm of a new convert. Dan had to promise to show him how to drop-kick and how to tackle.

“You’d soon get the hang of it, though,” said Dan, “if you’d go over in the afternoons and see the fellows practice. Then you could get your ball and try it yourself.”

“But father won’t let me go over there, I guess; at any rate, not unless my tutor goes along. And that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? I’d like to learn something about football now because I mean to go to school next year.”

“Will your father let you?”

“I’m going to keep after him until he does,” answered Gerald. “I wish I had some brothers and sisters,” he added gloomily.

“Yes, it wouldn’t be nearly so lonesome,” said Dan sympathetically.

“Oh, it isn’t that! But if father had some more children he wouldn’t be so blamed careful of me!”

“What school are you thinking about?” Dan asked carelessly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” was the vague reply. “Father used to talk about Broadwood a year or so ago. But I don’t want to go there. Then there is a school in New York City he fancies. I guess he likes that because I could live at home. But that wouldn’t be the same thing at all, would it? Say, are you going to be at Yardley next year?”

“Hope to,” answered Dan. Gerald was silent a moment. There was evidently something he wanted to say. Finally,

“I’d like to go to Yardley if you were going to be there,” he said rather shyly.

“I’d like to have you,” replied Dan heartily. “Why don’t you ask your father to let you come next Fall?”

“Do you think I could pass the examinations?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure you could. You ought to make the Third Class.”

“Would you be in that?”

“No, Second Class next year, unless I failed at my finals. You’d have to study fairly hard if you came to Yardley, but it would be lots easier than what you’re doing now, I guess. When you are going along with a lot of other fellows it doesn’t seem so bad.”

“No, that’s just it,” said Gerald aggrievedly. “There’s no fun in being the only fellow in class.”

“Has your father found a new tutor yet?”

“No.” Gerald’s face brightened. “And he can’t get one before Tuesday or Wednesday, anyhow. That gives me three days more vacation, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, if he doesn’t come until Wednesday,” answered Dan with a smile at the younger boy’s delight.

“Say,” said Gerald presently, “are you going to room with that Jones fellow next year?”

“Not if I—no, I don’t think so.” Dan was silent an instant, thinking hard. Then, “I tell you what,” he said. “You get your father to let you come to Yardley and then, if you like, you and I’ll arrange to room together. That is, if your father wanted you to.”

“Will you do that?” cried Gerald eagerly. “That would be fine! I’ll ask him to-day! He thinks you’re great, Vinton; he said so the other night. If I tell him I can room with you, maybe he will let me go! Come on, there he is on the terrace!”

CHAPTER XVI
AN AFTERNOON AFLOAT

Mr. Pennimore was awaiting them on the broad, red-tiled terrace outside the library. He had a pleasant smile and a firm hand-clasp for the visitor.

“Well, Dan, I’m glad to see you,” he said. “You don’t look as though you had been damaged much by your adventure. Where do you get that color in your cheeks? I wish my boy looked as healthy as you do.” He glanced from one face to the other and shook his head. “Gerald looks like a city boy beside you. What’s the secret, Dan?”

“Just being out of doors a lot, sir, I guess,” was the reply.

“But so is Gerald,” said Mr. Pennimore.

“Yes, but he doesn’t get the exercise I do,” Dan laughed. “He needs to play football and get his blood circulating.”

“Circulating out through his nose?” asked Mr. Pennimore dryly.

“Oh, we don’t get hurt much, sir. And, anyway, we don’t mind a few knocks. It makes it more fun.”

“Really. Well, everyone to his taste! But I don’t think Gerald would take kindly to having his teeth knocked out or—”

“Yes, I would, sir!” cried Gerald eagerly. “I’d like it!”

Mr. Pennimore’s eyebrows were lifted in comic surprise.

“Well, this is something new,” he said. “This must be your influence, Dan. Or was it the football game you witnessed yesterday, Gerald?”

“Neither, sir. But I’d like to play football and things like other fellows, father. Nothing ever happens to me,” he added dolefully.

“Something pretty nearly happened to you last week,” replied his father gravely. “I suppose that, on the whole, football is fairly mild compared to being burned up! So you’d like to play football, son? Well, here’s Dan. Can’t he and you have a game together sometimes?”

“Two fellows can’t play football!” said Gerald scathingly.

“Oh, can’t they? No, I suppose not—not a regular game; but I should think you could run and kick the ball around and—er—throw each other down.”

“Oh, there’s no fun in that,” answered Gerald. “I want to play real football, sir.”

“Well, go ahead,” said Mr. Pennimore gravely. “Say what you want to, son.”

But Gerald hesitated. He shot an entreating glance at Dan, and, finding no assistance forthcoming from that quarter, took the plunge.

“I want to go to school, father! And—and I’m going, too!”

“Hold on, Gerald! You mean that you’re going if I am willing that you should, don’t you?”

There was a moment of rebellion and then Gerald nodded and took his father’s hand contritely. Mr. Pennimore put his arm over the boy’s shoulders and drew him against him.

“That’s better, son,” he said kindly. “We don’t allow insubordination on this ship, do we?” He turned and looked closely at Dan who had perched himself on the balustrade. The look said: “This is your doing, my friend,” and Dan returned it steadily.

“Let’s talk this over,” said Mr. Pennimore. “Bring out some chairs, Gerald.” Gerald disappeared through the nearest door and came back with two willow chairs. Dan helped him through the door with them.

“Here’s yours, sir,” said Gerald. “And here’s yours, Vinton.” Then he tossed a couple of cushions onto the tiles and dropped onto them cross-legged. “And here’s mine,” he laughed.

“Now,” said Mr. Pennimore. “What is this? A conspiracy?” He was looking at Dan rather than his son and Dan answered.

“No, sir, not exactly. Gerald said he wanted to go to school and I asked him why he didn’t come to Yardley. I’d like him to, Mr. Pennimore. I thought that maybe if he entered next year he and I could get a room together, that is, sir, if you didn’t mind.”

“Yardley, eh?” mused Mr. Pennimore. “Well, Yardley’s a good school from all I hear, and I’ve done one or two things for it and so have a little interest in it. But do you think that this boy of mine would get on all right at a boarding-school, Dan? You know he isn’t what you’d call a vigorous boy, nor is he very—what shall I say?—self-depending.”

“He doesn’t seem to be weak, sir,” answered Dan. “He just needs filling out. He’s too thin.” Mr. Pennimore smiled. Gerald looked anxiously from one to the other.

“You think that life at Yardley Hall would fill him out, do you?” Mr. Pennimore asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Dan stoutly. “I feel sure it would. A chap lives pretty regularly and gets the right sort of things to eat and has lots of good exercise. Don’t you think. I’m right, sir?”

“Bless us, you mustn’t ask me!” laughed Mr. Pennimore. “I’m not going to help you make out your case, Dan; I’m for the defense! But how about the rest of it? Do you think Gerald could stand the—the régime?”

Dan wasn’t quite certain about that word, but risked it and replied that he thought he could.

“But a boy is thrown on his own resources a good deal at boarding-school, isn’t he, Dan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you think that Gerald could look out for himself? Think he could keep out of mischief, do you?”

“I don’t see why not, sir. Besides, he’s got to—”

“Well, go on,” prompted Mr. Pennimore as Dan stopped.

“I meant he’d have to learn to look after himself sometime, sir, and I don’t see why he mightn’t just as well learn now.”

“Pshaw,” exclaimed Gerald disgustedly, “anyone would think I was a regular baby!”

“And—and I’d help him all I could, sir,” added Dan earnestly.

“Thank you,” responded Mr. Pennimore. “I think you would. And I don’t mind saying that the fact of your being there with Gerald would weigh a good deal with me. But I’ll have to think this over, boys. There’s lots of time before next September, lots of time. We’ll talk about it again. What do you say, Gerald?”

“All right, sir.” But it was plain that Gerald wasn’t in favor of postponing action on his motion. Mr. Pennimore smiled.

“And you, Dan?” he asked.

“It’s just as you say, sir. It isn’t necessary to decide now, I guess. And, besides, I’ll have more time to persuade you!”

“Oh, so I’m to be put under pressure, am I?” asked Mr. Pennimore with a twinkle in his eye. Dan nodded vigorously.

“Yes, sir, I give you fair warning, you see. I’m going to get Gerald to Yardley if it can be done!”

“I salute my adversary,” laughed Mr. Pennimore. “Now shall we call a truce and take a walk down to the beach?”

“I want Dan—” Gerald pulled himself up and colored.

Mr. Pennimore glanced at Dan and their eyes met. Each smiled a little.

“I guess if you’re going to room together next year,” said the former, “there’s no harm in learning each other’s first names, eh, Dan?”

“No, sir.”

“I want him to see the yacht, sir,” went on Gerald hurriedly. “Couldn’t we go aboard?”

“Now?” asked his father. “Why not take a sail after luncheon? I guess Dan would like that better than just looking over the boat. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, very much,” replied Dan eagerly. “I—I’ve never been on a yacht.”

“Oh, glory!” shouted Gerald. “Think of that! We’ll have a dandy time, won’t we, father?”

“Of course we will,” answered Mr. Pennimore. “We’ll take Dan out and get him seasick. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”

Gerald laughed enjoyably, but Dan looked a little doubtful.

“Do you think I’ll be seasick?” he asked anxiously. But Mr. Pennimore assured him that he wouldn’t as the water was perfectly calm and the Princess was a pretty big boat. They walked down to the pier. The big white steam yacht was lying bow-to a little distance away and Dan studied her with a new interest. He had never thought to set foot on her and he was so excited over the prospect that he hardly knew what was set before him when, half an hour later, they were seated at the table in the big sun-bathed dining room.

“By the way,” said Mr. Pennimore in the course of luncheon, “I’ve been inquiring about that railroad, Dan. I’ll have a full report on it to-morrow or Tuesday and I’ll let you know the next time I see you what can be done. I think, though, that I shall be able to persuade the directors that a new survey taking in—what’s the name of that place?”

“Graystone, sir?”

“Yes, Graystone. That a new survey taking in Graystone will be advisable.”

“Thank you,” murmured Dan. “I wish you wouldn’t trouble about it, though, Mr. Pennimore. It—it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does. I—er—recall your father now, Dan; we had some correspondence a few years ago. He is a very admirable man, my boy, and if I can do him a small favor I shall be glad to, especially since it will indirectly bring satisfaction to you.”

Then Gerald cut in and demanded to know what they were talking about and explanations followed.

Dan isn’t likely to forget that Sunday afternoon for a good while. At three they were taken aboard the Princess in a little gasoline tender that was a marvel of mahogany and gleaming brass, and from the time he reached the top of the steps and set foot on the immaculate deck until the short cruise was over and the anchor chain was once more roaring through the hawsehole he was in a constant state of wonderment and delight. And Gerald enjoyed it all even more. It wasn’t often he had the fun of showing off the yacht to anyone, and here was a person who had never even seen such a craft save at a distance. He lugged Dan tirelessly from one end of the long deck to the other, down into the saloon, forward to the forecastle and the galley to the engine room, up to the wheel-house and back to the chart-room and the state-rooms and all the other places. He opened cupboards and exhibited conveniences until Dan became convinced that the only necessity or luxury not provided on board the Princess was a football field!

Gerald overhauled the flag-locker for Dan’s amusement, played on the pianola, started the talking machine, pulled books from the cases, upset chemicals in the little dark-room, explained the purpose of this thing and that until Dan’s head was in a whirl. And all the time Dan was begrudging every moment he spent away from the deck. At last, when Fisher’s Island was abreast of them, the boys returned to Mr. Pennimore who had long since yielded the duties of host to Gerald and was seated on the rear deck with a magazine in hand. Dan watched the white wake fascinatedly and could scarcely be made to show a proper interest in the points along shore. The wind was blowing keen and crisp from the north and the boys had donned extra coats and laid aside their caps. The Princess cut her way through the green water without the least bit of fuss and the motion was almost imperceptible. But on the homeward course the yacht began to lift her heels a little and dip her white nose into the swells. The boys went forward and leaning over the rail, watched the waves curl and swish past the bow. For awhile Dan feared that he was going to be ill. It wasn’t the prospect of physical discomfort that alarmed him, but like most novices he thought sea-sickness a disgrace and didn’t want his hosts to be ashamed of him. But the first qualms soon passed off and by the time the tower of Oxford Hall was once more in sight at the crest of the hill he was convinced that he was a born sailor!

At five o’clock the big car rolled up to the door and for the better part of an hour Dan sat between Mr. Pennimore and Gerald and was whisked magically along twilighted country roads until he had lost all sense of location. Not that that bothered him any. He was content to sit there, warm and snug under the fur robes, and feel the wind in his face and watch the trees and houses, fields and hillsides roll unceasingly by. Too soon it was all over and he was saying good-night and thanking his hosts on the steps of Clarke, while a group of boys looked curiously and enviously across from the porch of Whitson.

“I’m coming to see you Saturday,” called Gerald as the big car turned around. “Don’t forget!”

“I won’t! And I’ll be over Tuesday if I possibly can. I’ll telephone you, Gerald! Good-night! Good-night, Mr. Pennimore! I had a swell time, sir!”

“Good-night, my boy. Come and see us. Home, Higgins.”

Chug, chug, chug! said the car and then the red light at the rear grew smaller and smaller and dimmer and dimmer as the car dropped down the long hill in the darkness. Dan gave a deep sigh of mingled pleasure and regret and climbed the stairs.

CHAPTER XVII
LIGHT BLUE OR DARK?

It was the first week in November and Yardley Hall was football mad. The four class elevens were practicing daily on the stretch of turf south of the tennis courts and applauding partisans, wearing their class colors on their caps, were wrought to heights of frenzied enthusiasm as they followed their teams up and down the field.

There had been a full week of cold weather and the tennis courts were well-nigh deserted. Canoes were hauled into the boat-house and even the golf links was for the nonce uninhabited territory. The school played football and talked football and very likely dreamt football. Kilts—I am speaking of Professor McIntyre, you understand—had occasioned intense indignation throughout the Second Class a few days before by sending the captain of the Second Class Eleven to the office for drawing diagrams of football plays at recitation. This, declared the class, was an act of tyranny. The captain had been kept from practice for a space of one week in order, according to Mr. Collins, that he might have time to make up his mathematics. The Second Class, however, declared bitterly that it was in order that they might be beaten by the First. “Kilts” added to his unpopularity, but seemed to bear up with wonderful fortitude under his disgrace.

The varsity eleven had journeyed abroad and had wrested victory from defeat in the last few minutes of play in the game with Carrel’s School and a week later had piled up seventeen points on Porter Institute. The latter game was played on Yardley Field and in it Dan had had his baptism by fire, going in in the last five minutes of the contest after both Williams and Norton had been hurt. He had little to do, as it happened, and no chance to distinguish himself. On Monday he had gone back to the Second Team again just as though nothing eventful had happened. That was a disappointment, for he had hoped that after playing on the First he would be retained as a substitute. But there was too much going on to allow him time for regrets. Football practice now was hard and fast. The preliminary season was at an end. Payson was no longer teaching the rudiments of the game, but football in its higher branches; advanced football, as one might say. The team had been drilled into a pretty stiff aggregation on defense and now new plays were receiving attention and the offense was being developed.

That meant hard work for the Second Eleven, hard work and hard knocks, too. There were times when Dan told himself that it was a pretty thankless job, this standing up just to be knocked down again and walked on by the First Team. But that was when he was tired and aching and after the First had pushed them around the field at its own sweet will. For the First was getting to be very obstreperous those days, and felt pained and grieved when it couldn’t score at least twice on the Second in a thirty minute scrimmage. But Dan wouldn’t have yielded his place at the right end of the Second’s line for anything that anyone could offer him. He had beaten out Sayer for the position and he meant to hold it. And, besides, they had a pretty good time together, the fellows of the Second. By mid-season a spirit of camaraderie had taken possession of them and they were really closer together than were the members of the First Eleven. King, their quarter-back, dubbed them the “Society of the Goats,” and the name was accorded instant approval.

There had been two meetings of the Advisory Committee in Payson’s room and Dan had attended each. No very startling suggestions were made, but the situation was talked over on each occasion, various plays were thrashed out with the aid of Payson’s board and disks, and, if the meetings accomplished nothing more, they brought coach and players into closer accord and added to the enthusiasm.

The remaining games were all hard ones; Brewer Athletic Association at Brewer on November 9; Nordham Academy at Yardley on the 16th; Broadwood Academy at Yardley on the 23rd. Of course the Broadwood game was the contest for which coach and players, and in fact the whole school, were bending their energies, but there was a strong desire on everyone’s part to get through the season with a clean record, something that had not happened for three years. So far there had been no defeats, but Brewer A. A. was always a tough proposition, since the players, mostly mill hands, were a sturdy, hard-fighting lot and were coached by a professional who was not over-careful as to the tactics employed by his charges. The game was always played at Brewer on a field that was none too good and the entire town turned out to shout for its eleven and to hoot the opponents.

Once, several years before, Brewer had taken defeat so greatly to heart that the Yardley players had had to literally fight their way off the field and more than one discolored eye or ensanguined nose had resulted. The Yardley faculty had stepped in then and forbidden further meetings with Brewer. But after a lapse of two years, on Brewer’s promise to be good, the faculty had relented and the teams had met as before. Yardley approved of the game with Brewer because it afforded the team a contest with a first-class opponent who knew all the tricks of the game and was certain to be right up to date in its playing. If the Yardley defense had had its own way so far, at the Brewer game it had to buckle down and go its limit. The main objection to the Brewer contest was the fact that it was likely to result in a rather appalling list of injuries. But so far Andy Ryan had always managed to bring the cripples back to the game in plenty of time for Broadwood.

During the fortnight following Dan’s trip on the Princess he had seen a good deal of Gerald and Mr. Pennimore. He had spent another Sunday at Sound View and had been there for two short visits when Mr. Pennimore was absent. So far the matter of Gerald’s schooling was still in abeyance, although it was constantly under discussion by the boys themselves. The new tutor had not yet arrived, Mr. Pennimore being, he said, unable to find anyone who came up to the requirements. Gerald was in clover and expressed fervent hopes that the right person would continue to elude his father; only he expressed it differently. He had seen the game with Porter Institute and had watched practice on several occasions. During the practice scrimmages it is doubtful if ever a player had a warmer admirer on the side-lines than had Dan. For Gerald had succumbed to hero-worship in its most virulent form and was only contented when Dan was within sight. And for his part, Dan returned the younger boy’s liking, although less fervently. In spite of his surroundings and his rich prospects Gerald had seemed to Dan a rather forlorn little figure, and sympathy had paved the way for a warmer feeling. In spite of his faults, which were due to his bringing-up rather than to his real character, Gerald was a companionable sort of chap, cheerful, wholehearted and usually generous. He wasn’t quite free from a form of snobbishness, but Dan was knocking that out of him fast. And he was inclined to be selfish where his own pleasure was involved. For instance, had he had his way Dan would have spent all his spare moments at Sound View; it seemed not to occur to him that Dan might have more important things to do than to supply companionship for him. But this was more thoughtlessness than anything else, and Dan speedily disillusioned him. Gerald sulked for a day and then accepted Dan’s decision cheerfully.

The matter of the Sedalia, Dayton and Western Railroad was settled. It was going to run through Graystone. Mr. Pennimore said so and that settled it once and for all. The new survey would not be made until early Spring and meanwhile the news was not likely to get abroad. But Dan, when he went home for Christmas was at liberty to tell his father, and he was sure that that announcement would be the best Christmas gift his father would receive. Dan never knew how Mr. Pennimore obtained his result, and I’m afraid he didn’t much care. As a matter of fact it was all very easy, the purchase of a third of the interest in the new road placing the Steamship King where he could dictate to his associates. This cost Mr. Pennimore a pretty sum of money, but he didn’t begrudge a cent of it. Doubtless the investment would eventually prove profitable, although Mr. Pennimore, for once, didn’t consider that feature of the transaction.

About the first of November Dan became a member of the Cambridge Debating Society. He had received invitations from both the Cambridge and Oxford Societies, and during the three or four days which remained before it was necessary to make a decision he became aware of the fact that a number of fellows were being uncommonly attentive to him. They dropped in to see him in the evenings and invited him to their rooms, they displayed a surprising knowledge of his personal likes, dislikes and ambitions and talked admiringly of his football work. But sooner or later the conversation always reached the subject of the debating societies and the merits of one or the other were earnestly dwelt upon. On one occasion Dan entertained a member of each of the rival societies at one time and a really delicious comedy was enacted. The Cambridge member was Paul Rand, while Oxford was represented by Joe Chambers. They were killingly polite to each other and for half an hour the conversation wandered from golf to football and from mid-winter examinations to the conduct of the Scholiast of which Chambers was an editor. Each tried to outstay the other, but in the end they retired together, for there were other fellows awaiting their attention. And not once had Societies been mentioned.

New members were taken into the societies twice a year, in November and May, Third Class fellows in November and Fourth Class fellows in May. Sooner or later every fellow in school had the chance to join one or other of the societies, but it was considered something of an honor to receive invitations from both. The societies had rooms on the top floor of Oxford; very comfortable rooms they were, too, with plenty of easy chairs and window-seats, good reference libraries, and places to write. For the societies were social as well as deliberative, and while regular debates were held one evening a week the other evenings saw informal gatherings that were quite as pleasant. The rooms, too, offered excellent retreats in which to study between recitations.

Oxford was the older institution by twelve years, but beyond that had no advantages over Cambridge. Twice a year, in December and June, the rivals met in debate, each society selecting its debaters by a series of trials. These debates, especially the mid-winter one, wrought the school into quite a frenzy of excitement and for weeks ahead the fellows wore knots of dark blue or light blue in their coat lapels, according as they owned allegiance to Oxford or Cambridge. In June a ball followed the joint debate and the rivalry waxed warm once more, each society striving to outdo the other socially. As this event occurred during graduation week sisters and cousins were on hand in numbers and the big assembly hall presented a brilliant sight.

Dan had not the slightest idea which society he wanted to join. He didn’t see that it made a particle of difference, anyway. Oxford boasted of a combination billiard and pool table, but as Dan had never played either that didn’t appeal to him. Cambridge pointed with pride to her preponderance of debating victories, but as debating didn’t attract him that didn’t prove much of an inducement. He sounded Tubby on the subject and Tubby was eloquent but not helpful.

“What’s the good of belonging to either of them?” asked Tubby scornfully. “I am an Oxford fellow, but I’d just as lief not be. They soak you two dollars a year and then make you subscribe in the spring for the dance. You don’t get anything out of it. It’s no fun listening to Joe Chambers and Jimmy Clapp spouting about things they don’t understand. Gee! the first time I went to a debate I fell asleep! I never went again but once.”

“But the rooms are jolly and they have pretty good times, don’t they?”

“I never had any,” answered Tubby, gloomily. “They get up there and play chess or checkers or sit around and chew the rag. What fun is there in that? Over at Broadwood they have regular secret societies, and there’s some sense in those. A fellow can—”

But Dan had fled.

CHAPTER XVIII
LORING DECIDES

After practice that afternoon Dan encountered Alfred Loring in the locker room. Loring grabbed him by his bath-robe and fixed him with a stern gaze.

“Say, Vinton, Joe Chambers says you’re going to join Oxford. Is that right?”

“Why—I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided,” stammered Dan.

“Then it isn’t too late,” said Loring, with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “There’s still time to save yourself from humiliation and dishonor.”

“Don’t you like Oxford?” asked Dan innocently.

“Oxford! Oxford!” replied the other scathingly. “Do I look to you like an idiot, Vinton? Answer me quite frankly; do I?”

“No,” laughed Dan. “But you know there are quite a few fellows who do belong to Oxford.”

“Sore-heads,” responded Loring promptly. “Fellows who couldn’t make Cambridge and are trying to hide their despair under a pretense of happiness. Don’t let them fool you, my boy.”

“Still,” said Dan thoughtfully, “Oxford has a billiard table!”

“Huh! A billiard table! Have you ever seen it? Give you my word, Vinton, if you start a ball at one end of that table it’ll roll to the full length of the cloth, go over the edge and drop on the floor! Why, that table was old and decrepit when Adam was a little child! Old Tobey brought it over from England with him, they tell me! And even with their blessed billiard table they can’t win a debate more than once in two years. We let ’em win now and then for fear they’ll get discouraged and quit. Now, don’t you go and link your fate to a one-horse society like Oxford when you’ve got the chance to be a Cambridge fellow. Don’t you do it, Vinton. Cambridge has got the pick of the school. Look at Colton and Capes and Mitchell and Hill and Ridge and—and lots of others!”

“And Loring,” said Dan with a smile.

“And Loring! I wanted to mention him but modesty forbade. Now just as soon as you get your clothes on, Vinton, you run over—No, by Jove, I won’t trust you! A fellow who can even contemplate associating with Oxford can’t be trusted to look after himself. You wait for me and I’ll take you over to my room and guard the door while you write your acceptance!”

“To Oxford, you mean?”

“To Ox—” Loring looked terribly pained and glanced nervously about them. “Please don’t say those things even in fun,” he begged. “Someone might hear you and think you were in earnest!”

“All right,” answered Dan, “I’ll wait for you. And meanwhile I’ll think it over and reach a decision.” Loring grinned and slapped him on the back.

“The decision is already decisioned, my boy,” he laughed. “I’ve attended to that. All you’ve got to do is to write what I tell you to! Don’t move from where you are.”

As strict obedience would have necessitated his going to Loring’s room in his bath-robe, Dan ventured to disobey. After they were both dressed they went across to Dudley and Loring led the way along to one of the first floor rooms, Number 7.

“You’ve never honored my humble roof before, have you?” asked Loring as he ushered Dan into a very comfortably furnished room. “Sorry Tom isn’t here. You know him, though, don’t you?”

“Tom who?” asked Dan.

“Tom Dyer. He’s my room-mate. Plays right half, you know.”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

“Well, you must. He’s a good sort.” Then Loring’s face grew suddenly sad and he shook his head. “There’s only one thing wrong with Tom,” he said dejectedly. “He’s an Oxford fellow. But it wasn’t really his fault, Vinton, and you must try not to hold it against him. They got hold of him when he was young and innocent and regularly kidnapped him. We don’t speak of it here, and I only mentioned it so that you might avoid the subject. He’s dreadfully touchy about it.”

Dan promised gravely not to allude to the matter in Dyer’s presence and Loring brightened again.

“That’s right, find a decent chair,” he said. “Now, let’s see. Here’s paper and an envelope. Can you write with a fountain pen? I prefer them myself, they’re so nice and messy. This is a non-leakable one, you know, so look out for the ink. I’ve worn out two hunks of pumice stone already this fall. And here’s a stamp. It seems to have been at one time attached to a letter and subsequently rescued. But I’ve got some paste somewhere.”

“But what shall I say?” asked Dan.

“Eh? Oh, anything you like; there’s no fixed form for accepting, you know. You might just say that you accept with pleasure the invitation of Cambridge Debating Society, and let it go at that. I forget just what I wrote, but it was short and sweet. If you like you might add: ‘P. S. Down with Oxford,’ but I don’t know that it is necessary. That’s the ticket. Now here’s your envelope.”

“Thanks. Let’s see, Loring, is there one or two f’s in Oxford?”

“Here! What are you doing!” yelled the other. “Please don’t joke; my nerves aren’t what they were when I was young. That’s all right. Now we’ll just drop this into the box in front of Oxford, and then you can eat your supper with a clear conscience. My boy, when I think of what you escaped—” Words appeared to fail him. “But it’s all right now, it’s all right now. Bear up, Vinton.”

Dan was bearing up beautifully, and continued to do so for half an hour longer while they discussed the subject uppermost in all minds, football.

“I’m in a blue funk over the Brewer game,” said Loring. “You needn’t mention it, but it’s a fact just the same. We’re going to get beaten as sure as shooting!”

“Why?” asked Dan.

“Because we aren’t up to the game, my boy. We are a lot of pretty ragged players as yet and it’ll take another week to work us around. I know, for I’ve been two years with the team. I know just what will happen. We’ll go down there and try a forward pass or two, and maybe an on-side kick, and they won’t come off right and Payson will put us back at the old style playing and we’ll just run up against a stone wall. He hasn’t any faith in this open play, Vinton, and just as soon as it begins to go against us he will get scared. He makes believe that he’s reconciled to the new rules, but he isn’t, not a bit. If he had his way they’d bring back the old rules. You see, Payson knows where he is when it comes to the old style of mass-playing, and he isn’t the sort of a fellow to learn new tricks very readily. And just as sure—”

“But you’ll be running the team Saturday,” said Dan. “You can pull off whatever plays you like.”

“I’m not going to start the game,” answered Loring. “Payson is afraid I’ll go fine, I guess. He’s going to put in Clapp. If Clapp does all right I’ll be out altogether.”

“That’s a shame,” cried Dan.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Except that I’d like to get a crack at Brewer. And I’d like to be able to run the team the way I wanted to for the first half. I’d keep them guessing, I promise you. Clapp will do as he’s told, and if Payson says try a forward pass and stop it if it doesn’t go he will do just that. Brewer always has a fierce old team; her men are like oxen, Vinton.”

“How old are the fellows?”

“The Brewer chaps? Well, they’re supposed to be under twenty-one; that’s the age limit in our agreement with them. But—” Loring smiled—“last year they had fellows in the line that’ll never see twenty-six again.”

“Gee! I don’t see how we can be expected to do much against them, then,” said Dan.

“We couldn’t if we weren’t in lots better training. They’re usually slow and we get the jump on them right along, and that helps. They can’t run much, as a rule, and they can’t punt. It’s in the old-style hammer-and-tongs football that Brewer shows up best. Her line’s a hard proposition. Besides, they’re a rough lot and slug like anything.”

“I wish I were going to play,” said Dan regretfully.

“You’re better out of it,” answered Loring. “You and I are too light to do much against those chaps. I guess, between you and me, that that’s one reason Payson’s keeping me out. He’s afraid some of those chaps will break me in half. I played for awhile last year and got a nasty ankle out of it. Someone deliberately twisted it in a pile-up.”

“Brutes!” growled Dan.

“Well, I don’t know,” answered Loring. “I’ve talked with some of them and I don’t believe they’re so bad. The trouble is that they don’t know the difference between clean playing and dirty. This fellow, McMannis, who coaches them is a professional and he’s all for winning; he’s afraid he will lose his job, you see, if he doesn’t turn out winning teams. I guess they pay him a pretty tidy little sum. You’d better come along and see the game, Vinton.”

“I will,” Dan replied. “How do you get there?”

“Train or trolley. Half an hour by train and a little over an hour by trolley. We usually go by trolley. It’s more fun and there’s lots to see. We have a car to ourselves, you know. Maybe Payson will let you come along if you ask him. He had you on the First the other day and that ought to give you the right to go along if you pay your own fare. Still, he turned a lot of fellows down last year who wanted to go with the team. But you’d better ask him.”

“I guess I will,” Dan said. “Have you fellows got any new plays for Brewer?”

“Nothing much. There’s a fake forward pass that may turn the trick, but it’s risky. No, it’ll be the same old thing, I guess, smash and run, run and smash. I think we’ll be able to work their ends this year.”

“I hope we win,” muttered Dan.

“So do I, but I don’t expect it. If they can work forward passes on us they’ll have us running. We haven’t learned how to spoil those things yet, Vinton.”

“If they’re well done they’re pretty hard to spoil,” said Dan thoughtfully. “I know the forward pass opens up the play a good deal and all that sort of thing, but I don’t care an awful lot for it, Loring.”

“Well, it’s a good idea in a way, but there’s a beastly lot of luck about it. It gives a weaker team a mighty good chance to score on a stronger one, I think. And that doesn’t seem right, does it? Say, what time is it getting to be? I’m hungry!”

“It’s almost six,” said Dan, looking at his watch. “I’ve stayed an awful long time, and maybe you wanted to do something.”

“Don’t you believe it! I’m glad you did stay. I wanted to talk. The fact is, Vinton, I’ve got the jumps to-day. The first thing I know Andy will have me laid off for going fine. Let’s go over and eat.”

Loring attended personally to the posting of Dan’s letter of acceptance and then they entered Commons together, and those Oxford fellows who saw realized that Dan Vinton had escaped them.

“You come around again and see me,” said Loring as they parted at the door. “And I want to take you up to the Society room and introduce you when you get your membership. Don’t forget.”

Dan thanked him and made his way to the second training table and to the “Society of the Goats.”

CHAPTER XIX
FOOTBALL WITH BREWER

Dan didn’t have to ask Payson’s permission to accompany the team to Brewer on the ninth, for when the list was posted his name was on it. Williams was still on the injured list and it was thought advisable to take a full set of substitute ends along. Minturn was to take Williams’ place, Dickenson was to play at right end as usual and Vinton and Norton, of the Second, were to substitute. When the carriages left the gymnasium at half-past twelve on Saturday afternoon there were eighteen players and substitutes aboard. Then there was Payson, Andy Ryan, Paddy Forbes, the rubber, and Stevie. Stevie was Mr. Stephen Parke Austin, A.B., instructor in chemistry, a man of twenty-four so recently off his college football field that he was still an enthusiastic follower of the game. The school rules required that when the team played away from home it should be accompanied by one of the faculty, and to Mr. Austin this office usually fell. The fellows all liked Stevie, and were always pleased when he occupied the position of “chaperone.”

In the Square at Greenburg the expedition alighted and cooled their heels until the special car made its appearance. There were plenty of stores handy and so the fellows spent money riotously for sweet chocolate and chewing gum. There was a popular demand for peanuts but Andy wouldn’t allow its gratification. The special car finally put in its appearance and they fought their way inside. There were plenty of seats for all, but that didn’t prevent them from indulging in a small-sized riot. Andy smiled approvingly. He liked to see the team cut up a bit; it proved that they had plenty of spirit. Dan found himself between big Hadlock, the left guard, and Clapp, the substitute quarter-back who was to start to-day’s game. Clapp was a First Class youth of about eighteen years of age, short and sturdy and a trifle too stout for an ideal quarter. He had been a substitute for three years, never having attained a proficiency entitling him to first place. To-day he looked worried and nervous, and Dan wished that Payson would change his mind and let Loring start the game.

Their route lay through a picturesque chain of little villages, the approach to each one of them being the signal for frantic cheering from the car. At a few minutes before two o’clock they drew up in the center of Brewer, a manufacturing town of some fifteen thousand inhabitants, and changed to a big coach in which they finished their journey, arriving at the athletic field at twenty minutes after two. The game was scheduled for three o’clock, and so there was plenty of time in which to change their clothes in the little draughty shed that did duty for dressing room and to limber up afterwards. When they went out on the field at a quarter to three the small, tumble-down stand was packed and the gridiron was surrounded two or three deep. Near the center of the field a parcel of some thirty or forty Yardley Hall boys, who had journeyed over by train, broke into the “long cheer.” A chorus of hoots and jeers answered it.

There was ten minutes of practice, in the midst of which the Brewer team trotted out and were wildly acclaimed by the spectators. They were a heavy, husky lot of fellows, their ages ranging from seventeen to twenty-five. Dan, who had retired to the side-line with Loring, Hill, Gerard, Capes, Smith and Norton, saw Payson approach and shake hands with a big, raw-boned, red-cheeked Irishman who was evidently McMannis, the Brewer coach and trainer. Then the officials, one a Brewer man and one from a neighboring city, walked onto the field. Mr. Austin was to combine, by mutual consent, the duties of field judge and lineman. A Yardley boy named Pearson held one end of the chain and a big, stupid-looking Brewer mill-hand held the other. Colton won the toss and selected the north goal and the kick-off fell to Brewer. At a minute or two after three the game began.

There was a slow, steady wind blowing from the north-east and overhead was a dull gray sky that threatened snow. The thermometer was hovering around thirty-four and the big gray blankets in which Dan and the other substitutes had enveloped themselves felt very grateful. Payson wore a long frieze ulster of tobacco brown, a loose and generous garment that made him look like a giant. Andy, in his loudly-striped trousers and blue sweater, his legs well apart, stood guard over the water pail and his canvas bag. There was a moment of nervous tension, while the Brewer punter teed the ball, that even the substitutes felt. At the other end of the field Yardley had spread out for the kick-off and Colton’s voice came cheerily through the frosty air. Then the whistle blew and up soared the ball. Down the field charged the Brewer men in their red-and-white shirts and stockings. The ball settled after a high, short flight into the arms of Hadlock and he made the best of ten yards before he was downed.

Yardley’s line up at the beginning of the game was this: Left End, Minturn; Left Tackle, Folwell; Left Guard, Hadlock; Center, Berwick; Right Guard, Colton; Right Tackle, Mitchell; Right End, Dickenson; Quarter-back, Clapp; Left Half-back, Capes; Right Half-back, Connor; Full-back, Kapenhysen. There were four second-string men in the line-up, although there were many who believed that Connor, who had taken Capes’ place at left half-back, was the better man of the two and would secure the position before the season was over. At left end there was not much to choose between the absent Williams and the present Minturn; neither of them was equal to Dickenson. Berwick at center was distinctly inferior to Hill, while Clapp was not at all in the same class with Loring.

For the first few minutes the ball changed hands constantly, Yardley winning the advantage of territory on every exchange of punts. Brewer was weak in this feature and Kapenhysen was quite at his best to-day. Finally, with the ball on Brewer’s twenty-five yard line, Clapp tried a quarter-back run and lost four yards by it, Minturn failing to block his man.

“Why didn’t he try Dickenson’s end?” growled Loring on the side-line. “He had all the room he wanted, the silly ass!”

Then, just when Brewer was expecting it, a forward pass was tried and spoiled, the ball going to Brewer. Tired of being out-punted, the red-and-white settled down to the game they knew best and plugged away at the Yardley line for short gains. Twice they barely made first down, and then Berwick suddenly weakened and the Brewer backs piled through him for ten yards or more.

In the center of the field a fumble gave Yardley the ball again and Clapp copied Brewer’s tactics. Kapenhysen made a short gain through left tackle and Connor, on a quick plunge at center, captured first down. Back to the thirty yard line went Yardley. Then Clapp engineered for a position in front of goal and sent Capes around right end. But Brewer was looking for this play, naturally enough, and Capes, fight as hard as he might, was downed back of his line. It was third down and Kapenhysen fell back for a try at placement. But Berwick passed high and the ball just tipped the full-back’s fingers and went rolling off up the field. Connor was quickly after it, but the Brewer right end got by Minturn, shouldered Connor aside and fell on the ball with half the field on top of him. On the side line Loring and Hill and the others were muttering uncomplimentary things. Payson seemed quite unmoved by the catastrophe, although for some time past he had been scowling darkly. Brewer plunged away at the blue line again and found lots of room between guard and guard. Colton and Hadlock played their own positions and Berwick’s, but Brewer’s attack was savage and soon the red-and-white was on Yardley’s twenty-five yards and directly in front of her goal.

“I think I can see about four points coming to Brewer,” observed Smith to Dan. But Dan shook his head.

“They won’t kick,” he said. “It isn’t their game. It’ll be a fake, perhaps a forward pass but more likely a half-back run.”

And so it proved. Brewer formed as though for a placement kick, but the ball slanted off to the right half-back and he went skimming around the line. It was Minturn’s end again, and Minturn was caught napping. Five yards, ten yards sped the runner, the field trailing after him. Then Kapenhysen got him well over toward the side-line and it was first down once more for Brewer with less than fifteen yards to go. Brewer tried the center again, but this time Colton and Hadlock were desperate and the attack was piled up for no gain. Then, on a cross-buck, Brewer’s right-half attempted Yardley’s right end. But it was Dickenson this time and not Minturn that he had to fool, and Dickenson refused to be fooled. It was third down with eight yards to go.

“Well, it’s kick this time, all right,” said Smith. Payson, who had paused nearby heard and turned his head, listening absently, his mind on the next play.

“Bet you a nickel,” answered Dan. “They haven’t got a fellow who can make a drop or kick from placement, or they’d have tried it before when they were right in front. Now they’ve got a nasty angle and I bet they’ll try a trick.”

Payson looked around at Dan.

“That’s right, Vinton,” he said. “But what kind of a trick, eh?”

Dan hesitated a moment, studying the situation. Then, “Fake kick through center, sir,” answered Dan confidently. “That’s their sort of game, sir. They know Berwick’s easy and they’ll slash a half-back through there with the others behind him.”

Payson considered. On the field Brewer had drawn aside for a consultation, one of her men having called for time.

“They need eight yards for a first,” muttered Payson, “and about thirteen for a touchdown. Loring!”

Loring pushed forward and there was a brief exchange of words, ending with Loring’s “Let me go in, sir!” which Dan overheard. But Payson shook his head.

“Not yet,” he answered. “Vinton!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Go in for Minturn. Look sharp now! And if you have any suggestions—” He pulled himself up. “Use your brains,” he added.

“‘Go in for Minturn.... Use your brains,’ he added.”

Smith was already pulling Dan’s sweater over his head, and Dan’s heart was thumping wildly. Then, with Loring’s pat on the shoulder speeding him forward, he sped out onto the field. Already the teams were lining up.

“All right, Brewer?” asked the referee.

“All right,” was the answer.

“All right, Yardley?”

“Wait!” cried Dan.

“Go ahead and play ball!” objected the Brewer captain.

“Substitute for left-end, sir,” panted Dan to the referee.

“Yes, with instructions,” jeered a Brewer lineman. “Send him off, Mr. Referee; there’s nothing the matter with the left-end they’ve got in now!”

“All right,” said the referee and Dan stepped over to Colton.

“Look out for a fake kick with a plunge at center, Colton,” he whispered. “That’s what they’re up to.”

“I don’t think so,” Colton answered doubtfully.

“That’s their game, though,” answered Dan. “Payson sent me in and—”

“All right. Yes, you’re off, Minturn. No, no, run along like a good chap.”

Minturn, scowling and resentful, took his departure.

“All ready now, Yardley?” asked the referee.

“All ready,” answered Colton. He gave a meaning glance at Hadlock. The whistle blew. Dan passed the word to Capes as he went to his place at left-end. There was a moment of indecision on the part of the Brewer quarter. Then came the signals. Brewer was formed as for a drop-kick at goal, the left-half standing back with outstretched hands and the other backs ranged on either side as though to guard him. Back flew the ball from center but it went on a side pass to right-half. Full plunged forward and right half thrust the ball into his arms as he went by and shot into the center of Yardley’s line. But Yardley had closed up even as the ball was put in play, and instead of the open formation usually found opposing a try at goal, with the forwards standing up ready to break through and block, the Brewer full-back smashed into a stone-wall, Berwick, Colton and Hadlock playing low and shutting the line tight at the center. Although Brewer’s backs and tackles hurled themselves behind their full-back and although presently the Yardley line wavered under the attack and gave ground, two yards was the extent of Brewer’s gain and the ball went to the Blue.

Kapenhysen fell back under his goal-posts and punted to the forty yard-line. Once more Brewer started her march down the field, but this time the advance was notably slower and more uncertain. Her players were beginning to feel the pace and were longing for the sound of the whistle. Two tries at the left of the opponents’ line netted her six yards. Then a quarter-back kick was tried and Dan spoiled it by piling the opposing end onto the turf. Connor captured the ball. Clapp sent Capes around his own end for two yards, around the other end for six and hurled Kapenhysen into the line for three more. Brewer was weakening and her line gave time and again for short gains. Yardley began a triumphal march up the field, tearing off five and once fifteen yards around the ends and getting gains of two and three yards through the left side of the red-and-white line. But there was a long way to go and while the ball was still thirty yards from the goal line the whistle blew and the half was over.

CHAPTER XX
MR. AUSTIN LOSES HIS TEMPER

Payson’s last words as the fellows trotted out onto the field for the last half were: “Look out for slugging; don’t give them a chance to get at you; and whatever happens don’t slug back.”

Then the whistle sounded again.

There had been another change in Yardley’s team. Berwick was out and Hill was back in his place. Berwick had experienced a lot of rough handling and looked limp and weary. Clapp was still running the team.

Yardley got the ball on a fumble a few minutes after the half opened and, according to the campaign mapped out in the dressing room, began a kicking game. Kapenhysen was easily ten yards better than Brewer’s punter and Brewer, after two returns of the pigskin, realized the fact and went at the Yardley line again. But the center was no longer a vulnerable spot; Hill crumpled up every play directed against him; and Brewer sought elsewhere for her openings. Finally some success rewarded her, Folwell, at left tackle, weakening enough to let several plays go through him. Dan came to his rescue, but was too light to stop the heavy Brewer backs. It was evident before the half was five minutes old that Brewer meant to win by fair means or foul. Time and again the umpire’s attention was called to Brewer’s violations of the rules, but always he contented himself with cautioning them. Mr. Austin, in his capacity as field judge, ventured on several occasions to remonstrate. The umpire was suave and polite, but was unable to see any of the transgressions.

For ten minutes the ball went back and forth between Brewer’s thirty yards and Yardley’s forty. Then one of Kapenhysen’s punts went over the heads of the red-and-white backs and by the time it was recovered it was down on Brewer’s twelve yards. Brewer kicked on first down, but the attempt was a miserable failure, the ball going out of bounds at her thirty yards. It was brought in and Capes reeled off five yards by running half across the field. A mass attack at center failed of any gain and Kapenhysen fell back for a placement kick. Clapp kneeled on the forty yard line and Hill passed straight and true. The Yardley forwards held strongly and the ball sailed away over the struggling lines. But the direction wasn’t good and the pigskin passed to the left of the goal by several yards.

Brewer kicked off from her twenty-five yards, and Folwell, catching the punt, ran it back behind good interference for twenty yards and it was Yardley’s first down again near Brewer’s thirty-five. Clapp essayed a quarter-back kick, but unfortunately it was blocked by the Brewer right-end who followed it up, recovered it on the run and set off towards Yardley’s goal. He was a fairly speedy runner, a long-legged, rangy youth, and before the pursuit was set in motion he had gained a good start. But it was a long distance to that last white line and long before he reached it, Dan, who was in the van of the pursuers, brought him down from behind. After that he managed to squirm another five or six yards, dragging Dan along with him. That brought the ball to Yardley’s twenty-two yards and, amidst the wild, encouraging cheers of their supporters, clustering about the corner of the field and back of the goal, the Brewer players made ready for a desperate effort.

“Now hold them, fellows!” entreated Colton. “Hold them! Don’t give them an inch!”

But Brewer, for the first time during the period, had the Blue’s goal-line within striking distance and hurled themselves frantically upon the defenders. Folwell was thrust aside and the big backs went tearing through for four yards. The shouting audience overflowed onto the field and had to be driven back before play could be resumed. Then a tandem attack on the other side of the line netted three yards more.

“Hold them!” cried Colton. “Play lower, Folwell! Come in here, Connor! Don’t give them an inch, I tell you!”

Again Brewer hurled her tandem of backs at the blue line and again the line wavered and was forced back.

“First down!” cried the referee, and waved the linesmen on.

There was twelve yards to go for a score. A fake plunge at the right of the line and a quick start by left half with the ball tucked into his arm fooled the defenders and before the runner was thrown to the ground he had stolen six of those precious twelve yards! Dan, who had been tossed aside like a chip, picked himself up, self-condemning and angry. The gain had been around his end. For once he had lost sight of the ball and this was the result!

“Second down, four to go,” said the referee.

A plunge at Folwell netted two yards and brought the ball within ten feet of the side-line. This was an advantage to the defenders, for there was no fear of Brewer trying their left-end again, since the runner would be forced over the line, and left-end and tackle could be used to reinforce the center while the backs clustered behind the right side of the line. Time had been called and Andy Ryan was working over Folwell. There were other injuries apparent, too. Colton had a scalp wound that was bleeding freely and Hadlock was nursing a wrenched ankle. Smith came trotting out to take Folwell’s place, and the latter, half supported by the trainer, was led off the field to the cheers of the little bunch of Yardley supporters and the gibes of the opponents.

Brewer got together, and, with heads in a circle, listened to instructions which, without a doubt had been brought onto the field by her water-carrier. Then the whistle blew again. Hadlock jumped up and limped to his place. Colton brushed the blood away from his eyes.

“Here’s where we get the ball!” he cried hoarsely. “Take it away from them, fellows! We can do it! Hold them now! Steady, everybody!”

The ball was passed back and the lines heaved together. The Brewer right half and full-back darted toward the left side of their line.

“Fake!” cried Dan. “Over here, fellows!”

The Brewer left half, who had been crouching to keep from sight, leaped forward, took the ball from quarter who had been hiding it and smashed against the Yardley left guard. The play was a delayed cross-buck. Dan’s warning had, however, helped to spoil it, for Yardley’s left side turned back and stiffened in time. A yard, perhaps two, and the advance stopped, the runner wavered and was thrust back.

DELAYED CROSS-BUCK

“Down!” he groaned. “Down!”

The whistle shrilled and slowly the mass of swaying players was disentangled. As the ball came into sight shouts arose from both sides. The referee looked a moment and then, leaving the umpire to guard the ball, he trotted over to the side-line and trotted back again with the linesmen and the chain.

“First down!” shouted the spectators. “Don’t let him do you, Mulligan!” “Sure, it’s first down!” “Aw, we got it easy!” “Come back with that dog chain, youse!” “First down! First down!” “Put it over now, boys!”

But it wasn’t first down, not by half a foot. Brewer protested and argued and threatened to leave the field, grumbled, swore not a little and acted as ugly as they dared. But for once the referee was firm and even stern.

“All right, Brewer?” he asked after several minutes.

“No, we’re not ready yet,” was the angry reply.

“Time’s up,” was the answer. The whistle blew.

“Hey, I told you we wasn’t ready!” protested the Brewer captain. The referee blew his whistle again, took up the ball and stepped off five yards.

“Yardley’s ball, first down,” he announced. A renewed howl arose from Brewer and they demanded to know the why and the wherefor and to have the rule pointed out to them. Their coach came running out onto the field, sputtering and waving his hands.

“Off the field, please!” said the referee. “Off the field! You can’t come on here, and you know it!”

“You’re a robber!” shouted McMannis. “Why don’t you give them the game and have done with it?” But he stopped and returned to the side-line, muttering, and for the next minute or two was seen wrathfully fumbling the leaves of the rules book.

“Will you play or not?” asked the referee. He, too, was getting rather angry and his eyes were snapping. The Brewer captain growled something unintelligibly. “If you don’t play I’ll forfeit the game to Yardley,” declared the referee.

“Aw, what’s the matter with you?” said the Brewer captain. “I said we’d play. Blow your old whistle!”

So the whistle blew and Kapenhysen fell back some ten yards behind the goal-line to punt. Brewer was mad clean through, mad and ugly. And she didn’t quite wait for the ball to be passed before she charged. By the time Kapenhysen had the ball in his hands the Brewer forwards were sweeping down upon him. He made a heroic effort to get the ball off and succeeded, but the kick was high and short, coming to earth on Yardley’s twenty-yard-line. It bounded up erratically and there was a wild scramble for it. A Brewer man got it only to have it fly out of his arms again and bound toward the goal-line. There was a second confused scramble and then Hill secured it, and, before he could call “Down,” was forced back over the line for a safety.

Colton appealed to the umpire, declaring that Brewer had started before the ball was in play, but the umpire refused to allow the protest. The score was two points to nothing in Brewer’s favor and there remained seven minutes of playing time. Yardley looked somewhat disconsolate as it lined up for the kick-off, all save Colton. He was as cheerful as ever, or seemed to be. Over on the side-lines the triumphant shouts of the Brewer adherents rang lustily, drowning completely the pathetic attempts of Yardley’s followers.

Kapenhysen booted the leather and the teams raced back up the field. It was a splendid kick and covered all of fifty yards, but it was a little too low and Brewer came charging back with the ball and had regained fifteen yards before Connor nailed the runner. Brewer now was playing for time. The ball was near her fifty-yard-line and she began a series of slow plunges at the line, using up all the time she could. For nearly twenty yards she made progress, hitting one side of the Blue’s line after the other. Then came a run around Yardley’s right end that netted a good ten yards. Mr. Austin walked out and announced that five minutes remained.

“We’ve got to get the ball, fellows,” cried Colton imploringly as he limped along the line and clapped the players on the back. “Now hold them right here!”

The ball was back on Yardley’s thirty-five-yard-line and the watchers looked for another score. But Yardley braced and after two downs had gained her but four yards Brewer punted. Clapp caught the ball and started back through a broken field. For a moment it seemed that he might get away, but after he had cut off some twenty yards he was thrown near the middle of the gridiron. The tackle was such a fierce one that the ball bounded from his arms and went rolling on as though determined to reach the Brewer goal-line unaided. There was a rush for it, and Dickenson fell on it, found his feet again and set off. Twice he was tackled but each time he managed to squirm loose. Ten yards, fifteen yards, twenty! Then a big Brewer half-back caught up with him and brought him down. The whistle blew.

Back near the center of the field Clapp was rolling and kicking. Andy Ryan was beside him in a moment, sponge in hand, and presently he was led off the field, weak and limp, protesting feebly. The little band of Yardley supporters cheered him gloriously, and then, the next instant, were cheering again, this time for Loring, who, fitting his head-guard in place, was running toward his team. What a reception he got from them! Colton hugged him and Hadlock beat him weakly on the shoulders. The others grinned wearily at him and straightened their aching backs again. Loring and Folsom whispered together. Then the team was drawn back and, amidst the hoots of the enemy, stood for a minute closely clustered and listened to Loring’s words. Finally,

“All right now, fellows!” called Loring cheerfully, clapping his hands. “Let’s have a touchdown out of this. They’re half dead already! Look at ’em! Come on now and get busy!”

The ball was near Brewer’s thirty yards. A plunge through tackle made it twenty-eight. Then Connor was sent outside of right tackle with the whole field of backs behind him and shoved and fought his way through for six yards more. Third down and two to go. Full-back and the two halves lined up as though for a tandem on right guard, the ball was passed, the backs plunged forward and Loring set off around the opponent’s left end with the ball tucked under his arm. Dickenson put the opposing end out of business and then sped after Loring. The run was short but it netted seven yards, and when the Brewer left half had been pulled off of him Loring jumped up with a shake of his head and piped the next signal.

“First down,” said the referee.

Only fifteen yards between them and a score! And only two minutes to play!

Kapenhysen was sent hurtling against the left of the Brewer line, but Brewer was desperate now and a scant yard was the best he could do. Again the signals and again the backs took their places. But this time the ball went past Loring and into the hands of Capes. Loring, Kapenhysen and Connor set off around their own right end. The Brewer backs started to intercept them. And so no one paid much attention to a slim blue figure that slipped between the Brewer right end and tackle and was now trotting with upraised hand five yards back of their line.

Then, “Forward pass!” shouted the Brewer quarter frantically. But already the ball was in flight, for Capes, after feinting to the right, had turned and run to the left until behind his tackle and from there had made a low throw across the line to where Dan awaited.

“ONE MAN” FORWARD PASS

The Brewer right half saw his error and turned back, but he was too late. The ball fell, lazily revolving, into Dan’s arms, and, tucking it away, Dan sprang toward the goal-line, but a few short strides away. A despairing effort by the Brewer quarter sent Dan staggering aside, but the next moment he was over the line, over it and still circling toward the goal-posts. He never quite centered the ball, for three Brewer players tackled him together and brought him heavily to earth. But, although his head was filled for an instant with a multitude of stars, he held the ball and cried “Down” as loudly as he could with several hundred pounds of dead weight on top of him and someone’s elbow boring itself viciously into his face.

He heard Loring crying: “Get off of him, you brutes! Get off, get off!” and then there was daylight once more and he rolled over on his back and fought for breath. Loring stooped over him and pumped his arms and Dan smiled as cheerfully as he might and finally managed to assure the quarter that he was “all right, thanks.”

What if Kapenhysen did miss as easy a goal as one could wish? The game was won! Five to two was as much a victory as heart could desire that day! There was an exchange of punts, a scramble down the field by Connor that put thirty-five yards behind him, and then the whistle!

“Let’s get out of here as quick as we can,” panted Colton. There was a cheer for Brewer and then they raced for the dressing room. And glad they were to reach it, for the Brewerites were disappointed and angry and quite ready for mischief. By the time they were dressed, the field was well-nigh empty and only around the gates were any hostilities hinted at. A crowd of loiterers jeered them as they climbed into the coach and, just as they moved away, a piece of wood was thrown. It wasn’t very large but it happened to hit Mr. Austin on the side of the head. Stevie forgot his decorum on the instant, forgot that he was a “chaperone,” forgot that he was there to maintain order. Before Mr. Payson could interfere Stevie was out of the coach and striding back toward the group at the gate.

“Fool!” muttered Payson as he leaped out after him.

The players yelled to the driver to stop and one after another they tumbled out and ran back. But, strange to say, the group at the gate was no longer there. It had dissolved as though by magic. Here and there were to be seen figures ambling disinterestedly away, but at the gate was only Stevie, looking disappointedly about him, and Payson, trying to drag him back.

“He was a red-faced fellow in a green sweater!” the instructor was declaring when Dan reached the scene. “I saw him and if I could get my hands on him—”

“Well, he’s gone,” laughed Payson. “Come on or we’ll miss the train.”

The instructor turned and saw the boys around him. He colored, smiled uncertainly and walked back to the waiting coach. When he had taken his place again and they were once more jouncing along toward the station, he said:

“That was a very foolish thing to do, fellows. I—I feel like apologizing to you. I hope you’ll forget it.”

“Yes, sir, we will,” replied Colton gravely.

CHAPTER XXI
MR. PENNIMORE CONSENTS

“There was only two or three minutes left and we knew if we missed a score that time Brewer would kick and we wouldn’t be able to get back again. So Alf Loring—he’s the fellow I wrote about last week, and he’s quarter-back on the First—called for a ‘one man’ forward pass and gave me the chance. It worked beautifully and Capes made a dandy throw over the line and right into my arms. I had only about ten yards to go and so that was easy enough. But the fellows think I won the game for them and are awfully tickled about it. Of course it wasn’t any more me than it was Capes and Loring and the other fellows who made it possible for me to get the ball and make the touchdown, but it’s nice having the fellows like you, even if you don’t deserve it.

“It was a hard old game and a lot of us got bunged up, but not badly, except the fellow who played quarter for us most of the game. His name is Clapp. He got tackled hard by a big Brewer player and had to go off. But nobody thought much about it until we got home and the doctor looked him over. Now they say he’s got a fracture or a displacement or something of some little bone in his spine and he’s out of the game for the rest of the season and will have to be put in splints or a plaster cast or whatever it is they do to you. That leaves us in a bad way, for if anything should happen to Loring we’d be in a pickle. Payson is going to take King, the Second Team quarter, on to the First as substitute, but King has never played much and hasn’t had experience like Loring and Clapp. That leaves us without a good quarter to run the Second, and I guess we’ll be pretty easy the rest of the season.

“I got out of the Brewer game with only a bunged-up eye. It’s pretty sore but it doesn’t amount to anything. A Brewer chap gouged me with his elbow, I think. If you read this part to mother tell her that the Brewer game is the only rough one we have and that even if I should get into the Broadwood game, which isn’t likely, I won’t get hurt.

“I’m having a dandy time now. The fellows are awfully nice and I like the place first-rate. Tubby Jones and I are getting on real well together. He isn’t so bad when you understand him. His friends are worse than he is. There’s a fellow named Hiltz who is a great chum of Tubby’s and I can’t stand him at all. He comes from New York City and to hear him talk you’d think there wasn’t another city in the country.

“I’m going to the Pennimore’s for luncheon again to-day. They are awfully nice folks and Mr. Pennimore treats me just as if I was one of the family. It’s been very jolly having them to visit. Tell Mae that the dog is all right. He didn’t get burned at all. He’s a fine old fellow and he and I are great friends. I think he likes me almost as well as he does Gerald. I’m getting on pretty well with my studies, although I’m rather busy nowadays with football. After the Broadwood game I’ll have more time. I’m not shirking anything, though; they won’t let you do that here. Wednesday I’m going to the Cambridge Society with Alf Loring. He’s going to introduce me to the fellows. He says the best fellows in school belong to Cambridge. Now I must stop and get ready for Sound View. Give lots of love to mother and Mae. I’m getting sort of shy of cash, so when you write you had better let me have a small advance on my December allowance. With much love, Dan.

“P. S. It snowed here last night, not much but enough to cover the ground. Now it is warm and sunny again and the snow is almost gone. They say it gets very cold here in February.”

Dan had been excused from church attendance on account of the injury sustained in yesterday’s game. It was only a black eye—although Loring declared that it was green and purple and red instead of black—but there was a bandage around it and Dan didn’t consider himself presentable enough for church. So he had put in the time writing to his father. As he had the room to himself and a vast quiet reigned over the dormitory he had been able to scrawl off twelve pages without difficulty. But the only portion of the letter of interest to us was that quoted. After he had finished his exciting post-script he sealed and addressed the letter and got ready for his visit to Sound View.

He dropped the letter into the box in front of Oxford and then went swinging down the hill, across the bridge and into the woods. Gerald and he had contrived a short cut by loosening two of the palings in the fence back of the stables. It was a tight squeeze, but you could make it all right if you didn’t care much what happened to your buttons. Mr. Pennimore and Gerald had not yet returned from church, said the butler when Dan reached the house, but would be back in a few moments. So Dan found a warm, sunny corner of the terrace and perched himself on the balustrade and swung his feet and whistled until the car came into sight down the avenue.

“That’s one thing that’s the matter with Gerald,” said Dan to himself with a disapproving shake of his head. “He rides around too blamed much in that automobile. He’d be a lot better if he did more walking.” Then he jumped down and went to meet his hosts at the steps.

“Dan, Dan, what do you think?” cried Gerald as he leaped out of the car. Dan shook his head smilingly as he gave his hand to Mr. Pennimore.

“I’m going to Yardley! Father’s consented! And I’m going right away!”

“Well, not exactly,” corrected his father pleasantly.

“After Christmas, Dan! Isn’t that bully?”

“Fine!” answered Dan bewilderedly. He looked at Mr. Pennimore for corroboration. That gentleman nodded his head.

“Yes,” he said as he climbed the terrace steps, “I thought I might as well give in now as later. You are a determined antagonist, Dan, and a graceful surrender is better than a humiliating defeat.”

“You couldn’t find a tutor!” crowed Gerald.

“Well, that’s true, too,” laughed his father. “Perhaps that’s the principal reason, Dan. That and the fact that I shall be abroad for two months in the latter part of the winter. If I take Gerald with me he will miss a good deal of schooling, and if I leave him at home in New York I’ll be worried about him all the time I’m away. It’s pretty bad being a hen with one chicken, Dan. So I concluded that I’d let Gerald go to Yardley when the new term begins. If it’s possible I want you and he to get a room together, or a couple of rooms, whatever’s best. I’ll go up and have a talk with Doctor Hewitt in the morning.”

“And we’re going to stay on here over Christmas, until school begins,” cried Gerald. “Isn’t that great?”

“I’m awfully glad,” said Dan sincerely. “You won’t have to bother about Gerald if you leave him at Yardley, sir. I’ll look after him as much as I can, and I’ll get him into our Society and introduce him to the best fellows.”

“Thanks, Dan, that’s what I want you to do,” said Mr. Pennimore. “Keep an eye on him and—well, I don’t want you to fight his battles for him, Dan, but maybe you can keep him out of some mischief.”

“Anyhow,” laughed Dan, “our buildings are all made of stone or brick and don’t burn easily!”

During luncheon Gerald refused to allow the conversation to roam for a single instant from the great topic and it was discussed and rediscussed from soup to finger bowls. Afterwards there was a lazy hour in the library during which Mr. Pennimore nodded over his book and Gerald exhibited his stamp collection. Then the touring car rolled up to the door and there followed a glorious trip that took them for miles and miles along the edge of the Sound in the genial afternoon sunlight and brought them home again as the twilight fell.

After supper that Sunday evening Alf Loring came up to Dan’s room for a visit. Tubby and Jake Hiltz were present when he arrived and Tubby at once began to be unpleasant.

“I didn’t suppose you were speaking to common folks now, Loring,” said Tubby with a grin. “I’m real flattered.”

“What’s flattered you?” asked Loring cheerfully.

“Why, you speaking to me,” answered Tubby. “You’re the whole thing on the team now, aren’t you?”

Loring frowned but kept his temper.

“Pretty much, thank you, Tubby,” he said. “I believe there are several other fellows on it, but I never pay any attention to them; except Vinton here. Vinton’s our forward pass expert and something of a hero just at present. I have to be condescending to him.”

“I thought so,” sneered Tubby. Hiltz grinned maliciously.

Dan took the conversation in hand and he and Loring talked football for awhile, the others listening and finding nothing to say. But Tubby wasn’t one to remain long in silence when he could think of anything unpleasant. And presently,

“Say, Loring, I suppose you’ll be captain next year, won’t you?”

Loring flushed and bit his lip.

“Shut up, Tubby!” said Dan angrily. “Don’t be an ass!”

“Me? Oh, I beg pardon, I’m sure,” said Tubby with simulated concern. “Loring seemed to be making a hard try for it, and I thought—”

Loring jumped up, reached across the desk and slapped Tubby’s face. It wasn’t exactly a love-pat, nor did it sound like one. In striving to get out of reach Tubby went over backward in his chair and lay, feet in the air, a much surprised, very angry and exceedingly eloquent youth. But Loring put a stop to his remarks.

“Tubby went over backward in his chair.”

“You’re a beastly little cad, Tubby,” flared Loring, “and for two cents I’d drop you out of the window. If you say anything like that to me again I’ll lick you till you can’t stand on your fat feet!”

He went to the door, turned and smiled deprecatingly at Dan.

“Good-night,” he said. “I’ll see you to-morrow. Sorry you’re hitched to such a silly ass. Come and see me.” He nodded to Hiltz and went out.

Tubby’s subsequent remarks weren’t fit for publication until Dan put an end to them.

“You deserved all you got, Tubby,” he said disgustedly. “If you can’t behave decently to my friends when they visit me you had better find another room.”

“Your friend!” jeered Tubby. “A fine friend he is! You wait until after the big game, Dan; he won’t recognize you then when he meets you! Besides, this is more my room than it is yours. If you don’t like my company you can get out yourself!”

“Well, I’m thinking of it seriously, Tubby,” answered Dan quietly. Tubby stared with open mouth, started to say something, thought better of it and turned to Jake Hiltz.

“You’re a nice chum, you are!” he sputtered. “Why didn’t you smash him?”

“Why didn’t you?” asked Hiltz with wounded dignity.

“Because I couldn’t get up, that’s why! But I’ll get him yet! You wait and see! No fellow can hit me and not get what’s coming to him! You wait and see what happens to Mr. Bully Loring! You—”

“Oh, cut it out, Tubby,” said Dan wearily. “You know you wouldn’t dare make a face at him!”

“Wouldn’t I? You’ll see what I dare! Come on, Jake, and let’s get out of here. Vinton wants to write an apology to Loring for my impoliteness in not getting up and letting him kick me!”

They went out, Tubby banging the door behind him. Dan sighed, and then, recalling the picture presented by Tubby with his feet in the air, laughed.

It is well to laugh while one may.

CHAPTER XXII
NORDHAM SPRINGS SOME SURPRISES

The next afternoon when Dan reported for practice he found that a few moments of passing and a half-hour of signal work was all that was required. Saturday’s contest had been a hard one and there were lots of lame muscles and stiff joints among the fellows who had participated. Even on Tuesday the practice was still short and there was no line-up. On Wednesday occurred the first scrimmage and then several surprises were sprung. Dan was at left end, Hill was back at center, Little was tried in Folwell’s place at tackle, King, of the Second Team, was at quarter and Gerard was at full. Gerard was a second-string man and his presence in the line-up merely signified that Kapenhysen was still feeling the results of the Brewer game. Dan didn’t dare believe that his elevation to the First Team was anything more than temporary pending Williams’ recovery. He played the best game he knew, however, in the hope of “making good,” and in spite of King’s mistakes, for the Second Team quarter was oppressed by the unexpected honor of being made varsity substitute, managed to play a brilliant game. But on the whole things went badly. In spite of the easy work of the last two days many of the fellows played a lifeless game that wrought Payson to heights of disgust. His comments were more caustic than usual and the tempers of his charges shorter, and the result was that when practice was over the entente cordiale between coach and players was somewhat strained. Andy Ryan, quick to note discord, hovered around like an anxious, clucking mother-hen. At supper appetites were erratic and dispositions more so. Plainly a slump was threatening, a slump the more dangerous for being so long delayed. With only two days of practice before the Nordham game the outlook didn’t please Payson at all. He had planned to rest the fellows the first part of the week and to drive them hard Thursday and Friday. Andy had agreed with him. But now it seemed that they had made a mistake; to have worked the team on Tuesday and Wednesday and given them light practice Thursday and Friday would have been more advisable. Payson had three new plays to teach and he had been counting on to-morrow and the next day; now he seriously doubted if it would be wise to attempt it. He and Andy got together in his room that evening and faced the problem.

“There’s no use in forcing them, sir,” declared the trainer. “It’s a critical time and we’ve got to humor ’em along the rest of the week. If we don’t they’ll go up in the air like a lot of crazy balloons, sir. Colton’s all on edge, and there’s others no better off. Take my advice, sir, and humor ’em.”

“That’s all well enough,” grumbled Payson, “but there’s a lot of work to do, Andy. You know that as well as I do. The team’s a week behind this year, for some reason. You can’t do anything the last week but polish up. And there are new plays to learn, man!”

“Give ’em a blackboard talk, sir, to-morrow instead of a scrimmage. Maybe they could walk through the plays afterwards in the gym.”

“Yes, they might do that. And how about Friday?”

“We’ll wait and see, sir. But we’ll have to lay Colton and Hadlock off for a couple of days, I’m thinking.”

“How about Loring?”

“Uneasy, but all he needs is work. He’s the sort that can’t stand in the stable, sir, without getting the fidgets.”

“And Kapenhysen?”

“Fit, sir.”

“And Williams?” Andy shook his head.

“He won’t be round by Saturday unless for a few minutes of the game. In fact, I wouldn’t advise you to put much faith in him for the rest of the season. He’s mighty uncertain, sir.”

“Well, there’s Vinton. Vinton is doing good work. If he can keep it up we won’t miss Williams, I guess. You think, though, that Williams is the only one we’ll have to keep out on Saturday?”

“As it looks now, sir.”

“I’ve been thinking I’d start the game with the second string of backs, Andy; Stevens at left half, Dyer at right and Gerard at full.”

“Yes, sir, but King won’t do at quarter, I’m thinking.”

“No, no, Loring will have to play the game through if he can.”

“He can do it, barring injury, sir.”

“It’s too bad about Clapp. This is his last year, too, poor chap. How’s he getting on?”

“First rate, sir. He’ll be able to see the Broadwood game, likely.”

“That’s good. Well, I guess I’ll take your advice, Andy, and cut out the scrimmage to-morrow. I wish we might have a spell of good cold weather.”

“We need it, sir; this sort of thing takes the life out of ’em. It’s a touch of frost they need. They ain’t eating right. If they don’t pick up by Friday, sir, I’d say give ’em a signal drill and hand ’em over to me for a walk.”

“All right, Andy, you know your end of it better than I do. But remember that I ought to have three days of hard work yet and give them to me as soon as you can.”

Instead of improving, the weather got worse. Thursday and Friday were soft, muggy, cloudy days without a bit of life in the air. The only consolation Payson could find was in reflecting that the conditions were just as unfavorable for Broadwood as they were for Yardley. Thursday there was the blackboard talk in the trophy room and the first trials of the new plays on the gymnasium floor. Friday signal practice was held out of doors, there was a little punting and catching for the backs and then Andy took them off for a five-mile walk along the shore. At supper that night the trainer thought he could detect an improvement in the spirits of his men. Appetites were better and the talk was more sprightly than it had been since the Brewer game.

Saturday dawned bright and warm, but there was a light breeze off the water that promised to freshen as the day advanced. The Nordham game was set for three o’clock. After luncheon Gerald showed up and he and Dan spent a half-hour together before the latter went over to the gymnasium to dress. Gerald was an enthusiastic Yardley Hall boy now; one would have thought that he was already enrolled.

“You’re coming home to dinner with me, Dan,” he said as they parted at the gymnasium. But Dan shook his head.

“There’s a meeting of what Payson calls the Advisory Committee this evening,” he said. “Can’t I come to-morrow night instead?”

“Yes, but I wish you’d come to-night. Anyhow, I’ll wait for you here after the game. Good-bye.”

Nordham, like Yardley, had gone through the season thus far without a defeat and the game had awakened a good deal of interest in the neighborhood. So by three o’clock Yardley Field was filled with the largest audience of the Fall. Nordham, who had journeyed down from Western Massachusetts, had played Broadwood the day before, and, using her substitutes whenever possible, had managed to escape with the score 12 to 9 against her. Yardley expected a hard game, but not such a difficult one as that with Brewer. Nordham had only won twice during the last six years, and then by small scores; usually Yardley managed to win decisively. But to-day Payson was in doubt, for there was no denying that his team was backward. The line-up when the game began was as follows: Vinton, left end; Little, left tackle; Hadlock, left guard; Hill, center; Colton, right guard; Mitchell, right tackle; Dickenson, right end; Loring, quarter-back; Stevens, left half; Dyer, right half; Gerard, full-back.

Nordham Academy’s team was, theoretically at least, an ideal one. From tackle to tackle her men were both heavy and fast; her ends were rangy, hard-running and fleet of foot; her quarter, a veteran of three seasons, was one of the best on the school gridirons, a plucky, determined player and a good general; her backs were fairly light, fast and “tricky.” She had been drilled in new football until, to-day, she was far in advance of her opponent in that line. Having won the toss she placed herself with the breeze, which since morning had strengthened a good deal, at her back. Kapenhysen kicked to her ten yard-line and Dickenson nailed the runner for a scant gain. Then Nordham sprang the first of many bewildering surprises.

Leaving her center absolutely alone in the middle of the field, the rest of her line-men spread out until the ends were close to the side-lines and an average distance of four yards separated them. The Nordham quarter went back ten yards and a little to the right of center and the two half-backs stood ahead and at either side as though a kick was to be made and they were to protect the kicker. The full-back was a little in advance of the quarter and ten yards or so to the right.

It was open formation with a vengeance, and Yardley was at a loss how to meet it. No one had ever seen such a play and for a moment consternation reigned in the ranks of the Blue. Finally, deciding that a punt was coming, Yardley spread out in a half-hearted way, Dickenson following his opposing end and Dan starting to do the same until the position of the full-back struck him as peculiar. By that time Nordham was giving her signals. Dan abandoned his end and took up a position in front of the Nordham full-back.

The ball flew back to quarter at an angle, the Yardley forwards ran through the open line and the Nordham full-back sprang straight ahead. Dan saw him coming and tried to upset him, but the Nordham chap was too much for him and the next moment the ball was arching across the line into his arms on the prettiest of forward passes. Had Yardley met the formation by either keeping her line closed or by opening it up wide it is probable that the Nordham full-back would have got away for a good gain. But as it was he was nabbed before he had made three strides with the ball in his arm. But Nordham had gained ten yards and Yardley was still bewildered.

After that, as though to lull suspicion, Nordham settled down to plays on tackle and wide runs at the ends. There she made a mistake, for had she attempted another trick at that time—and she still had plenty up her sleeve—she might have made a good gain, for Yardley was for the moment quite demoralized. Payson, for one, drew a deep breath of relief when he saw the enemy return to ordinary formations.

For awhile Nordham stuck to plain football without frills, making gains now and then through the left of the line from guard to end and now and then getting a back away around one corner or the other. It is only fair to say that Dan’s corner was less easy than Dickenson’s, for the latter was plainly off his game and allowed himself to be put out of the way frequently. But the gains were all short, and on Yardley’s twenty-eight yards the ball was lost on downs. Kapenhysen kicked and the struggle began all over again. Nordham now began a series of shifts which worked well until Yardley, who had been coached to meet them but lacked experience, solved them.

There were fumbles on both sides and the ball hovered for some time around the center of the field. Finally Nordham worked a quarter-back kick and recovered the ball on the Blue’s twenty yards and the game took a new turn. Yardley was on defense almost under her goal-posts. A forward pass netted Nordham six yards, a penalty set her back five, several tries through the line left her little better off and finally she tried a drop-kick for goal that only missed by the narrowest of margins. On the stands the Yardley supporters breathed with relief and their cheers took on a more hopeful tone. Later, Yardley reached her opponent’s ten yards only to be held for downs. The half ended with the ball in midfield, with no score and with the honors belonging to Nordham.

In the second half Payson put in his first string of backs. It was Nordham’s kick-off. Yardley had the wind in her favor now and instead of running the ball back from the ten-yard-line, Loring passed it to Kapenhysen who punted. The ruse worked well, for Nordham’s backs were well up toward the center of the field and had to turn and run back to get the ball. By the time they had reached it Yardley’s ends were down on them and there was no advance. Again came the wide-open formation. It had been talked over in the gymnasium during intermission and Yardley had been instructed how to meet it. Her ends strung away after the opposing ends, but the rest of her forwards and two backs lined up in rather close formation, the backs reinforcing the line in front of the Nordham full-back, who, with the right end, was the only player in position to get through and legally capture a forward pass. But this time, instead of going to the quarter at an angle, the ball went straight back at short pass to left half who got off a quick, low kick from close behind center. It was nip and tuck, but he got the ball away before Colton and Mitchell smashed into him. It was a nervy play and even the Yardley sympathizers were forced to voice their approval. Dan put out his opponent, but the Nordham left tackle went straight down the field without molestation, as did the Nordham right end. Loring, however, was fleet of foot and although the ball had struck the ground before he had reached it he managed to recover it deftly on the rebound and make the turn toward his opponent’s goal before he was downed. Nordham had gained thirty yards and better.

On second down, with six yards to go, Yardley tried a bunch forward pass, but it failed to work and a fifteen yard penalty set her back to her fifteen yards. Kapenhysen kicked and the pigskin was Nordham’s again near her fifty-yard-line. She tried a quarter-back kick and gained twelve yards. Another plunge at right tackle for a scant three feet was followed by a fake punt in which the left half took the ball between his own left guard and center for a first down. Trick after trick was tried and Yardley was fairly bewildered. Then a fumble by quarter gave Yardley the ball and Kapenhysen kicked on first down, the ball settling into the Nordham left half’s arms on his ten yards. He reeled off ten more before he was stopped. Nordham’s line opened wide across the field again and Yardley tried to guard against a kick by dropping her backs further from the line. This time the ball went to quarter and he sprang away outside of Yardley’s right tackle and had put four white lines underfoot before he was stopped. A few minutes later the same formation was used again, but by this time Yardley had learned her lesson. She made her line compact at the center and trusted to getting through and upsetting the play before it was in motion. The result was that Nordham was set back for a five-yard loss. That was the last of the wide-open play that day.

FAKE KICK THROUGH LINE

But she never allowed Yardley to become bored. She had more tricks than a juggler and Loring’s brain fairly seethed. Getting the ball on her forty yards, Yardley punted to Nordham’s twenty-five and Dan dropped the runner at the second stride. Here, thought the Yardley supporters, was where the Blue won the game! Mindful of what had happened in the Brewer game, Loring called for a forward pass to Dan, but Nordham was too cute and Dan found himself besieged by the Nordham right half and full, and the latter secured the ball. Nordham quickly punted out of danger. Yardley settled down now, with ten minutes to play, to steady attacks at the opponent’s line. This programme, interspersed with an occasional try at the ends, worked well for short gains and yard by yard the pigskin crept back toward Nordham’s goal.

But it was slow going and Nordham killed all the time she could. She was lavish with new players, sending in substitutes here and there all along the line and, before the game was at end, providing herself with a brand-new backfield. With two minutes to play and the ball on Nordham’s fifteen-yard-line Loring called again for a forward pass, but again Nordham solved the play and spoiled it and again kicked out of danger. Disheartened, the blue-clad warriors took up the journey again. Loring was taken out and King sent in. Connor tried the end without result and Capes had little luck at the other corner. Kapenhysen kicked. Nordham returned it. Connor got away through tackle for twelve yards, Capes seized three more through the same hole, Kapenhysen plugged center for four and then came another punt. This time Nordham kept the ball and began an attack on the Blue’s line, but before she had made her third down the whistle blew and the game was over with no score.

Yardley had one consolation, however, and she made the most of it; she was still undefeated.

CHAPTER XXIII
WHAT HAPPENED “BLUE MONDAY”

“What we need,” said Payson, “is a forward pass that will work.”

It was shortly after eight o’clock and the scene was the coach’s sitting-room in the village. About the room were seated Colton, Loring, Capes, Dickenson, Hill and Dan of the First Team and Ridge of the Second. The Nordham game was three hours old, but Loring still looked as though he expected someone to play a trick on him any moment.

“The trouble with the passes we have,” said Colton, “is that, once started, they’re too evident, don’t you think so, sir?”

“Yes, I do. Or, anyhow, that’s so of the ‘one man’ pass. By the time left half has made his fake to the right and then turned back to the left again the other team is dead on to what’s up and, if they’re any good, can spoil it. Nordham proved that to-day.”

“From what I can make out, though,” said Loring, “Broadwood hasn’t nearly as brainy a team as Nordham, nor anywhere near as quick.”

“Probably not,” answered Payson, “but we can’t trust to her mistakes to win next Saturday. What I’d like to do is to get hold of a variation of the forward pass that could be counted on to fool the opponent and occasionally make good. I wish the fool play had never been invented, but it’s here and we’ve got to make the best of it. Now let’s talk the thing over. Wait a minute.”

He went to his board and laid out the blue and green disks.

“There now, there’s our regular kick formation. What do you fellows know about a forward pass that won’t advertise itself from the first?”

YARDLEY’S KICK FORMATION

The others gathered around the board. There was silence for a moment. Then suggestions came from one and another and Payson, with chalk, in hand, drew lines on the blackboard and moved the blue disks about. But no suggestion seemed practicable when worked out. At the end of half an hour Payson leaned back and frowned.

“That idea of Hill’s is the best I’ve heard,” he said, “but it isn’t safe, do you think so?”

“I don’t believe it is myself, sir,” said Hill ruefully.

“No. I was monkeying with an idea the other night,” said Payson. “Let me see; how did that go?” He went to work with his chalk. “There, that was it, but you can see that it won’t really do. It’s a sort of delayed forward pass. There is the usual fake to the right as for a ‘bunch’ pass. The ball goes to left half, who starts to run to the right, too, but doesn’t turn in. As the ball leaves center, left end leaves his place and runs back as though to get into the ‘bunch.’ Instead of that, though, he gets a position farther out and receives the pass from left half after the ‘bunch’ is formed. It might work, but it probably wouldn’t.” He looked up and his eyes met Dan’s. “Here, Vinton, what do you think? You’ve got a head for strategy.”

PAYSON’S DELAYED FORWARD PASS

“It would be mighty risky, sir, I should think. You’d fool some of the other chaps all right, but by the time left end was in place to get the pass the other fellows might see their mistake. And wouldn’t it be better to let left end take the ball on a short pass as he goes by, sir? Then, even if he didn’t make any gain, you’d be sure of keeping the ball?”

Payson studied a moment.

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” he said finally. “Well, that disposes of that as a forward pass. And giving the ball to left end wouldn’t help any, for left half would do better to keep on himself and make the run. It might be worked out in that way, though, a sort of ‘fake forward pass.’ But we haven’t time to learn many new tricks and what we do learn must be worth while. Can’t you think of anything, Vinton?”

Dan was studying the board intently and for a moment he made no reply. Then his hand sought Payson’s and found the chalk and he leaned past him and began to make lines. The others watched with interest. When he finished there were murmurs of approval. “Double passes are risky, though,” muttered Colton.

“So are plain, everyday forward passes,” answered Dan as he straightened up. “I don’t know how this would pan out in play, but it looks all right here, doesn’t it?”

“How do you work it?” asked Payson.

“Well, I’ve drawn it for a pass to the left, but of course it could be the other side just as well. On regular kick formation the ball goes to full-back, who runs to the right as though to throw to the ‘bunch.’ Quarter, right half, end and tackle go down as though to receive it, one of them holding up his hand to signal for the ball. Left half keeps his place for a moment and then runs sharply to the left for about five yards. Left end keeps his man from coming through and then goes around him to the left and takes position, say, ten yards beyond the line. Full-back covers about ten yards to the right and then, instead of throwing toward the bunch, turns and passes across the field to left half and left half passes to left end. Full-back has got to watch the opposing left end and make the throw before he reaches him.”

VINTON’S DOUBLE FORWARD PASS

“I see,” said Payson thoughtfully. “Now let us see what the enemy would do. First of all, expecting a kick or a forward pass, they’d hold our line at first instead of breaking through. Then they’d see the backfield start to the right and they’d move that way, trying to get through to upset the play. Their backs would probably start that way, too, to break up the ‘bunch.’ Now how about the right side of the opponent’s line? We’d have to hold them pretty steady or they’d break through and spoil left half’s catch.”

“They’d be off to the right—their left—as soon as our full-back started that way,” said Colton.

“That’s right,” said Dickenson and Ridge in chorus.

“It looks good to me,” said Loring emphatically. “I wish we’d had it this afternoon to spring on those smart-alecks!”

“Yes, I think we can make that go, Vinton,” said Payson. “Anyhow we’ll try it against the Second on Monday.”

“Ridge will know the play, though,” Loring objected.

“We’ll give him that advantage,” answered Payson cheerfully with a smile at the Second Team’s captain. “Then if we fool him we’ll be pretty sure we’ve got something good.”

“That ought to make a good play near the goal,” said Colton. “Here’s one thing, though, that we’ve forgotten. Broadwood plays her ends ten yards back on everything except close-formations. That’ll put her right end just about where our left end makes his catch.”

He altered the position of the two green checkers marked “L.E.” and “R.E.”

“I guess that queers it,” sighed Hill regretfully.

“Hold on,” said Payson. “Left tackle can look after that end and keep him out of the way. By that time it won’t matter if his man gets through, although it’s likely that his man will be going around back by that time. We’ll give it a good fair trial, anyhow. I think it will work. If we try a bunch pass first and then this, it’ll fool them.”

He took up his memorandum book and diagramed the play in it, numbering it 17 and 18, seventeen indicating that the play was to be made to the left and eighteen that it was to go to the right. After that, other matters and plays were discussed and it was well along toward ten o’clock when the meeting broke up. When Dan reached his room, after bidding good-night to the others, he found Tubby and Jake Hiltz in possession. Tubby, for once, was in a pleasant humor, and Dan wondered what happened to work such a marvel. Jake took his departure at ten and Dan and Tubby went to bed, the former to dream of a wonderful forward pass in which Alf Loring was the ball and was hurled about by Payson and dexterously caught by Dan for long gains netting numerous touchdowns.

The next day, Sunday, Dan went to Sound View, according to promise, at half-past three to take dinner and spend the evening. He had secured permission very easily, for since he had announced to Mr. Collins that Gerald was to come to Yardley and that their conspiracy had succeeded, Mr. Collins was so pleased that Dan had only to ask to get anything in reason that he wanted. He spent a pleasant afternoon and evening at Sound View and got back just before ten. Tubby was not in, but appeared a few minutes later, informing Dan that he had been spending the evening with Hiltz. As Dan had shown no curiosity, nor felt any, this information was quite gratuitous and Dan speculated about it idly for a minute. But there were more interesting things than Tubby’s vagaries to think about and it soon passed out of his mind.

The next day was Monday, the Eighteenth of November. I mention the fact because it was known for many months afterwards as “Blue Monday,” and appears in a great many diaries as such. A good deal happened on “Blue Monday,” enough to set the school in a ferment of excitement that lasted for several days; and for a proper understanding of it let us begin at the beginning and follow events as they transpired.

The beginning was at about half-past six in the morning. At that hour Professor Angus McIntyre might have been seen coming out of the second entrance of Dudley Hall wrapped in his queer old plaid ulster. He wasn’t seen, as far as I know, for as a general thing at that hour of the morning Kilts and “Mr. McCarthy,” the janitor, whose name, by the way, isn’t McCarthy at all, at all, but just plain Owens, have the place to themselves. The janitor was busy with his assistants in Oxford Hall, and so, as far as I know, Professor McIntyre’s appearance was witnessed only by a flock of noisy sparrows who were indulging in a post-prandial quarrel around the sun-dial. It was the professor’s daily habit to take a walk before Chapel. This morning, since in spite of the early sunlight, the air was sharp and eager, he paused on the bottom of the three stone steps and fastened the topmost button of his ulster. He wore on his head a round, gray cloth hat and held under his arm a thick walking-stick of Scotch oak. It was said that ulster, cap and cane had each been in use by the professor when he first came to Yardley, some twelve years before.

As he paused on the last step his gaze traveled appreciatively over the Quadrangle. (This was the professor’s name for it, but to everyone else it was just the Yard.) The pale sunlight threw long shadows across the grass and the red brick walks, moist with dew, made lines of warm color. Then he stepped onto the pavement and turned to the left, and as he did so his gaze wandered to the building beside him and he stopped short and stared at what he saw. There along the front of the building, between the first and second entrances and beneath the sills of the first-floor windows, were huge daubs of blue paint. The Professor rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he backed off onto the wet grass and viewed the vandalism in its entirety. The daubs were letters nearly two feet high and here is what they spelled:

NOW FOR BROADWOOD!!

The Professor read and shook his head. Then he turned and viewed the windows of the neighboring buildings. No sign of life met his anxious gaze. Then he disappeared into the second entrance of Dudley.

When he returned a couple of minutes later he had abandoned ulster and cane. In place of the latter he bore a bucket of steaming water, a cake of soap and a scrubbing-brush. Then he got to work. He began with the “N.” The paint where it had been put on thinly was dry but still fresh. Soap, water and brush had their effect, but it was slow work, and by the time the “N” and the “O” were obliterated the water was very blue and the Professor realized that he would never be able to scrub out the whole inscription before time for Chapel. But he changed the water in the pail and kept at work, and at seven o’clock, when Doctor Hewitt raised the shade of his bed-room window, and, adjusting his shaving glass, looked out across the yard, he stared in amazement, just as the Professor had done half an hour before. He even followed out the latter’s programme to the extent of rubbing his eyes. But there was no optical illusion here. The figure with back toward him was undeniably Professor McIntyre; Professor McIntyre washing the front of Dudley Hall!

Now it is well known that higher mathematics, like chess, will, if indulged in too greatly, impair the intellect. The Doctor shuddered with horror and recalled symptoms displayed of late by the professor, which at the time he had thought nothing of. It was terrible, terrible! thought the Doctor. And something must be done at once; it would never do to allow the students to discover the professor in such a ridiculous situation! There was, also, the reputation of the school to be protected!

Three minutes later the Doctor, attired in a dark red, figured dressing-gown, was hurrying across the yard, framing as he went soothing words for the distraught professor. But half-way across, the Doctor’s eyes, near-sighted though they were, solved the mystery. He paused in the middle of the grass-plot, his dressing-gown held away from the moisture, and read the inscription. His first emotion was one of relief; the professor had not gone insane! Then succeeded indignation, and he strode on across the turf with heightened color.

“What is this? What is this?” he demanded.

The professor turned and his jaw dropped. For a moment, I’m firmly convinced, the professor seriously considered pleading guilty to the offense. Doubtless the uselessness of the project occurred to him in time, for he laid the scrubbing-brush down, absent-mindedly wiped his dripping hands on his trousers and sighed deeply.

“It’s blue paint, Doctor,” he said.

“But how did it get here? Who has done this?”

“It’ll be one of the boys, I’m thinking,” answered Kilts sorrowfully, shaking his head. “Just a bit of thoughtlessness, ye ken, Doctor.”

“Thoughtlessness!” said the Doctor with a snort. “Vandalism, you mean, sir.”

“Well, well, I’m getting it off nicely, Doctor. If you could find another brush, now, I’m thinking that between us we could—”

“What!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you crazy, McIntyre? Leave it as it is, man! This is no work for you!”

“Well, I thought likely it would cause less trouble if I got it off before the boys saw it, Doctor.” The professor wiped the perspiration from his forehead and looked regretfully at his pail and brush.

“Nonsense, sir! Leave it as it is; the one to take it off is the one who put it there! I’ll get to the bottom of this at once. Call Mr. Collins!”

Mr. Collins appeared on the scene presently. So did some of the fellows. So did more of them. They stopped and stared open-mouthed. Five minutes later the news was all over school and every fellow who was able to reach the scene reached it. Professor McIntyre had left.

“Ah,” said Mr. Collins, “here is a trail of paint. We will follow it up.” They did so, watched curiously by most of the school. The trail led them to the first entrance of Dudley. Inside the door was a large splash on the floor, as though the paint pot had been hit against the corner of the wainscoting. Further along a brush mark showed on the wall and a second was discovered beside the doorway of Number 7. There the trail seemed to end.

“Who rooms here?” demanded the Doctor. Mr. Collins shook his head.

“I’m not certain, sir. Shall we look inside?”

“Yes, I want this thing settled here and now.” Mr. Collins knocked and received no reply. He opened the door.

“Ah!” he said. The light from the room showed finger prints in blue paint on the edge of the door. They passed in. They searched, and—for why prolong the suspense?—under one of the beds in the bedroom, pushed well up against the wall, they found a gallon can half filled with blue paint and containing a brush. They bore it forth in triumph, the Doctor marching ahead in outraged dignity, Mr. Collins following, trophy in hand, looking troubled and thoughtful.

Outside, Yardley Hall was in a state of wild excitement. Wonderment and amusement alternated. Speculation was rife. Who had done it? “Now for Broadwood!” they read, for although the Professor had managed to remove the paint as far as the first R, the inscription was still legible for its entire length, the first of the letters being yet visible as lighter streaks against the dark red bricks.

“Somebody will get thunder for this, all right,” observed Joe Chambers with a grin. “I’m mighty glad I’m not mixed up in it!”

“Gee!” replied Alf Loring. “So’m I! Old Tobey looked like a thunder-cloud.”

At that moment the thunder-cloud reappeared in the doorway. It addressed itself to the throng at large.

“Who rooms in Number 7?” it demanded.

There was a moment of silence during which the fellows around Alf Loring observed him with startled gaze and showed a disposition to remove themselves from close proximity.

“I do, sir,” answered Loring.

The Doctor’s gaze wandered over the group and found him. There was a flush on his cheeks, and the Doctor seized upon it as an evidence of guilt.

“Indeed?” he asked complacently. “And who else, pray?”

“Tom Dyer, sir.”

“I will see you and Dyer in the Office after breakfast, if you please,” said the Doctor.

CHAPTER XXIV
DAN WONDERS

By ten o’clock the news was all over school. Loring and Dyer were on probation!

Consternation reigned. Without Loring at quarter against Broadwood the game was already as good as lost! Dyer would be missed, too, for he was first substitute at right half, but his loss was nothing to that of Alf Loring. Consternation had given place to indignation by dinner time, and commons hummed and buzzed like a mammoth bee-hive.

“I don’t believe Loring ever did it!” That was the general sentiment. Loring himself had denied it up and down, and so had Dyer. Each declared to Mr. Collins that he had never set eyes on the paint can until he had seen it in Dr. Hewitt’s hand. Unfortunately, however, neither was able to prove his innocence. No one could say for certain that they had been in their room from ten o’clock until morning, and it would have been a simple matter for them to have walked boldly out of the front door, daubed on the letters and walked boldly in again. Mr. Austin, whose room on the first floor in the second well was near the entrance, was well known to be a heavy sleeper, and it is likely that a herd of elephants could have entered and departed without disturbing his slumbers. Neither Dyer nor Loring could prove an alibi even for the hours between daylight and ten o’clock, for, as it happened, they had visited various rooms in different dormitories during the evening and were very uncertain as to when they had left one fellow’s room or reached another’s. And so, much as Mr. Collins disliked doing it, the penalty of probation was inflicted. Probation at Yardley was no joke. It meant that a fellow must remain on school grounds, stay in his room from after supper until time for Chapel the next morning, must have all lessons perfect and, worse yet, must abstain from all sports.

“You declare that you know nothing about this affair,” said Mr. Collins, “and I am inclined to believe you. Your records are of the best, and the trick was such a silly, unnecessary thing that I can’t imagine you doing it. But the Doctor is very much put out and there is only one duty before me, and that is to put you both on probation. I am sorry, for in your case the punishment is a very heavy one, since it will disbar you from further football; unless—” Mr. Collins paused and looked intently at Loring—“unless you can prove your innocence by discovering the guilty ones. Somebody must have done it; you say you did not; therefore, it is possible that between you you may be able to discover the person or persons who are guilty. I will do all that I can to clear the matter up, fellows.”

“Thank you, sir,” muttered Loring.

“Now, tell me, can you think of anyone who could have done it?” Both shook their heads.

“You say you returned to your room shortly before ten. Therefore if someone else placed that can of paint under your bed, Loring, they must have done it before ten o’clock.”

“Yes, sir, unless they sneaked into the room after we were asleep.”

“Hm; not likely,” pondered Mr. Collins. “Still, possible, since your door was unlocked. Have either of you purchased any paint lately?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll see if I can find where it came from. Perhaps the man who sold it will recall the purchaser. I’ll do what I can, fellows. Meanwhile you had better see if you can’t find out something yourselves.”

Payson learned of the affair at noon and went at once to see the Doctor and Mr. Collins. He pleaded and argued, declared that to suspect Loring was utter nonsense and that under the circumstances to deprive him of playing in the Broadwood game was utterly unjust. But the Doctor was firm and Mr. Collins could only shrug his shoulders and protest his helplessness. Payson became bitter and threatened to throw up his work there and then. Mr. Collins reminded him that he couldn’t do that, since he was under contract, and Payson went to some trouble to explain just how little he cared about that contract. In fact he quite lost his temper, and as there was a good deal of it to lose, Mr. Collins spent an unpleasant half-hour. But in the end Payson had to retire defeated, having said a good many things he was afterward sorry for.

At seven o’clock there was an indignation meeting in the Assembly Hall which was attended by the whole school. Speeches were made and all sorts of resolutions offered. In the end it was decided to draw up an appeal to the Faculty. The drawback was that the Faculty did not hold its next meeting until Thursday evening and that meanwhile the Principal’s word was law. The meeting broke up with cheers for Loring and Dyer, which were called for, and groans for Doctor Hewitt, which were spontaneous. They heard the news at Broadwood the next day and Colton got a telephone message from the Broadwood captain in which the latter politely expressed his regrets. Colton thanked him and courteously declared that Yardley expected to win just the same. Then he hung up the receiver with a bang and strode off muttering unkind things about Broadwood, for no matter how many regrets they expressed Colton knew well enough that they were secretly mighty glad to have Loring off the Yardley team.

Those were hard times for Colton and for Payson. Discouragement threatened to disrupt the season’s work. Everyone was convinced that without Loring at quarter-back to lead the team, defeat was certain. Colton worked like a Trojan, trying to act as though the mishap was a matter of small moment and striving to bring back confidence to his team-mates. Payson worked hard, too, but he was grim and silent; he couldn’t pretend, or didn’t want to. King’s nose was put against the grindstone with a vengeance. He was drilled in signals, drilled in offense, drilled in defense and lectured between-whiles on generalship.

By Wednesday the first despair had worn off and the team was buckling down to work again. Three new plays were learned, among them Dan’s double forward pass. The latter went beautifully against the second and there seemed no reason why it should not work as well against Broadwood. Kapenhysen spent hours practicing goals from placement, the ends were drilled in catching passes and that last week was the busiest of the whole season. Luckily the weather had relented and day after day of ideal football conditions followed each other. A certain degree of cheerfulness returned to the team and its supporters. Without Loring it was idle to look for victory, but they could put up a good game, and if they succeeded in holding Broadwood down to a single score it would be a triumph.

Meanwhile Mr. Collins, assisted enthusiastically by Stevie, ran down all clues without results. Several of the hardware stores kept the brand of paint which had been used to decorate the front of Dudley and almost all of them had sold cans of blue pigment during the last fortnight. But no one could recall having sold to a purchaser who might have been a Yardley student. That appeared to exhaust the clues.

“There’s one thing I regret,” said Mr. Collins. “And that is that we allowed the finger prints on the door to be washed off. We might have been able to discover something through them.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Austin, “you’d have had to have dipped the fingers of half the school in blue paint, and even then you couldn’t have told for certain.”

“But we might have determined that neither Loring nor Dyer were the ones.”

“We know that already, don’t we?” demanded Mr. Austin, a trifle impatiently. Mr. Collins nodded.

“Yes, I guess we do,” he answered. “I wish we could convince the Doctor, though.”

“We’ll try to-morrow night at Faculty meeting,” was the answer. “I, for one, am opposed to holding those boys guilty under the circumstances. And McIntyre and Bendix are with me.”

“So am I,” said Mr. Collins. “But we are only four out of ten; and the Doctor is as—hum—determined as a mule in this affair.”

“Well, it’s a blessed shame, that’s what I call it,” said Mr. Austin warmly. “Think of keeping Loring out of the game Saturday! And we’ll lose it as sure as shooting!”

“I wouldn’t mention that phase of it, though,” said the other with a smile. “The Doctor might think we were letting our desire to win the Broadwood game prejudice us.”

“Pshaw!” said Stevie.

Next to Loring and Dyer I doubt if anyone felt much worse about their misfortune than did Dan. But it was Loring that he was especially sorry for. He had grown to like the latter immensely. Loring had been kind to him in a dozen ways, at a dozen times, and mainly when kindnesses meant much. Doubtless Dan over-valued those kindnesses. True it is that by this time his attitude toward Alfred Loring had become similar to Gerald’s attitude toward him. It was a case of healthy hero-worship in each instance. And of late Dan and Loring had been seeing a good deal of each other and the friendship had been ripening on each side.

At first Dan hesitated to call on Loring, fearing that the latter might resent intrusion. But a chance word on Tuesday settled that matter and on Tuesday night Dan went over to Dudley and spent an hour with the room-mates. Of course the blue paint episode was the main subject of conversation, and between them they went over it time and again seeking to discover some clue which might lead them to the identity of the real culprit. But always they met with failure. Loring’s spirits were pretty low, but Dyer’s were lower, and for a quite unselfish reason.

“I don’t care so much about myself,” he said, “for I’d only have got into the game for a few minutes, maybe. But it makes me mad about Alf. Why the dickens couldn’t it have been someone else, Vinton? Almost any other fellow on the team would have been better! Why, thunder, I’d fess up to doing the whole thing alone; only they wouldn’t believe me!”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” said Loring smilingly. “Especially as I’d swear you were lying, Tom.”

“That’s so,” said Dan thoughtfully, “almost any other fellow on the team would have been better.”

Somehow that remark of Tom Dyer’s stuck with him the rest of the evening and recurred to him throughout the next day. That was Wednesday, and the school was excited and impatient to learn what action the Faculty would take. The meeting was held in Oxford A at eight o’clock. At half-past nine Mr. Austin brought news of it to Dudley Hall. The verdict stood. The Doctor had been implacable and a majority of the Faculty had stood with him. The verdict had gone forth that until the culprit had publicly erased the obnoxious letters from the front of Dudley, Loring’s and Dyer’s probation was to continue. The news spread fast and in a few minutes a hundred and more students were assembled in the Yard making night hideous with their expressions of disapproval. There were cheers for Mr. Collins, for Mr. Austin, for Mr. Bendix and for Professor McIntyre, especially for Kilts, for since the school had learned of his attempt to eradicate the paint and save the culprits there had been a reversal of opinion regarding him. Kilts was now on the topmost wave of popularity, but I don’t think he ever knew it. Finally the school leaders and a few of the instructors persuaded the fellows to abandon their meeting and return to their rooms.

The final practice was held secretly on Thursday afternoon, and the whole school marched cheering to Yardley Field and witnessed the ten minutes of scrimmaging which terminated it. The songs were sung and each member of the team was cheered to the echo. Payson was cheered, and Andy Ryan, and Paddy Forbes. And then “nine long ones” were given for the Second Team. And after that the First trotted back to the gymnasium and the Second got together in the middle of the big, bare field and, led by Ridge, cheered them heartily. And the last practice was over and Yardley faced the final conflict.

The enthusiasm continued all that evening and all the next day when fresh fuel was added to it by the deciding game in the class championship series. This was between the First Class and the Second and was played on the varsity gridiron and witnessed by every fellow who could get to it. It was a good contest and First Class won by a single score, 16 to 12. First Class celebrated mightily and all the rest of the evening and far into the night sporadic cheers for “First, First, First!” echoed on the frosty air.

Dan paid a visit to Payson that evening after supper. The coach was in his room looking rather glumly at an evening paper which compared the chances of Broadwood and Yardley in Saturday’s contest and which awarded the game to Broadwood in advance. Payson was too experienced to believe all that he read in the newspapers, but the writer’s views chimed in with his own and he was much inclined to credit the paper with the gift of prophecy. He appeared very glad to see Dan, as doubtless he was. For a time they spoke of the double forward pass.

“It’s a good play, Vinton,” declared Payson almost cheerfully, “and we’ll make it work. We’ve got you to thank for that. If we had Loring I’d bet a carload of hats that we’d win. As it is—” He shrugged his shoulders disconsolately—“we’re in for a licking of some sort. I wouldn’t say this to everyone, but you’re a sensible chap, Vinton, and will play as well if not better with defeat staring at you.”

“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” answered Dan rather listlessly. “How about Williams, Mr. Payson? Won’t he be able to play?”

“Yes, he’s in good shape, again, and we may need him before we’re through.”

“Don’t you think he can play end as well as I can, sir?”

Payson looked puzzled.

“What are you after, Vinton?” he asked. “Compliments?”

“No, sir, I was just wondering whether if I wasn’t on the team Williams wouldn’t do just as well.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked the coach anxiously.

“Nothing, sir. I’m feeling fine. I just wondered.”

“Well, then I’ll tell you. Williams is about as good an end as you are to-day, but you’ll have him beat in another year if you keep on improving as you have lately. He’s a little surer on tackling than you are, and he stops his man better. But you handle forward passes in better shape and seem to be quicker at sizing-up plays. There’s a fair criticism, Vinton. How do you like it?”

“I guess you’ve let me off pretty easy, sir,” Dan replied with a smile. “But I’m much obliged. If I couldn’t play, then, Williams would do just as well, wouldn’t he?”

“Look here, Vinton,” said Payson with a frown, “you go and see Ryan and do as he tells you; understand?”

“Oh, I’m all right, sir; honest!” Dan assured him. “I—I just sort of wondered—” Payson smiled.

“You stop wondering and go to bed,” he said kindly.

CHAPTER XXV
ON PROBATION

On Friday morning Alfred Loring awoke early. During the last few days he had got into the habit of waking early and going to sleep late. It was all well enough for Colton and Capes and Hill and the others to counsel cheerfulness; they could afford to be philosophical and to give advice; but when a fellow has been working hard all Fall with one goal in sight only at the last moment to have that goal suddenly disappear, it requires a whole lot of fortitude to keep from cutting up rough. Loring had tried not to act the baby, but just the same the tears had come once, at least. He wished that Colton and the others would cut out their everlasting “Cheer up, Alf!” He couldn’t cheer up, and didn’t want to, anyway! There was one good thing about Tom Dyer; Tom didn’t tell him to cheer up or pretend that the bottom hadn’t dropped out of things; Tom was frankly heart-broken and angry, and it was a comfort to Loring to hear him hold forth.

For the first couple of days Loring had been hopeful. It seemed that the fellow who had perpetrated such a trick, whether for spite or merely as a joke, must have the decency to come forward and own up. But when Thursday night had arrived, and his shackles had not been knocked off, Loring had lost hope. And he had laid awake until long after midnight, thinking and thinking! If only he could get his hands on the fellow who had done it! He groaned and gritted his teeth in impotent rage. Then his anger swung around to the Doctor and the Faculty as a whole. They should have believed his declaration of innocence. His record was as good as that of any fellow in school. Common sense should tell them that he wouldn’t be idiot enough to do a trick like that less than a week before the Broadwood game and so endanger his chance of playing! Fools, that’s what they were! A pack of silly, doddering fools! Finally sleep had come to him, a sleep interspersed with dreams, and now he was awake again with the cold light of a cloudy morning flooding in under the half-raised window-shade. He was tired, unrefreshed; too fagged to feel even resentment. He simply didn’t care this morning.

He turned over, closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep again. Presently a swishing sound from outside the window reached him and, half asleep, he told himself that it was the maid scrubbing the front steps. For Loring’s home was in Philadelphia, where the cleaning of the white marble doorsteps with scrubbing-brush and fine sand or rotten-stone was an almost daily ceremony. But after a few minutes he found himself wide awake again and realized that he was not in his room at home and that consequently his explanation of the sound couldn’t be the correct one. He heard footsteps on the brick pavement and the grating of a pail. But whatever it was it didn’t interest him for long. He looked at the clock on the mantel, saw that it announced a few minutes before seven and decided to get up. Dyer was still snoring peacefully.

Loring bathed and dressed himself slowly. When he was ready he awoke Dyer. By this time the dormitory was noisy with the tramp of hurrying feet and the slamming of doors. Dyer, only half awake, thrust his feet into a pair of heelless slippers, tied a big bath towel about him and went yawning off down the corridor for his shower. Loring took up a magazine irresolutely, turned a few pages, dropped it onto the table again and went out. At the entrance he paused and looked about. The sky hinted of snow and the air smelt of it. The Yard was deserted, or so it seemed until sounds near at hand caused him to turn his head. Then Loring stared in mystification.

A few steps away Dan Vinton, with pail and brush and sandsoap, was scrubbing at the blue letters along the base of the building. He wore a brown sweater in lieu of coat, his trousers were turned up well at the bottoms and his feet were encased in a pair of old “sneakers.” And he was working steadily, doggedly, with set, determined face.

“What the dickens are you doing?” exclaimed Loring finally.

Dan looked up for a brief instant. Then,

“Cleaning off this mess,” he answered soberly.

“What for, you idiot?”

There was no answer. Dan kept his eyes on his work. A little frown of perplexity appeared on Loring’s forehead.

“What have you got to do with it, Vinton?” he asked with dawning disquiet. There was a moment of silence before Dan answered. Then,

“Faculty,” he said in low tones, “says the fellow who did it must take it off.”

“What?” cried Loring incredulously. “Do you mean that—that—you—I don’t believe it, Vinton!” Dan made no answer.

“You’re crazy!” continued Loring. “If Faculty sees you here they’ll think—” He paused. Dan’s silence was disheartening. His face showed Loring that here was no joke. Perhaps—but Loring smothered the suspicion; it was absolutely absurd to believe Vinton capable of playing such a trick on him and remaining silent so long. “I don’t believe it!” he muttered. But there was little assurance in his tone. By this time the dormitories had begun to empty and one by one fellows paused, stared and drew near. If Loring had been incredulous they were not. To them it was simple enough. Vinton was the culprit.

Dan had been working for an hour and had made good progress; but four letters remained. But now he must stop and go to Chapel. He set his pail out of the way, dropped the brush in it, laid the sandsoap beside it and rinsed and dried his hands. Then he turned calmly and made his way toward Clarke. No one spoke to him; no one knew just what to say. Half-way across the Yard he came face to face with Mr. Collins.

“Vinton,” said the Assistant Principal, “was that you scrubbing the bricks over there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then—am I to understand by it that you are the one who is to blame?” he asked gravely. Dan made no answer. But his silence was conclusive and Mr. Collins sighed. “I am sorry, Vinton,” he said kindly. “Will you come and see me at the office, please, after breakfast?”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Dan again. Then he was free to go on and hide from the sight of those dozens of staring eyes. But it was not for long, for the bell was ringing as he hurried to his room and got into his coat. Walking across the floor of Assembly Hall, facing the curious glances of the school, was the hardest of all. But finally he was in his seat and could stare at the head of the boy in front of him and try to convince himself that he had done right. When Chapel was over and he filed out with his class he had it all to go through with again, and once more at breakfast. Many fellows spoke to him as though nothing at all had happened, but for the most part the glances that he met were frankly curious and aloof. At training table the fellows were awfully decent, he told himself. They strove to include him in the talk, and he strove to speak naturally. Once he caught Payson’s gaze on him. The coach was frowning in a puzzled way. Dan wondered if he suspected.

The visit to Mr. Collins was distinctly unpleasant. Mr. Collins had taken a warm liking to Dan and he seemed to feel worse about the affair than Dan did himself.

“Were you alone in this, Vinton?” he asked. “Did one of the other boys help you?”

“I had no help, sir.”

“Why did you do it? Was it intended as a joke?”

“I—I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know!” echoed the other incredulously. “But you must know what prompted you to do such a foolish thing! Didn’t you know that you would be punished?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Had you a grudge against Loring or Dyer?”

“No, sir,” answered Dan earnestly.

“Then you tried to place suspicion on them—why?”

But Dan was silent. Mr. Collins waited a moment, sighed, and shook his head.

“You’re not making it any easier for yourself, Vinton, by refusing to answer my questions. I want to think that the affair was only a thoughtless prank, that you had no mean motives, but you will tell me nothing. When did you buy that paint, and where?”

Dan’s eyes fixed themselves on the floor and he made no reply.

“Surely,” went on Mr. Collins persuasively, “there can be no reason for hiding facts now, Vinton. Come, answer me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I—I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t,” replied the other impatiently. “Very well, have it so. Why have you confessed to-day?”

“I didn’t want Dyer and Loring to—to be punished, sir.”

“I wish you might have owned up a little earlier, Vinton,” said Mr. Collins with a sigh. “I’m afraid the Doctor will think your repentance rather too late to be satisfactory. I will do all that I can for you, my boy, but you mustn’t expect to get off without punishment.”

“I don’t, sir,” answered Dan in a low voice. “I’m willing to take what’s coming to me.”

“Even if—it amounts to being expelled?”

Dan looked up with startled eyes.

“It—it won’t be that, sir, will it?” he asked troubledly.

“I’m afraid,” began Mr. Collins, “that the Doctor—But, no, Vinton, I don’t think it will come to that. I will do everything I can for you. I only wish you would be a little more frank with me; I could help you better.”

“I—I wish I could, sir,” said Dan earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Collins looked perplexed. Then,

“I fear you are trying to shield someone else, Vinton,” he said. But Dan shook his head.

“No, sir, truly!” he declared. There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr. Collins arose and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Vinton, you’ve done wrong and you’ve got to be punished. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that the Faculty is ‘down on you.’ It isn’t, my boy. We dislike to punish, believe me. Take this in the right way; make up your mind to profit by it, for one can profit by his mistakes if he is wise. Show us and the school that you are big enough to take your medicine without whining, no matter what it is. Will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Collins cheerfully. “Now you may go. I’ll see the Doctor and do what I can for you. Come to me again at noon.”

At noon Dan went on probation and Loring and Dyer came off.

Dan’s chief sentiment as he walked out of the Office was one of relief. All morning he had been in dread of being expelled. That would have been a big price to pay for what he was doing, and he wondered whether he would have the courage to play the game through and take his medicine if it was as nauseous as that. Luckily, he was not called on to decide. A month of probation was his punishment. Although Mr. Collins didn’t say so, Dan was certain that the Assistant Principal had been obliged to plead hard with the Doctor, and he went away very grateful to the former. He spent most of the afternoon in his room. He didn’t feel very guilty and ashamed, but it was necessary to appear so. Tubby’s behavior was eccentric, even for Tubby.

“You’re a fool, Dan!” he cried hotly. “You know well enough you never did that painting! You’re just doing this to get Loring off probation!”

“Nonsense!” said Dan. “Do you think I look like a martyr?”

“That’s all right, but you can’t fool me! And you’ve got to stop it, Dan Vinton! If you don’t I’ll go to Collins and tell him!”

“Tell him what?” asked Dan smilingly.

“Tell him what I know!”

“Well, what do you know, Tubby?”

“I know you never did it!”

“How do you know that?”

Tubby hesitated. Then:

“Because you were here in your room at ten o’clock,” he replied weakly.

“What of that? That business was done before ten, Tubby. How can you tell what I did during the evening? You were over with Hiltz, weren’t you?”

Tubby nodded.

“You’re a fool, just the same,” he muttered. “And—and I wish you wouldn’t, Dan!”

“Oh, nonsense, Tubby, I’m not hurt. It’s only probation, anyway.” Dan was surprised at Tubby’s solicitude and spoke very kindly. Tubby looked troubled for a moment, tried to say something, swallowed hard a couple of times and hurried out of the room. Dan gazed after him and gave expression to his surprise in a low whistle.

“To think of his caring!” he murmured. Then his face grew thoughtful and for several minutes he stared at the closed door. Finally he nodded his head several times, as one who has reached a decision, and,

“That’s just it!” he muttered.

The popular verdict was rather favorable to Dan. Of course, the fellows argued, Vinton had done it merely as a joke on Loring. Everyone knew that they were good friends. Afterwards he had been scared and so had kept quiet. That he had finally confessed and relieved Loring and Dyer from probation and placed them once more in a position to play against Broadwood was generally conceded to be sufficient amends. Of course, he might have owned up sooner, but then, hang it all, lots of fellows would have done the same thing as like as not! The members of the team were so glad to get Loring back that, had anyone suggested it, they would gladly have presented Dan with a loving-cup!

Loring’s own feelings were baffling even to himself. He had liked Dan and had believed that Dan liked him. He knew that he ought to be terribly angry for what the other had done, but somehow, what with his liking and his delight at being able to play against Broadwood, he couldn’t find anything but sympathy for Dan. He would have gone to see him and tried to tell him this had it been possible. But after dinner Payson took him in hand, regularly kidnapped him, and he wasn’t seen again until nine o’clock that night, at which hour the football players were sent to bed. Loring didn’t forget that day for a long, long time. Payson, in seven hours, drummed into him what the rest of the team had taken four afternoons and four evenings to learn. But he slept that night, slept like a log, and awoke on Saturday morning ready for anything, ready to play the game of his life against Broadwood!

CHAPTER XXVI
“TUBBY” PACKS A BAG

Gerald hadn’t seen Dan for several days, and on Saturday he set out shortly before twelve, having gone through the form of eating an early luncheon, with eager steps. Gerald didn’t use the automobile nowadays when he wanted to merely go around the corner. Dan had laughed him out of that. All the way through the Yardley woods and up the hill Gerald tasted in anticipation the delight and excitement of the afternoon’s contest. The game was to begin at two o’clock and Gerald hoped to have a half-hour with Dan before it. He went up to Dan’s room, found it empty and sat down to wait. After awhile Tubby appeared. He didn’t seem pleased to discover Gerald in possession, and his stare of surprise gave place to a frown of annoyance. Gerald felt that he ought to apologize.

“I wanted to see Dan,” he said, “but I can wait outside just as well if you want to—to dress or anything.”

Tubby hesitated. His first impulse was to drive Gerald out, to give vent to the dislike which he entertained for the younger boy. But Tubby was in a strange mood to-day, and instead he only said, almost graciously, “I’m not going to dress—much. You can stay here.”

Then he looked at his watch, frowned and asked Gerald the time.

“Twenty-two minutes of one,” answered Gerald, looking at his own watch. Tubby corrected his timepiece with a growl for its eccentricities. “I wonder when Dan will be here,” pursued Gerald timidly. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Saw him in commons at dinner,” replied Tubby.

“Oh, have you had dinner?”

“Yes, had it early on account of the game. I suppose you knew there was to be a game?” The irony was lost on Gerald.

“You bet,” he answered. “I’m going to see it. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I hope Dan will do something fine.”

“Fine? How do you mean?” asked Tubby, turning to view the other curiously.

“I mean play a great game! Make a touchdown or something!”

“Oh!” Tubby was silent a moment. Then he smiled maliciously. “Dan isn’t going to play,” he said.

“He isn’t! Why—what—”

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Tubby easily. “He’s on probation. They say—in fact he’s owned up to it—that he painted the front of Dudley the other night.”

“Painted it?”

“Yes, painted ‘Now for Broadwood!’ all along the front in blue letters. Faculty was awfully peeved and put Alf Loring and the fellow he rooms with on probation. They found the paint pot under a bed in their room. Then Dan confessed to it and so they let Loring off and put him on.”

“And he can’t play?” cried Gerald incredulously.

“Of course not; you can’t do much of anything if you’re on probation—except study!”

“I don’t believe he ever did it!”

“But he’s acknowledged it. It—” Tubby looked at Gerald intently—“was Sunday night.”

“Why, he was with me Sunday night! He came over in the afternoon and stayed until almost ten o’clock! He couldn’t have done it, Jones!” Tubby shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, he says he did! I guess he knows.”

He looked at his watch again, arose and wandered somewhat restlessly about the room, glancing at Gerald now and then and pausing to listen to the sounds in the corridor. Finally,

“I guess he isn’t coming up here,” he said carelessly. “Maybe he’s gone over to the library or somewhere.”

“Can’t he see the game?” asked Gerald anxiously.

“Not he! He can’t go off the grounds. He might watch it from the hill, though. I guess he will do that.”

“I—I’ll wait a few minutes longer, I think, if you don’t mind,” said Gerald troubledly. Tubby shrugged his shoulders.

“Wait as long as you like,” he said. He went to his closet and got down his bag, a big yellow Gladstone. Then he pulled open the drawers of his bureau and began transferring some of his clothes to the bag.

“Are you going away?” asked Gerald.

“Yes, going home over Sunday,” replied Tubby. “I’m sick of this place. Got to have a change.” He wandered along his side of the room, adding a book or a photograph or some trifle to the contents of the bag. Finally it was filled and strapped. Tubby set it at the foot of his bed, placed coat and umbrella over it and drew his chair to the table. For the next quarter of an hour he wrote, pausing and scowling over his task. When he had finished three notes sealed and addressed, lay beside him. He looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock.

“What time does your train go?” asked Gerald politely.

“One-forty-three,” was the answer in preoccupied tones. Then, “Say, Pennimore, I wish you’d do me a favor. I want this note to get to Payson, the coach, right away. Will you take it to him? I won’t have time myself. Do you mind?”

“Not at all; I’ll be very glad to,” replied Gerald eagerly.

“All right. And here’s one for Dan. You might hand it to him when you see him. It’s something I meant to see him about before I went. It—it’s kind of important. You won’t forget it, will you?”

“No, I’ll find him right away.”

“Well, but the one to Payson is the most important. So just look him up first. I’m much obliged.” Tubby dropped the third note into his pocket and put on his cap. “I’ve got to go across to the Office a minute. Coming along? I don’t think Dan’s coming up here. You’ll probably find him around the grounds somewhere.”

They went out together, Tubby leading the way along the corridor and down the stairs. Outside he remarked:

“Dan says you’re coming here after Christmas.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Gerald uneasily, dreading the next question.

“Got your room yet?”

“No, not yet. Father has spoken about it, though.”

“I see. Thought perhaps you and Dan would room together.”

“I’d like to,” answered Gerald, “but—I don’t know—”

“You’d better. He’s a good sort, Dan is. He and I—” there was pride in Tubby’s voice—“have been pretty good chums.”

“But won’t you—” began Gerald.

“Me?” said Tubby carelessly. “Oh, I may decide to change my room. You can’t tell. Perhaps I won’t be here after Christmas.”

“Oh, I hope you will,” murmured Gerald.

“Oh, cut it out!” It was the old Tubby once more. “You make me sick, you do, Pennimore. What’s the good of lying about it? You know blamed well you wouldn’t care if I never came back.”

“Not when you talk that way,” returned Gerald with spirit. “But when you’re nice—”

Tubby laughed and flushed. They had reached the entrance to Oxford.

“You’re a queer guy,” he said, and nodded. “Well, so long. See you again maybe. Don’t forget the note to Payson.”

“I won’t. Good-bye, Jones. I hope you’ll have a pleasant visit home.”

“Oh, I’m sure to,” answered Tubby ironically. “They’ll all be terribly pleased to see me! So long!”

He disappeared into the building and Gerald turned his steps toward the gymnasium, seeking Dan and Payson.

But he wasn’t destined to find Dan just then, for that youth was two miles away, loitering dejectedly along the shore. Dinner had been at twelve o’clock, a breathless, excited repast for everyone, Dan thought, save himself. He had felt terribly out of it all, and, although he desired Yardley to win the game as much as any of her supporters, he felt that he couldn’t remain around school to watch the fellows trooping down to the field. He had eaten little and his dinner was soon over. Afterwards he had wandered across the Prospect and the railway bridge and, without thinking, had plunged into the woods.

For awhile his main desire had been to place distance between himself and the school, to get away somewhere where he wouldn’t keep recollecting every minute what he had missed. But one can’t walk away from recollection, and, although he had tramped a good two miles along the Sound, his thoughts were still on the game. What a game it would be! And how he hated Williams who would have his place at left end! If only it wasn’t the last game of the year! Who knew what might happen before next Fall; why, he might be dead or something! Perhaps to-day was his last chance to play, and here he was on probation—!

Probation!

He stopped suddenly and looked about him. Why, he had no business here, off of the school grounds! He had forgotten; he must get back at once. He turned and hurriedly retraced his steps, praying that none of the Faculty would see him before he was once more within bounds. He didn’t feel especially guilty about it, since he had disobeyed quite unintentionally, but it might not be easy to convince the Doctor of his innocence. He breathed freer when he was once more across the bridge. The grounds and buildings looked strangely empty and were uncommonly quiet. He looked at his watch and found that it was five minutes of two. And at that moment, borne on the breeze, came, faint but distinct, the long-drawn cheers of Yardley. Dan clenched his hands and hurried toward Clarke Hall. Once past the entrance the disturbing sounds no longer reached him. He closed the door of his room and turned the key in the lock, as though the better to shut out sound, tossed his cap aside and picked up a book desperately.

Suddenly, as his gaze roamed from the book, it occurred to him that Tubby’s side of the room looked strangely bare; most of his photographs had disappeared and the top of his dresser was denuded of toilet articles. He wondered a moment. But the solution didn’t come to him and his thoughts returned to the game. Ten minutes passed. He had read only a page of the book and had not the slightest idea what it had meant. Footsteps sounded down the corridor and came rapidly nearer. There was a knock at the door. Gerald’s voice cried “Dan! Dan! Are you in here?” A hand tried the door. Dan made no answer. He didn’t want to talk to Gerald just then. There was another challenge, a pause and then the footsteps hurried off again. Downstairs the front door slammed subduedly. Dan took up his book again. But it was no use, and presently he donned his cap and hurried as fast as Gerald had done down the stairs and out of the building. He had to know how the game was going!

He turned into the Yard at the corner and crossed it rapidly. He might not leave the ground but there was nothing to keep him from seeing the game from the edge of the hill or—He gave a grunt of satisfaction. The gymnasium! That was it! There was a window on the running track looking directly down upon the field which lay only a few hundred yards distant. The gymnasium was silent. The afternoon sunlight streamed in at the big westerly windows, high up under the peak of the roof, and motes of dust swam in the golden paths it made. He climbed the stairs to the track and hurried to the window on the north. Two big blue and green flies were buzzing fretfully against the panes. Before him was the meadow, the path, the tennis courts and the field, the latter fringed with figures. The two stands, one on each side of the gridiron, were packed with spectators and the blue banners of Yardley and the green of Broadwood were everywhere. On the field, a golden-yellow expanse of sun-bathed autumn turf, two thin lines were facing each other. A white-sweatered referee skipped nimbly out of the way, the lines surged together in a sudden confused jumble of struggling canvas-clothed forms, there was a moment of indecision, the confusion melted away, order grew out of chaos and once more the lines faced, now five yards nearer the south goal. Yardley had made first down; Dan saw the linesmen trot along with the poles and chain. He looked at his watch. The time was twenty minutes after two; only fifteen minutes remained of the first half. If only he knew whether any scoring had been done! He believed that if he could get to the top of the window he could look over the corner of the nearest stand and see the score-board. But there was nothing to hold on by. He thought a moment and then raced across to the trophy room, returning presently with a chair. By standing on the back of it he could see. The score-board was blank of figures!

He descended until his feet were on the chair-seat, and so, with the two flies buzzing about him, and a little ray of sunlight on his head, he stood and watched the battle. Twice messengers hurried up the path below him and hurried back again. Once he heard the door open downstairs, heard footsteps on the floor below, but he was too intent on the struggle to heed. He tried to open the window that he might hear the sound of the referee’s whistle or the grunting of the umpire’s horn, but the casement stuck fast and all his strength could not budge it.

Yardley was down on Broadwood’s fifteen yards now and Loring was smashing the backs against the green line. But the gains were small. Only a yard that time through tackle. Dan knew intuitively that it was the third down and held his breath as the lines formed again and Loring’s back bent and his head turned as he shouted his signals. Then the backs took up the punt formation, the ball arched slowly back into Capes’ outstretched hands, the field sped to the right. It was a forward pass, but—ah, there was Williams getting through at the left! He was stopped! No, he was by! Good old Williams! Now Capes had turned and was running to the left, the ball at arms length for throwing. And there went the pass, too high, maybe, but straight as an arrow toward the waiting left end. If Williams would only get it! He would! He had it! No, Broadwood’s right half had thrust him aside at the last instant and a green-stockinged youth was snuggling the ball to earth! Dan groaned. A roar of delight and relief arose from the farther stand and green flags waved in the sunlight.

Down the field sped the ball from the powerful toe of Broadwood’s punter and for awhile the play was hidden from Dan by the stand. He climbed to the back of the chair again, but still he could see nothing. There was five minutes of play left. At the lower end of the gridiron the crowds were pushing onto the field. That meant that the ball was near the side-line well up at the other end. But still the players were hidden. Then, suddenly, like a dart from a cross-bow, a green-shirted form swept into sight, the ball clutched in the crook of his arm. It was all over in the instant. Broadwood had scored! The farther stand was crazy with delight and the cheers rolled up against the closed window in a cloud of sound. Dan groaned. That was his contribution to the noise. Broadwood kicked the goal. The score-board was no longer barren of figures, for a big 6 stood after the word “Opponents.” There was little more done before the whistle blew, and the stands partly emptied as the spectators stretched their cramped limbs.

Dan got down from his chair and stretched his own, finding comfort in the thought that there still remained another thirty-five minutes of play. Lots of scoring could be done in that time. Many a game had been won in a handful of seconds! Yardley had almost scored once; the next time she would do it! He wondered how that Broadwood man had got away. Let’s see, it had been—by Jove, yes, it had been around left end! Dan was but human, and for an instant he derived a spice of satisfaction from the thought that perhaps the fellows and Payson were wishing that they had him at the left of the line. But that was only momentary. He was sorry for Williams. Williams was a good sort, and it was no fault of his that he had Dan’s place.

The ten minutes of intermission went slowly to the solitary watcher up there on the running track, but at last the teams trotted out again and at last the battle was renewed. It was Yardley’s kick-off and once more the play passed from sight behind the nearest grand-stand. Minutes went by. Now and then the ball arched into sight against the sky, but of the players nothing was to be seen by Dan save, occasionally, Loring as he trotted back for a punt. Ten minutes had already passed. Time had been called for some reason. Dan knew that by the way the spectators along the line turned their attention from the field. Dan’s attention wandered too, wandered to a figure hurrying up the path. It was Ridge of the Second. At the moment Dan recognized him, Ridge, as though conscious of the other’s regard, raised his eyes to the window. Dan heard a shout, saw Ridge wave a hand and break into a run. The next moment the door banged downstairs and Ridge was shouting up to him.

“Vinton! Dan Vinton! Come on, you fool! Get your things on! Payson wants you! You’re to go in! We’ve been looking for you for hours! Hurry, man, hurry! Williams is all in, and—”

“Do you mean I’m to play?” shrieked Dan, leaning over the railing and regarding the breathless Ridge with astounded countenance.

“Of course! Will you get a move on?”

“But I can’t play! I’m on probation! I’m—”

“I don’t know anything about that,” yelled Ridge in a panic of impatience. “Payson says you’re to play, and play you shall if I have to carry you down there myself! Vinton, for the love of Mike, get your togs on! I’ll help you! Don’t stand there with your mouth open like a blamed idiot! Can’t you move? Don’t you understand that—”

But Dan was moving now.

CHAPTER XXVII
VINTON’S VICTORY

Yardley had fought her way down to Broadwood’s twenty-four yards and Loring was despairingly hurling the backs at the slowly yielding green line. First down again on the twenty-yard-line! A plunge through left guard for a scant yard; a run outside of tackle for three; third down and six yards to go, the goal-posts standing there mockingly almost above them. Loring wouldn’t risk a forward pass again. A try for a field goal was the only thing, and yet even if it succeeded it would still leave them two points behind. If only they might get a touchdown. He hesitated, the signal on his lips, hesitated, caught Colton’s dejected nod, and decided. Kapenhysen walked back, Loring following and dropping to his knees. Carefully the latter smoothed and patted the turf. The two lines, watching each other like boxers in the ring, shifted and moved, ready to close the instant the ball was passed. On the side-lines the silence grew and deepened. Then back came the ball into Loring’s waiting hands, his fingers clutched themselves about it, turned it and put it to earth. The lines swayed. Green-clad figures leaped through, arms up-stretched in the flight of the pigskin which, arching in slow flight, propelled by Kapenhysen’s mighty toe, was making surely for the cross-bar. A sudden thunder of sound, wild and discordant, filled the air. Blue banners waved triumphantly. On the score board the figure 4 topped the enemy’s 6. Back to the middle of the field trotted the teams.

Around the corner of the home stand came two figures. One was in everyday clothes, the other in the blue and khaki of Yardley.

“Ready, Broadwood?” The referee’s whistle was at his lips.

“All ready, sir!”

“Ready, Yardley?”

“All—No, sir! Just a minute. There’s a man coming on!”

“It’s all right, Vinton,” Payson was whispering calmly. “I can’t explain now. Go in there for Williams and do your best. Tell Loring not to forget ‘seventeen’ when he gets a chance. And when it comes, Vinton, make it good! You can do it! Play close on defense, and—well, that’s all. Go ahead!”

Vinton leaped forward like a young colt and raced onto the field. His heart was in his mouth, but he was fearsomely happy! The stand saw, wondered and shrieked approval. The leaders called for a “short cheer for Vinton, fellows, and make it good!” It was good, but Dan didn’t hear it. The ball was in air, Broadwood was charging down beneath it and he was blocking off a Broadwood tackle. Loring was playing like a dozen men that day, and now, with the ball clasped fast, he was dodging and running back up the field. Tackler after tackler was fooled, foe after foe was left behind. Dan was running too, trying to reach his team-mate to ward off the enemy. But before he could catch up with him Loring was down, rolling over and over, half a dozen green-clad players tumbling about him.

There was a quick line-up on the Blue’s forty yards and the game went on. But Yardley had met a foeman worthy of her steel to-day and as the ball went nearer and nearer to the north goal the gains grew shorter and shorter. On a second down a “bunch” pass was tried and although Connor secured it a penalty for off-side set the offense back again. Then a third down failed of the required distance by a bare twelve inches and the pigskin went to the enemy and was booted far down the field.

Yardley had it all to do over again. But now she was plainly the aggressor; Broadwood, doubtful of her ability to score again, had settled down to a policy of defense. But a scant ten minutes of playing time remained, and if she could keep her opponent from reaching her thirty-yard-line she need have no fear as to the final result. Yardley had not fully found herself until the first half was half over, and since then she had been playing a fast, hard game, and up until the present time had been improving rather than falling off. Broadwood’s single score, while by no means a fluke, had resulted from a trick which would probably not work again, and Yardley had demonstrated to her opponent’s satisfaction that consistent gains through the blue line were impossible. So Broadwood “played it safe,” longing for the sound of the final whistle.

Back on her thirty yards Yardley was buckling down to her task, a heart-breaking task at best. Loring feared to punt now, lest Broadwood should change her tactics and keep the ball. But after the Blue had reconquered twenty yards by desperate attacks at the line, Loring saw that at last the enemy was getting slow and logy. If the few untried tricks which remained in Yardley’s repertoire were to be used at all, now was the time. Constant hammering at the line, with occasional excursions outside of tackles on the part of the enemy had lulled Broadwood into unsuspiciousness. A quarter-back kick which was regained by Connor for an advance of twelve yards, opened her eyes. Connor was hurt in the play and Dyer took his place.

Broadwood became wary again, but her line-men were slow; only her backs had real life in them any longer. Loring tried Dyer around his own end, passing the ball to him on the run, and the right half-back tore off nine yards before he was captured. Yardley was past the middle of the field now, once more in the Green’s territory. A rather complicated cross-buck play ended in a loss and Loring went back at the line, sending Kapenhysen through a ragged hole made by Colton and Hill for a good six yard gain. But after that the Broadwood line stiffened again and on the forty yards Loring tried a quarter-back run, which gained four yards, following it with a run by Capes from punting formation, the fleet-footed left half covering thirty yards across the field to gain a scant eight. But every play was a gain of some sort, and the ball was still Yardley’s.

Now she was past the opponent’s thirty yards and the cheers from the Blue’s supporters were imperative and continuous. The time-keeper had passed the five-minute word. It was now or never, for once let Broadwood gain possession of the ball and she would punt far down the field from where Yardley could never retrace her steps in the time remaining.

It was first down on Broadwood’s twenty-seven yards. Loring and Colton held a consultation. Colton was for risking all in a try at goal from placement, but Kapenhysen, when called on for an opinion, begged them not to try it.

“I’ll do my best, old man,” he panted, “but I’m pretty near all in. Let’s hammer it over. Anyhow, don’t kick until you have to.”

So back to the hammer-and-tongs plays they went, but now, in the shadow of her goal, Broadwood awoke from her lethargy and played grand football. Berwick went in at center for Hill, Minturn replaced Dickenson, Smith went in for Hadlock. But, in spite of the fresh material, or perhaps because Broadwood, too, was sending in substitutes, Yardley won her next first down by the barest three inches. Dan remembered for a long time his suspense while the officials bent over the chain measuring the distance, and the great shout of relief that went up as the referee waved the linesman on.

Loring doubted now whether the next three downs would bring the required ten yards if he continued the attack on the line. He would have liked to try that double forward pass, but hesitated because, as he knew, to be at its best it should follow a “bunch” pass to the other side of the line, and Yardley’s attempts at this play had not been brilliantly successful. Still pondering and studying as he leaned over behind Berwick and looked around at the backs, the solution came to him. He gathered the team about him, issued his instructions, gave the signals and the backs took up the kicking formation.

“Forward pass!” cried the Broadwood quarter. “Look out for forward pass, fellows!”

Back went the ball, off raced the back-field to form in a bunch at the right. But a groan arose from the Yardley side of the field; Kapenhysen had fumbled the ball! And although he recovered it long before Broadwood broke through, and although having recovered it, he tucked it against his body and went straight into the melee before he was downed, yet a first down had been wasted and the ball was no nearer the goal-line than before. They never knew on the side-lines that Kapenhysen’s little fumble had been intentional, nor did the enemy guess it now. Encouraged, she set up her line again, wearied, but grimly determined.

Again came the signals:

“43—53—177—6!” And again: “43—53—177—6!”

Off raced Dyer, Loring and Kapenhysen to the right, Dickenson and Mitchell plunging through ahead of them.

“Forward pass!” cried Broadwood again, and her whole team followed to where, ten yards back of the line, Yardley was bunched as though to receive the pass. No one but the Broadwood quarter saw Dan steal through outside of tackle unmolested, and he saw it too late. Kapenhysen had stopped in his flight to the right and had passed the ball, straight and swift to Capes, fifteen yards away across the field. Capes took a step or two, stopped and sped the ball forward in a low curve to Dan’s waiting hands. Back raced the Broadwood players, but too late. Dan was almost on the five-yard-line when the ball settled into his arms. With a quick turn he plunged to the right, eluded the oncoming Broadwood half, tore free from the quarter and went staggering around the goal-post for a touchdown and victory.

The banquet was well along towards its close. The last plate had been pushed away, Loring, just elected captain for next year by acclamation, had made his little speech and now Payson had been called on. The coach laid down his napkin and arose, looking smilingly down the long table which, aglow with shaded candles, made an oasis of light in the darkened commons. Then he began to speak.

Dan, seated between Hill and Folwell, at the far end of the board, listened for a few moments. Then his thoughts wandered to the events of the day, to the note that Gerald had passed him outside the gymnasium door and which still lay unopened and until now forgotten in his pocket. He wondered what it could be. He drew it forth and broke the seal out of sight. The writing looked like Tubby’s atrocious fist, but—Why it was from Tubby! And what was this? Dan began at the beginning and read the note from end to end.

“Dear Dan: I’m off for home to-day. Don’t expect me back. You went and spoiled everything, you fool. It was I that did the decorations on Dudley. I wanted to get even with that ass Loring, and I would have if you hadn’t butted in and done the early Christian Martyr act. I’ve sent a note to Payson, so I guess he will let you play this afternoon. Hope you win. And I’ve left a note at the Office respectfully tendering my resignation. So they can’t fire me, you see. There was another fellow in with me on the painting act, but I won’t say who he is. Anyhow, it was my idea and I did the whole thing; he just watched. And I don’t want him to get into trouble over it, so you’d better keep mum about him. I guess I’ll try to make Broadwood after Christmas, if dad will let me go. Anyhow, I hope I’ll see you again some time before long. I’m glad to get out of this hole, you bet!

“Your friend,

“Harry L. Jones.

“P. S. I’m leaving my silver shoe-horn in the top bureau drawer. Maybe you’ll like to keep it. You can if you want. I wish you’d get my trunk down and pack my things for me. I’ll send for them in a few days. Good luck. Tubby.”

Tubby gone! Dan stared in amazement at the letter. And Tubby had done the painting. Well, he had suspected that. Poor old Tubby! He was sorry, real sorry, and he wished now that—

“Wake up, Vinton!”

Dan started. Folwell was digging him with his elbow and grinning at him.

“Huh?” he asked blankly. But Folwell whispered to him to “shut up and listen to Payson, you chump!” And Dan listened. The next moment his eyes were on the table and he felt the blood creeping up his neck, around his ears and into his cheeks. Once he glanced up and met Loring’s face laughing back at him across the board. But there was more than laughter in Loring’s look and Dan’s eyes dropped swiftly again.

“And so,” Payson was saying, “although this victory of to-day belongs to us and to the whole school, yet it is essentially a one-man victory. And that one is here amongst us. It is his victory, not merely because, a new fellow this Fall, he worked hard and cut his way into the team; not merely because at the last moment, on a play which he himself invented, he made the winning score for us; but because, when two of our men, one of whom we simply couldn’t have done without, were charged with a misdemeanor and deprived of their right to play on the team, this fellow came forward and, innocent though he was, shouldered the fault and the punishment that those men might play and that Yardley might win. Yes, fellows, to-day’s victory was your victory, my victory, the school’s victory, but more than all it was Vinton’s victory!”

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the illustration may not match the page number in the List of Illustrations.

Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

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