For the good of the team
Date: 2023-05-21T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Football -- Juvenile fiction; Teenage boys -- Juvenile fiction; Boarding schools -- Juvenile fiction; Connecticut -- Juvenile fiction; Football stories

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Title: For the good of the team

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Release date: May 21, 2023 [eBook #70829]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: D. Appleton and Company, 1923

Credits: Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM ***

FOR THE GOOD
OF THE TEAM

By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

Yardley Hall Series

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

Purple Pennant Series

- THE LUCKY SEVENTH
- THE SECRET PLAY
- THE PURPLE PENNANT

Hilton Series

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

Erskine Series

- BEHIND THE LINE
- WEATHERBY’S INNING
- ON YOUR MARK

The “Big Four” Series

- FOUR IN CAMP
- FOUR AFOOT
- FOUR AFLOAT

The Grafton Series

- RIVALS FOR THE TEAM
- HITTING THE LINE
- WINNING HIS GAME

North Bank Series

- THREE BASE BENSON
- KICK FORMATION
- COXSWAIN OF THE EIGHT

Books Not In Series

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

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York

STUART SENT THE BALL TO BURNS ON A DIRECT PASS

FOR THE GOOD
OF THE TEAM

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

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

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

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | A Hero Returns | 1
II. | Captain and Coach | 18
III. | A Boy on Crutches | 30
IV. | “Only the Captain!” | 45
V. | A Clash of Authority | 60
VI. | Defeat | 77
VII. | The Ath. Fac. Takes a Hand | 93
VIII. | A New Leader is Chosen | 105
IX. | Out of a Job | 118
X. | The Handicaps | 134
XI. | The Last Lap | 147
XII. | Neil Intervenes | 160
XIII. | Stuart Goes Out for the Team | 170
XIV. | Wanted, a Kicker | 183
XV. | The Conference | 197
XVI. | Le Gette Explains | 212
XVII. | Tasker Goes Over | 226
XVIII. | In the Last Quarter | 242
XIX. | Stuart Speaks His Mind | 257
XX. | “For the Good of the Team” | 275

FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM

CHAPTER I
A HERO RETURNS

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

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

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

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

“Too bad,” murmured Jack.

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

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

“Did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” asked Stuart suspiciously.

“Amenability,” replied Jack gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II
CAPTAIN AND COACH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“True,” assented Mr. Haynes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A steady player?” inquired the coach casually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III
A BOY ON CRUTCHES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. Well, how are you, anyway?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do the fellows like him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! What did you tell him?”

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

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

CHAPTER IV
“ONLY THE CAPTAIN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V
A CLASH OF AUTHORITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try it over,” suggested Thurston.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he tell you he did it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Proof enough,” growled the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What! Do you mean to say——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI
DEFEAT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII
THE ATH. FAC. TAKES A HAND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” asked Stuart darkly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will like fun!” exclaimed Stuart indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Sir:

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII
A NEW LEADER IS CHOSEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neil nodded. After a moment he said tentatively: “This oughtn’t to stop you from playing, Stuart.”

Stuart laughed shortly and mockingly. “Oh, of course not! I ought to keep right on, eh? Maybe I could get a job lugging the water pail! Don’t be a coot, Neil! If I’m not good enough for captain, I’m not good enough to play quarterback.”

“How about the team, though? This isn’t going to make you want Pearsall to win, is it?”

“No, but they won’t need me. Wheaton’s a good man, and once I’m out of his way he’s bound to be a lot better.” Stuart didn’t sound convincing even to himself, though, and he added: “Anyway, I’ve got some pride, Neil, and I’m switched if I’ll go back there as a private in the ranks to be grinned at by every whippersnapper of a fourth-string substitute and lorded over by Haynes! No, by golly, they’ve got what they wanted and now they can go ahead and make good. All I say is, whoever the new captain is I pity him!”

That ended the subject for a while, for during the next few days it was carefully avoided by both.

The School heard the news that afternoon, and, as was to be expected, excitement prevailed. On the whole, however, the thing created less sensation than Stuart, for one, looked for. Among the players sides were taken and argument raged, but Stuart’s partisans were vastly in the minority, and if he had secretly hoped for anything approaching a protest against his resignation he was disappointed. His own attitude in public was one of smiling, half-contemptuous amusement. He made no charges in words, no matter what his manner expressed. A fair sample of his explanations to those who questioned, was his reply to Greg Trenholme, the baseball captain.

“I just couldn’t get along,” he said. “There was only one thing to do and I did it.”

Of course there were many who surmised that Stuart’s resignation had not been offered solely without suggestion from the Committee on Athletics and who freely published that surmise, but the truth of it was never established. Stuart dropped out of the team and remained away from the field, and what news he had of football affairs he received from Jack. Jack was plainly sympathetic and sorry, but Stuart couldn’t help feeling after the first few days that Jack was accepting the situation with surprising equanimity. The fact was that the unfortunate incident once accepted, Jack’s principal sensation was one of relief. Affairs had been going far more smoothly at the field since Stuart’s departure. The feeling of tension had disappeared, and, with Coach Haynes alone in command, the players knew where they stood. Of course Stuart was missed at quarter, and there was no one in sight who promised to more than half fill his shoes, but Jack’s loyalty to his friend couldn’t disguise for him the fact that so far as the welfare of the team was concerned Stuart’s absence was more of a blessing than a misfortune. He, like Neil and several others, had suggested that the loss of the captaincy need not keep Stuart off the team, but with a similar result.

“Nothing doing,” laughed Stuart. “When I quit, I quit. When Haynes appoints a new captain you won’t need me.”

“What’s Haynes got to do with choosing a captain?” asked Jack.

“Why, isn’t he going to?” asked the other innocently. “Who is, then?”

“The players, of course,” answered Jack. “There’s a meeting called for to-morrow night. It’ll probably be Howdy Tasker.”

“What’s the matter with you getting it?” asked Stuart.

“Me? Gosh, I couldn’t captain the team!”

Two days later, Stuart heard the result of the meeting. “Nobody would accept,” said Jack gloomily. “We had Howdy nominated and he refused point-blank. Then we tried to elect Joe Cutts and then Billy Littlefield, and they lay down on us. So——”

“Weren’t you nominated?” asked Stuart.

Jack nodded. “Yes, but I wouldn’t make any kind of a captain. Well, it ended up with no election. Now, they say, the Ath. Fac. will appoint some one. No one seems to want it, though.”

“You were a chump not to accept, Jack. Why didn’t you?”

Jack looked uncomfortable. “I told you, didn’t I?” he growled. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to take it when—after you——”

Stuart laughed. “I thought that was it,” he said. “Well, you should have taken it, old man. I’d rather see you captain than any one. If any one could get along with Haynes it’s you, I guess. If you get the chance again you take it and stop being a silly ass.”

Jack shook his head, “I don’t believe I’d want it,” he muttered.

That was Sunday morning. Monday Jack sought Stuart again just before dinner. “Look here,” he began, plainly embarrassed, “they’ve gone and done it, the crazy jays.”

“Done what?”

“Appointed me captain. The Ath. Fac. I got word half an hour ago. Isn’t that the limit?”

“I don’t see anything to be insulted about,” answered Stuart. He tried to sound cordial, but he didn’t succeed. “You’d better accept, I’d say.”

“Fellows tell me I’ve got to,” muttered Jack. “I’d a heap rather not. It—it seems sort of rotten. I mean toward you.”

Stuart laughed shortly. “Don’t mind me, Jack. I’m out of it completely. You wouldn’t do me any good by refusing.”

“You’re quite sure you wouldn’t mind?” asked Jack anxiously.

“Absolutely, old son. Go to it!” Stuart managed to get the right note that time, and Jack caught it and smiled his relief.

“Well, then, I suppose I’d better,” he said. “I’d a lot rather you still had the job, though, Stuart, and I’d hate mightily to take it if—if you didn’t like it. You know that, eh?”

“Sure!” Stuart did know it, and appreciation of Jack’s loyalty made the word sound genuine. “Some one’s got to be captain of the team, Jack, and it might as well be you. In fact, you deserve it, old man, and I’m glad you’ve got it!”

And he really thought he was glad, but after Jack had gone off, relieved and quite cheerful, he found himself wondering how much of his friend’s reluctance had been real and how much feigned. Certainly he couldn’t blame Jack for wanting the captaincy. Any fellow would be glad of the honor. Of course some chaps might have refused under the circumstances, but perhaps not many. Friendship didn’t mean an awful lot, after all, to the average fellow, and possibly he ought to give credit to Jack for asking him about it before deciding: if, that is, Jack hadn’t already made up his mind to accept the captaincy before coming to him! Stuart’s lip curled a little. He guessed Jack wouldn’t have let the chance get away from him whether he—Stuart—had liked it or lumped it!

CHAPTER IX
OUT OF A JOB

Stuart borrowed some clubs from Fred Locker and tried to interest himself in golf and, for several afternoons, with Neil swinging along beside him on his crutches, haunted the links. But impatience and ineptness soon proved too much for a lukewarm enthusiasm and that means of passing the time was discarded. Stuart relied on Neil almost pathetically that first week, and the latter good-naturedly put himself at the disposal of his chum and tried his best to be of service, neglecting his studies on many occasions and not infrequently getting pretty tired in accompanying the other over the roads or across fields. As nimble as he was, the crutches hurt cruelly after a while, and Stuart, trying, it seemed, to escape from the sounds of punted balls and the cries of the players on the gridiron, set a lively pace sometimes.

Stuart’s own studies suffered, too, and they could ill afford to since football duties had left him in none too good a standing. On Friday Mr. Moffit summoned him to his study in Holton and Stuart went over there dejectedly that evening after supper. However, the English instructor didn’t prove formidable. He managed to make the boy talk about the loss of the captaincy and, perhaps because he was tired of pretending, Stuart made a clean breast of the affair, from first to last, finding his audience sympathetic and obtaining much relief from the confession.

“Harven,” asked Mr. Moffit when Stuart had ended, “do you recall a conversation we had here one afternoon before school started?” Mr. Moffit’s eyes twinkled. “We discussed, among other things amenability. I think some one had charged you with a lack of that quality, and we denied the aspersion with the contempt it deserved and substituted an over supply of self-dependence.”

Stuart nodded gloomily.

“Oh, well, that gets us nowhere, does it? One of the most puerile pursuits that the human creature indulges in is weeping on the graves of dead actions. There’s nothing in it, Harven. Just clang the cemetery gate, stick your hands in your pockets, pucker your lips and whistle bravely. And then tackle the next job. Of course we do learn by past mistakes—at least we ought to and some of us do—but there’s nothing to be gained by beating the breast and putting ashes in the hair. Now then, what are you doing?”

“Doing?” asked Stuart vaguely.

“Yes. You’re out of football. What’s taking its place? I’m fairly certain it’s not English A!”

Stuart smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry about this morning, sir. I—I didn’t even look at the stuff yesterday.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” laughed Mr. Moffit. “Well, if it isn’t study that’s occupying your mind and time, what is it?”

“I guess nothing much. I’ve been walking around. And I tried golf, but——”

“There! I knew you had some intelligence, Harven!” the instructor beamed. “Golf ought to be just the thing for you.”

Stuart shook his head. “I’m no good at it, sir.”

“Who is? I’m probably the poorest player that ever swung a club. But I don’t let that worry me. Not too much, anyhow. I promise myself that some day I’ll know so much golf that I’ll have to write a book about it to keep from bursting! You’re eighteen—Seventeen, is it? Well, of course you’re starting perhaps ten years too late, but you’ve a good chance to make good. My misfortune is that I never heard of the game until I was nearly thirty. Got any clubs?”

“No, sir, I borrowed some from a fellow.”

“Take mine then. They are in the closet over there doing nothing. I hate to open the door and get the reproachful looks they give me! It may be imagination, Harven, but sometimes when I awake at night I could swear that I hear them whimpering. Take them and use them. Break them, if you like. I’m sure a golf club would rather be broken than idle!”

“Thanks, sir, but I don’t believe I’ll try it any more just now. I—I don’t seem to be able to get my mind on it.”

Mr. Moffit sighed. “You’re right then. Don’t try golf when you can’t give it every thought. It’s divided attention on the links that has enriched the men who make golf balls. Well, if not golf, what then?”

Stuart shook his head again. “I’ll find something, sir. I mean to try basket ball later.”

“Don’t wait until later, Harven. Find something at once and put your heart into it. Do you row?”

“No, sir, not much. I can scull a bit.”

“A pleasant diversion, but not absorbing, I fear. Well, think it over and tackle something. And come and see me about the middle of next week and tell me what it is. Will you?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Good! And just one more thing, Harven. When you go out of here I want to see you put your shoulders back and hear you whistle!” Mr. Moffit was on his feet and holding his hand out. Apparently the interview was at an end, but the subject of English A had been scarcely touched on, and as Stuart shook hands he said:

“I’ll try to do better in English, Mr. Moffit. I’m sorry——”

“Bless you, I didn’t ask you over here to talk English to you,” interrupted the other heartily. “I was after the cause, Harven—the effect was apparent. Come out from under the weeping willows and hit the sunshine trail, my boy! That’s the first thing. Then find something to do and do it hard. After that English A and all the other courses will pretty nearly look after themselves! Good night.”

Outside, Stuart heard Mr. Moffit’s window go up and the instructor’s voice called: “Harven! You’re not doing it, you know! Shoulders back and whistle, you duffer!”

Stuart laughed and obeyed.

He met Coach Haynes only twice or thrice in that week. He made no effort to avoid him, but their paths seldom crossed. When they did meet they spoke politely. Rather to his surprise, Stuart found that his enmity toward the coach was leavened by a large admixture of respect. The coach, he reasoned, was an open and avowed foe who had, when all was said, fought fairly. Some day not far distant Stuart meant to go to him and tell him just exactly what he thought of him, but until that delectable moment he would treat him with the dignity and respect due one warrior from another. But toward the Committee on Athletics, faculty and student members alike, he cherished a dark wrath. Especially toward Judson McColl and Stearns Wilson was this anger directed. They, as it seemed to Stuart, were veritable snakes in the grass. He got a good deal of unconscious comfort from that anger and suffered a distinct loss when he was forced to abandon it. That happened one morning when toward the end of the week, he met McColl face to face in front of the library and, instead of returning McColl’s friendly “Hi, Stuart!” gave him a coldly contemptuous look and passed silently on. Almost any other fellow but the President of the Student Council would have shrugged his shoulders and thereafter let Stuart alone, but McColl wasn’t the sort to do that; which is, perhaps, one reason why he was President of the Student Council and of Manning Society. Unexpectedly, Stuart felt himself grasped by the shoulders and pushed gently but very, very firmly against the library wall. Judson McColl regarded him good-humoredly yet sternly.

“Let’s get this right, Stuart,” he said quietly. “Why the haughty brow and the frozen glare? Come across, old man.”

Stuart came across promptly, glad of the chance, and McColl heard him out patiently. Then, however, he told Stuart things that fairly took the ground from under Stuart’s feet. “Stearns and I were against the resignation business from the start,” he said, “but we had the three faculty members against us right along. We didn’t make much of a fight against that first resolution, for we thought it might be a good thing if you came and talked it over with the Committee. Where you made your mistake was not doing it, Stuart. When you sent your resignation in Stearns and I did everything we could to get the Committee to lay it on the table and appoint a sub-committee to see you, but Pierson and Wallace and Dodge wouldn’t stand for it. We called Coach Haynes in that evening and he was flatly against accepting the resignation, but——”

“What?” exclaimed Stuart.

“Yes, Haynes told us plainly that we shouldn’t accept your resignation until we’d made another effort to smooth things over with you. But the faculties were on their dignity, and Pierson said you’d had your chance and had refused it. When it came to a vote Stearns and I were two against three and we lost out.”

“I didn’t know that,” muttered Stuart.

“You know it now, son,” answered Jud McColl dryly. “It’s a pretty good idea not to go off half-cocked, Stuart.” Then McColl laughed and slapped Stuart on the shoulder. “Buck up and smile!”

Stuart managed the smile, but it wasn’t very hearty. “Sorry I made such an ass of myself, Jud,” he mumbled. “Thanks for—for what you did.”

“You’re welcome, son. Sorry we couldn’t do more. If I’d had any idea you were going to come back with that resignation like that I’d have been around to see you. It wouldn’t have done any harm, you know, if you’d met us halfway instead of flying off the handle like that. What was the big idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Stuart shook his head dejectedly. “I thought it was Haynes’s doing and I was sore.”

“Well, of course, Haynes did put the matter before the Committee, but he only asked to have things cleared up so the team would get along better. I don’t believe for a moment that he wanted you out, old man. Look here, why don’t you call it an even break and start over again? Why not go out and help them along, Stuart?”

“Oh, I guess they don’t need me,” muttered the other. “Besides, I’d be off my game.”

“Well, think it over and see if you can’t forget your hurt feelings. So long!”

Perhaps it was unfortunate that, fifty yards further on, passing Sawyer, Stuart almost collided with Steve Le Gette, and that to Stuart it seemed that Le Gette’s startled look changed, as he sheered aside, into an expression of malicious triumph. In any event, the chance meeting drove out of Stuart’s mind any effect caused by McColl’s advice. He certainly wouldn’t go back to the team as long as Le Gette was there to sneer, he told himself!

Until three or half-past in the afternoons Stuart got along fairly well, for there was plenty to occupy his mind, but when the hour of football practice arrived he felt horribly lost. When you’ve been doing a certain thing at a certain time each day for a long period you can’t help missing that thing when it’s no longer there for you to do. Stuart tried studying, but the silence of the well-nigh empty hall oppressed him. Besides, the hours between three and six of a fine October day were never meant to be wasted in poring over the pages of a text book! Even Neil realized that and, though he would offer to remain in Number 12 and keep Stuart company, the latter always refused to allow him to do so. Neil’s favorite retreat in good weather was a bench beside the tennis courts, or, when there happened to be a match in progress, the summit of the short ladder, from where he gravely made some such announcement as; “The games are three—one. Mr. Spudkins leads.” Several times he induced Stuart to accompany him to the courts, but the football player didn’t entertain Neil’s enthusiasm for tennis and after looking on through half a dozen games he got bored and restless. He had really tried very hard to find interest in golf, but as he had never played enough to more than learn the modus operandi he failed. He might have found a place in one of the four-oared shells without much trying, for he was a fair hand with a sweep and there were always from three to ten dormitory and class crews in training during the fall, but the plain truth is that he wanted to play football and didn’t want to do anything else. Even to have gone to the field and looked on would have been better than nothing, but pride forbade that. He was surely at a loose end those days, and the fact that every afternoon for a week provided ideal football weather made it seem that even Nature was taking a hand in his chastening. But on the day of his enlightening talk with Judson McColl chance offered him a solution of one difficulty.

He stopped at the bulletin board in the corridor of Manning and, for want of a better way in which to pass a couple of minutes, read some of the notices. The fact that Sawyer, 22 Meigs, had lost a gray sweater, or that Lumkin, 8 Byers, wanted to buy a second-hand typewriter didn’t engross him. Neither did a plaintive call for candidates for the soccer football team. He was in a mood to bear with splendid equanimity the failure of Sawyer to recover his sweater, the inability of Lumkin to acquire a typewriter and the utter collapse of the soccer team. But a moment later he came across an announcement that did excite his interest. It was already a week or more old and it announced the date of the Fall Handicap Meeting and stated that entries would be received up to and including November 4. The notice was signed “Charles E. Dodge, 2 Sawyer Hall.” Mr. Dodge was the Physical Director, and, with The Laird, attended to the training of the track and field candidates.

Stuart reread the announcement and then frowned thoughtfully. In his junior year he had won third place in the Spring Track Meet in the mile and had just failed of capturing fourth in the half. Last year he had won his place on the eleven and lost interest in the cinder path. But somewhere there was a pair of spiked canvas shoes with his name lettered on the lining in faded ink, and there was time enough for all the practice he wanted. He didn’t believe for a moment that he could finish the mile or get placed in the half mile, but it wouldn’t be bad fun trying, and, which was really his reason for considering the idea, the running track surrounded the second team gridiron, and from the second team gridiron one could see very nicely what was going on in first team circles! In other words, while he wouldn’t have gone to the first team field and watched practice for anything, he could see no reason why it shouldn’t be perfectly permissible to take up track work and sometimes, in the pauses of practicing starts or after a jog around the cinders, cast an occasional uninterested glance over toward the big team. The more he considered the plan the better it looked to him, and so, without more ado, he walked over to Sawyer Hall, discovered Mr. Dodge in his study and put his name down for the mile run and the 880 yards. Mr. Dodge was in a chatty mood and Stuart had to stay and talk much longer than he wanted to. The Physical Director did not, however, refer to Stuart’s resignation from the football captaincy, and so Stuart forgave him for his loquaciousness and tried hard to become interested in track matters and the chances of capturing the Dual Meet with Pearsall next May. Mr. Dodge observed, evidently quite sincerely, that he hoped the team would have Stuart’s services when that time arrived.

When he told Neil that evening the latter was clearly puzzled. “Why,” he said doubtfully, “I dare say you’ll get some fun out of it, Stuart, but you’ll find yourself in pretty punk condition, I’m afraid. And there’s only a few days left for practice.”

“Oh, I don’t expect to do anything,” answered the other. “I’ll probably last about two laps in the mile and finish last in the other, but I’m not doing anything just now, and a fellow ought to keep in some sort of condition. I may go in for basket ball after recess. Or maybe hockey. I wonder where those running shoes of mine got to.”

The next afternoon he was out on the track. The Laird, who found time from duties with the football team to give a few minutes daily to the track men, viewed his appearance with surprised approval and warned him against overwork. Stuart dryly assured him that he had no reason for uneasiness, and The Laird puckered his brows and nodded. Evidently the new candidate for track honors wasn’t to be considered very seriously. Mr. Dodge, however, appeared to entertain no doubts on the subject of Stuart’s earnestness and, when he arrived to look after the candidates, displayed an embarrassing and even annoying interest in the newcomer. If only to keep from disappointing Mr. Dodge, Stuart was forced for several succeeding afternoons to make a plausible pretense of training, something that rather interfered with his observation of the first team practice. Of course, he found himself hideously out of form and suspected that some of the other candidates were viewing his presence on the track with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. But he didn’t mind that so very much. What he would have minded was the knowledge that Coach Haynes and the football fellows were suspecting the real reason for his proximity to the first team gridiron. But it is scarcely likely that any of them, unless, possibly, it was Jack, gave any thought to the matter.

After the third day on the cinders Stuart found that a little of his former speed and stamina had returned to him, although he still doubted his ability to give any of his competitors a real race in either of the events for which he was entered, even if he had been inclined to. Judging, however, by the time he spent on the track and beside it, you would have thought him a most determined candidate, for he was always one of the first to arrive and he never left until after the football men had gone from the gridiron. If he spent most of his time sitting around in his bathrobe and looking across the field, that was his own affair. Hadn’t The Laird warned him against overwork?

CHAPTER X
THE HANDICAPS

The Fall Handicap Meet took place on a Thursday afternoon, and practically the whole school turned out in the rôle of contestant, official or onlooker. Of course there were some not present; the baseball players, who were drawing to the end of fall practice; a few tennis enthusiasts; a few others who preferred the river to the grand stand; and the football men. But of the latter not all remained away, for a handful had been given leave to take part in the events. Le Gette and Leonard were there to toy with the shot and hammer, Earnest Lowe was on hand to compete in both the pole vault and the sprints, and there were as many others who had changed canvas for “shorts.” Over fifty lads had entered, the Junior Class being rather better represented than any of the others. Some thirty more fellows were on hand in various official capacities, and among these was Neil Orr who, as usual on such occasions, was one of the timers. Naturally, there weren’t very many left to act as audience.

The afternoon was clear and there was warmth in the sunlight, but a cool breeze blew down the stretch and kept the gaudily colored bathrobes of the entrants wrapped tightly about lightly-clothed bodies. When Stuart reached the track a little after three the field events were already under way, and lithe, white-clad figures were busy at the vaulting and jumping standards. He could see, too, the big form of Steve Le Gette poised momentarily like a statue ere he sent the shot away. Stuart’s first event was the half mile, and that was set for three-forty, and so, clutching his robe closely about his bare legs, he seated himself on the turf beside Tom Hanson. Tom, excused from football work for the afternoon, was entered for the 100 and 220 events. Half a dozen other contestants were in the group, watching the trials of the 100-yards hurdles which had just started.

“Didn’t know you were in this game,” observed Hanson as Stuart joined the group. “What’s yours, Cap? Quarter mile?”

Tom had used the title from force of habit and probably didn’t know that he had used it, which Stuart realized after he had shot a quick glance at the other’s smiling face. Stuart explained that he was down for the half mile and the mile.

“Haven’t done much running lately, have you?” Tom asked.

“Not much. Won’t to-day, probably. Thought I’d just like to keep my hand in, you know.”

“Meaning your legs,” chuckled Tom. “Well, you’ll have plenty of company in your events, I guess; especially the mile. About every junior who has two good legs thinks he’s a miler. I know, for I did myself when I came. Ran fourteenth in a field of thirteen, or something like that, and then The Laird got me to try the sprints. Mighty glad he did, too, for it was only the fact that I could manage the hundred in ten flat that got me on the football team. That was last year. Remember?”

Stuart nodded. “Certainly do, Tom. That was some run of yours in the Forest Hill game. Eighty-five yards, wasn’t it?”

“Eighty, to be truthful. Or half a yard more, maybe. It was a funny piece of luck. I’d been sitting on the bench ever since the season started and hadn’t been in a game. Fair enough, too, for all I could do was punt a bit.”

“How about run?” laughed Stuart.

“Well, yes, I could sprint, but I mean I wasn’t much use as far as football stuff went. That day they laid Pitkin out cold in the first quarter, if you remember, and then Ernie got a kick in the head and for some reason or other Coach picked on me. That was in the third quarter, close to the end of it, and the ball was about seven yards from our goal.”

“Yes, and third down, too, with only two to go,” added Stuart grimly. “Forest Hill had us beaten, 9 to 0. Anyway, we all thought so.”

“So did the coach,” chuckled Tom Hanson. “Anyway, he just told me that here was a good chance to improve my education, and to go on in at right half. ‘Any orders, sir?’ I asked, mighty knowing. He looked disgusted and said: ‘No, except you can tell those Little Lord Fauntleroys out there to bring the ball back when they get through playing with it!’ He was sore, all right.”

“We all were,” said Stuart reflectively. “Forest Hill had been making goats of us for three periods and we didn’t seem able to help ourselves. Gee, we didn’t know enough football to play a night school!”

“Well, that was certainly a lucky fumble,” mused Tom.

“Lucky for us,” grunted Stuart. “Those fellows were so certain of that touchdown they thought they didn’t have to really play. I saw the ball jump out of the back’s hands and I tried mighty hard to get through to it, but Stoughton was in my way. I yelled ‘Ball! Ball!’ until I was hoarse, and no one seemed to hear me. Our line was just pushing and shoving, like a lot of fellows paid by the day! They didn’t seem to realize that nothing was hitting them and that the whole Forest Hill team was chasing the ball! Guess you were the only other chap of our crowd who saw the blamed thing was loose!”

“I thought I’d never get around to it,” said Tom. “It rolled out to the left of our line and I had to upset Lever to get him out of my way. When I got to it luck played right into my hands. It was still bobbing around, with about six of the enemy grabbing for it. Just as I edged in it must have hit a pebble, I guess, for blamed if it didn’t hop about eighteen inches into the air and right into my paws. After that it was easy.”

“Yes, awfully easy,” said Stuart derisively. “All you had to do was get clear of the whole Forest Hill mob and run eighty yards!”

“Well, no one troubled me much,” answered Tom.

“N-no, not after you’d got going good, but I had seven varieties of heart failure for a while. Boy, you surely traveled!”

“Had to! Besides, I was fresh as a daisy. Just as soon as I’d worked out of the crowd I knew I was all right. There wasn’t one of that bunch who wasn’t too tired to give me a race.”

“That got us the game,” reflected Stuart. “Gee, but I’ll never forget how crazy we were when we saw you go over that line! After that we just got it into our heads that Forest Hill wasn’t such a sight better than we were, and we tore her up.”

“It looked like we’d started too late, though, until you got off that forward pass to ‘Mudgard.’ Even then I wouldn’t have bet much on our winning.”

“No, for Burns had a mean angle to kick from and there was some wind. Not much, but plenty to queer his aim. At that, if you remember, the old pigskin hit the bar going over!”

“Sure do,” chuckled Hanson. “I remember lots of things about that game.”

“I’ll bet you do. I guess you remember the way the fellows got up and cheered you when you came in to supper that night, for one thing!” Stuart laughed softly. “You certainly were the popular guy that time, Tom!”

“Oh, shucks! Anyway, that got me started. That’s why I say I’m glad I didn’t make a miler. If I’d finished that race much better than twelfth or thirteenth—anyway, last but one—I’d have gone right on running the distances.”

Stuart nodded. “And we’d have lost a crackajack half, Tom. Glad you were so rotten. Bet you, though, I’ll do even worse to-day than you did.”

“Oh, I guess you’ll finish pretty well up,” said Tom. “Of course that poor fish, Lantwood, will win. Say, I can’t stand that chap.”

“Well, he isn’t horribly attractive to me,” responded the other, “but I’ve nothing against him. He certainly can run the mile; and the half, too, for that matter. What have you got against the lad, Tom?”

“Oh, I’ve heard two or three things,” answered Tom vaguely.

“Such as what?”

But Tom shook his head. “I’d rather not tell, Cap. They might not be true.”

“Then why do you put stock in them?” laughed Stuart.

Tom grinned. “Well, I’m satisfied that they are true, but—oh, well, they mightn’t be! Say, how did he manage to make Lyceum, anyway?”

“I forget who backed him. He came in with a crowd last January.” Stuart’s brow darkened. “It is funny that a chap like Austin Lantwood can make the society and a decent fellow like Neil Orr gets blackballed! It makes me sick.”

“That’s so,” Tom agreed. “It was rather putrid, I thought. Ever learn who did it, Cap?”

“I know who did it, all right,” replied Stuart morosely. “And he’ll get his some day.”

“Well!” Tom viewed his companion speculatively. “Guess it wasn’t the fellow I thought it might be, then.”

“I don’t know who you thought it was,” said Stuart, “but there’s just one fellow it could be.”

“Meaning?”

But Stuart’s reply was prevented by the stentorian summons to the half-milers and he left Tom and went over to the starting line. Jud McColl was in charge there, and when Stuart had answered to his name he was sent down to his mark. Only Austin Lantwood stood on scratch. He was a tall, thin, pale-faced, upper-middler with colorless hair and light blue eyes. But he had the runner’s build and the muscles of his stem-like legs worked like oiled machinery under the skin. Tully, a senior, came next. Then half a dozen more were sprinkled along the cinders to where Stuart was stationed with three others, evidently all juniors, somewhat nervous and jumpy. Still others were placed here and there around the turn. Secretly, Stuart considered that the handicappers had been more flattering than charitable in awarding him his allowance. Still, he was so little concerned in his fortunes that he couldn’t muster up even a mild indignation. After the usual delay, a pistol went off behind him and he sprang forward. It took six strides to secure the position next to the rim, and he had to yield place to one of the juniors to reach it. After that he settled into a fair pace and determined to hold it, no matter what happened, until he had reached the end of the backstretch on the second, and last, lap.

There had been nineteen starters and when Stuart was well into the backstretch on that first lap more than half of the number were ahead of him. Lantwood didn’t pull up and past until the last turn was behind. Tully was close at his heels, with Farnsworth, one of Stuart’s classmates, coming stride for stride with him. The bell rang for the final lap with the field well bunched in front of the stand. But after that the runners began to string out. Just past the first turn Lantwood sprinted and took the lead and Tully fell into third place, with Farnsworth still keeping pace with him. Stuart was then eighth man, and until he was well into the backstretch he had some notion of bettering his place. But the next moment he realized that he would be lucky to finish, for Lantwood was setting a fast pace and Stuart’s breath was going fast. Halfway along the back he fell into tenth position, and from there on he ran in genuine distress. He got back his wind a little at the last corner, but he was still in bad shape and finished just about dead-beat in tenth place. Lantwood won in good time by something over twelve yards, with Tully second, a junior Levering third and Farnsworth a poor fourth. For a few minutes Stuart was too busy getting his lungs working as they should to display much interest in the result. He was convinced that running was not his game; at least that running the half mile wasn’t; and was seriously considering having his name scratched for the mile.

But there remained half an hour before that event was to be run, and maybe he’d better wait and see how he felt. After all, it was sort of yellow to give up so early. He could at least start. Hanson, who had won into the finals in both sprints, told him he had run a good race.

“I was watching you, Cap,” said Tom, “and you surely handled yourself well. Of course your trouble is that you haven’t had enough work. I wouldn’t wonder, though, if you’d do a heap better in the mile. Guess the longer distance and the slower pace is your meat. Let some one pace you for the first three laps, Cap. Then you don’t have to trouble about your time so much. Get in behind Tully, if you can. He’s a mighty steady runner and you can depend on him to take you to the fourth lap in good shape. Old Tully’s a fox at the running game. Maybe he isn’t as fast as Lantwood, but he always finishes with something left, and a couple of years from now he will be getting a lot more firsts than that poor simp.”

“I might almost think, to listen to your talk, Tom, that you didn’t like Lantwood.”

“Oh, he can run,” answered Tom, “and so can a coyote.”

“Ever see one?”

“No, but I’ll bet he’d look a lot like Lantwood!”

“I won’t bet with you. Guess I’ll go over and see what sort of a handicap they’re giving me for the mile.”

“Don’t you know?” demanded Tom incredulously. Stuart shook his head. “Well, you surely are taking a big interest in this business! Are you quite sure you’ve got your name down?”

Stuart grinned. “Why anticipate trouble, old son?” he asked. “It’s bound to turn out that they haven’t given me more than half the handicap I ought to have.”

“Now,” answered the other approvingly, “you sound like a real ath-a-lete!”

“Thanks. Hope you cop your sprints, Tom. What do you think?”

“Guess I’ll get first in the two-twenty, with any sort of luck, but I’m not likely to do better than third in the other. Lowe has that cinched, and Bannister’s a bit better than me at the distance. I’m a rotten starter. Ernie always has two yards on me at the gun.”

“Well, there’s your call. Let’s see you beat the bunch, Tom.”

Tom’s prediction regarding the 220-yard dash proved correct, for he finished well ahead of the other three men, but, later in the afternoon, he was proved to be slightly wrong as to the short sprint. Instead of finishing third behind Ernest Lowe and Bannister, he finished second, with Bannister ahead and Lowe behind. For once, as he confided to Stuart afterwards, he had beaten Ernie away from the mark, and his satisfaction over that achievement far exceeded his pleasure in winning the two-twenty! But Tom Hanson was not the only contestant of the afternoon who succeeded in accomplishing the unexpected.

CHAPTER XI
THE LAST LAP

“All out for the mile run! Milers this way!”

Stuart was glad when the summons came, for the hour was growing late, the shadows were stretching far across the field and the air was getting decidedly chill. Even the woolen bathrobe no longer sufficed to keep the cold from his legs, and only by frequent exercising and rubbings was he able to hold the muscles from tightening. Many of the patient spectators were wandering shiveringly down from the stand to loiter up and down the side of the track. The field events were over, all save the pole vault. In that Ernest Lowe was still fighting for first place with Kendall, a lower middler and a horse of the darkest hue. Already the school record had been broken and there was every indication that the Dual record would share the same fate.

Neil swung himself over to where Stuart pranced about down beyond the first turn. “Go get ’em,” he called cheerfully as he approached across the turf. Stuart shook a gloomy head.

“A swell chance,” he protested. “Look at the handicap! A hundred and forty yards in a mile run! A lot of good that will be to me! And there’s Smiley over there with more than two hundred.”

“You’re better than he is, though, aren’t you?” asked Neil.

“Maybe a little,” allowed the other disconsolately. “But I’m too cold to run now. My muscles are all twisted up. It’s a crazy piece of business to keep us hanging around like this!”

“I guess the others are just as cold,” said Neil cheerfully. “There’s quite a bunch of you, isn’t there? Must be nearly twenty.”

“For two cents I’d quit,” muttered Stuart, looking back up the track that was sprinkled with runners.

“I wouldn’t,” advised Neil. “You may do a lot better than you expect and be mighty glad you ran.”

“Oh, I’ll do the half, anyway,” replied the other grudgingly as the warning cry of “On your mark!” floated down to him.

“Well, good luck,” said Neil. “Don’t start off too fast.”

Stuart nodded, his face set forward now, his hands tightening on the cork grips. After a long moment of suspense the pistol rang out and Stuart jogged into his stride.

A mile race is seldom of much interest to the spectators during the first two laps. The positions of the contestants change so gradually that there is no thrill to be had. Infrequently a runner sets out to run down an opponent, but the spurt is soon over. Stuart overhauled a junior on the first lap and was himself passed by Candee, a rather stocky senior who used so short a stride that the wonder was he could keep it up for the three laps that was generally his limit. At the starting line shouts of encouragement awaited the runners as they sped past, and Stuart heard his own name from several lips. It was Tom Hanson’s voice, however, that sounded loudest.

“Nice running, Cap!” shouted Tom. “Lengthen out a bit!”

Stuart realized the wisdom of that advice, for he had unconsciously been clipping his stride and running high. He was fairly in the ruck as he approached the corner. Farnsworth was edging past him and half a dozen others were strung along in front and behind. Not content with the pace directly in front of Stuart, Farnsworth ran wide at the beginning of the turn and then edged in ahead of a long-legged junior who had not been able to hold his generous handicap. Stuart considered passing the junior, too, taking pace from Farnsworth, but the result seemed not worth the effort and he hugged the inside rim and pegged on. His body was warm enough now and his muscles, in spite of his earlier fear, were supple and responsive. Also, he had found his wind nicely. He was, in fact, thoroughly enjoying the battle, and the idea of quitting at the end of the second lap was forgotten. Farnsworth was a dozen yards away when Stuart straightened out on the backstretch, and the long-legged junior was slowing up. Stuart went outside the latter and slipped back into place beside the four-inch boards. The breeze had passed and the evening air was still and frostily cold. As he came to the next turn he saw, across the turf, the face of the old stand, dyed orange-red in the rays of the sinking sun. All around the quarter-mile path now the contestants were strung, a few palpably out of the race and only persevering from motives of pride. He couldn’t see either Lantwood or Tully without turning his head, but he felt that the former at least was fairly close behind. He wished that Tully would pass him, for he had not forgotten Tom Hanson’s advice to tie to the more experienced miler and hold him to the end of the third lap at least. But Tully didn’t show up. Stuart promised himself to be ready to go after him when he did.

It was Lantwood who passed first. He chose the straightaway for the maneuver, spurting where the watchers were clustered thickest about the track. Stuart reflected that that was like Lantwood, for the pasty-faced youth always played to the gallery when he could. He didn’t let Lantwood’s sprint hurry him, however, and went past the mark in a babel of sound acclaiming the delight of the spectators at finding, at last, something to cheer about. If any one hailed his passing he didn’t know it, for Lantwood’s spectacular burst of speed brought forth an acclaim that drowned all other applause.

The first corner found his feet growing heavy and his breathing beginning to shorten, but he had the comforting assurance that the others were in a like case, some more so, some less. He could not, however, help glancing enviously at the fleet-footed Lantwood. The latter was some forty yards ahead, leading the field, his head up and his thin legs working like two pieces of machinery. That, acknowledged Stuart, was real running, and he was momentarily impatient with himself for having the temerity to pit his own amateur efforts against such ability. But the pat-scrunch of shoes beside him put the thought out of his mind and he turned his head a fraction to see who was passing him.

It was Tully, big and raw-boned and earnest. There was something impressive about Tully’s running, even if he never finished better than second or, more often, third. Tully set his pace a dozen strides from the start and never changed it. He knew how fast he could run four laps of the track, and he made his plans accordingly. If the pace he set wasn’t hard enough to wear the other man out, why, that was something else. Some day, Tully promised himself, his pace would do the trick. It was only a matter of finding the pace that, persisted in from the start to finish, would carry him to victory. Meanwhile, those who depended on a final, heart-bursting sprint to carry them the last part of the way won from him only tolerant contempt. Whether he finished first or second or tenth, Tully would always step off the track with a tranquil countenance and walk unhesitatingly to the dressing room. Stamina was old Tully’s long suit, and, as The Laird observed frequently, if the Dual Meet provided for a two-mile run Tully would win such an event at a jog!

Tully never glanced aside as he went slowly, methodically past Stuart, and gradually took the pole again. Behind Tully ran Walton, and Stuart had no intention of letting the latter by just then. Stuart increased his speed for a half-dozen strides and placed himself behind Tully. From there he went on like the bigger fellow’s shadow, matching stride for stride. Of the twenty or so who had started only a dozen were left in the running, although all but three were still jogging about the track, hopelessly distanced. Ahead of Stuart were five men: Lantwood, with nearly a quarter of a lap lead; a red-headed fellow whose name Stuart did not know; Smiley who, although he had lost much of his handicap, was still running nicely; Farnsworth, who was falling back at the turn, and Tully. Farnsworth appeared to have shot his bolt too soon, for he was evidently in distress already. Stuart’s own condition was not, he reflected, anything to boast of, but he could still pound out the strides and still keep his head level. Toe to heel with Tully, he took the corner and drew up on Farnsworth. The latter was wobbling badly. Across the next corner, Stuart observed that the unknown redhead was slowing up.

The gong had clanged the beginning of the last lap, announcing that Lantwood had crossed the mark. At that moment Tully edged outward and Stuart took his cue from the big fellow and they went past Farnsworth. Then the straightaway began, with the crowd about the finish line. The gong clanged again. That would be either the redhead or Smiley, thought Stuart. He couldn’t see which was ahead. A moment later he was himself passing the crowd, and cheers for Tully and for Harven were sounding loudly. Stuart thought he heard Tom Hanson’s voice, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, anyhow. Nothing much did matter but the fact that Tully was setting a hard pace to follow. Of course Tully hadn’t altered his speed a mite. It wasn’t that. It was merely that Stuart was getting to the limit of his endurance, or thought he was, which was much the same thing.

The turn brought a certain relief and encouragement. Another corner would bring the backstretch, and after that the last turn and then the homestretch. Halfway down the further side of the track, Lantwood was going easily. He was not running so fast now, but he didn’t have to. He had the race as certainly as if he was already stepping across the line. There was no longer any question of who would win, if there ever had been. All that remained to be settled was the matter of second, third and fourth places. Well, if he could hold out, Stuart reflected, he would be sure of fourth position. Tully would get second, of course, and Smiley third. The redhead was beaten, plodding away with head swaying and his stride short. They’d pass him at the next turn. Funny, thought Stuart, if he and old Tully were to fight it out for fourth place, for Smiley still had a comfortable lead and still seemed able. He wondered what handicap Tully had had. Not much, probably, for the old warrior was a real runner at the mile. A swift glance over his shoulder showed Stuart that the nearest pursuer was at least thirty-odd yards behind and in poor shape. No danger from that quarter.

The red-haired youth dropped by them as they turned into the backstretch. Ahead, Smiley was having trouble. Stuart could see the uncertainty of his stride. Once Smiley’s head came back, was recovered and fell sidewise for an instant. Perhaps, then, it was to be third place he was to fight for, and the thought gave him a thrill. But, halfway along the stretch, his own legs began to go back on him. They didn’t feel as if they belonged to him any more. His head, too, got silly. It wouldn’t stay where it belonged. Something was wrong with his neck, for the muscles pained him and felt knotted. But of course one didn’t stop so long as he could still get his breath and keep his feet moving. If the rim of the track would keep out of his way and not try to trip him up he could do better. If he ever caught a spike in the wood—

Tully’s body leaned to the left. Stuart got a better grip on himself and followed around the corner. There was a lot of noise from across the field. Perhaps Lantwood had finished. No, Lantwood was still in sight, just vanishing into the lane formed by the crowd. Ahead, but considerably nearer, was Smiley. Stuart guessed they’d beat Smiley. He wondered if Tully hadn’t slackened his speed a mite. Here they were at the last corner already, and if Tully would only hit it up a bit they might get by Smiley before the finish came. But Tully kept on untroubledly. Stuart, sobbing for breath now, wobbling a bit more on the legs that didn’t seem his, was impatient. Didn’t the silly idiot want to win second place? What was the matter with him? Why, Smiley was all in; any one could see it; and all they had to do was speed up just a little to pass him!

A dozen strides further on Stuart became angry. He wanted to call out to Tully and tell him to sprint, but he knew there was no breath left him for any such purpose. Then, without reasoning a moment, he eased his pace a fraction, turned slightly and ran even with the big fellow. He wanted to say “Come on!” but he couldn’t even close his mouth to form the words. For three strides he matched strides with Tully, and then drew ahead. He had no longer any conscious thought of winning second place. Ahead of him, only a little way ahead of him now, was the faltering Smiley, and Stuart wanted to pass Smiley. He couldn’t have explained just then why he wanted to, but he did. It was a sudden obsession. The sight of Smiley’s swaying form ahead affronted him. He closed his dizzy eyes and forced himself on.

The sound of excited cheers, cries, exhortations might have been the murmur of a breeze among leaves so far as Stuart was concerned. Later he remembered hearing it perfectly, but just then, as he went swaying toward the finish line, it made no impression. There was but one thought in his mind. He must reach that other runner and get past him. And reach him he did, a scant four strides from the mark. After that it was just a question of inches between second man and third, and of feet between third man and fourth, for Stuart and Smiley and Tully finished in a bunch. The principal difference was less in space than in condition, for whereas both Stuart and Smiley toppled into the arms of bystanders, old Tully kept on for a dozen paces, slowed gradually and then walked off to where he had left his bathrobe.

The judge at the finish said that Stuart had won by a button, which was near enough the truth. Personally Stuart didn’t care a bit for as much as five minutes whether he had won at all. But when he could sit up again and look about him on a hazy world the knowledge brought a warming satisfaction. A dozen fellows were telling him that he had run a great race, that he had shown fine generalship and a lot of other complimentary things, to all of which Stuart listened amiably and in silence. Then he allowed Tom Hanson to raise him to his feet and some one else to hold his robe for him; and a pale, panting youth who proved to be Smiley, shook hands with him and said “Congratulations, Harven,” and Stuart grinned and answered “Thanks! Ought to have been you,” and, so far as Stuart was concerned, the Fall Handicap Meet was at an end.

Of course a certain renown accrued to him, and the race was talked of for a day or two. The Laird tried to get him to promise to keep on training for the track, promising to make a great miler of him by the next year, but Stuart shook his head. “It was rather fun,” he acknowledged, “but I’m through, Laird. I’m not really a track man. Next year—well, I guess I’ll be playing football again by then.”

A second team player made the statement that “as a football captain Harven was a great mile runner,” and the bon mot won much favor among those who were not in sympathy with Stuart’s recent behavior.

CHAPTER XII
NEIL INTERVENES

Although Stuart managed to remain away from the football field during practice, the temptation to witness the Saturday contests from a closer point of observation than the running track was too strong to be resisted. Anyway, even if a fellow didn’t any longer concern himself with the fortunes of his own team, he naturally wanted to see how the other fellow comported himself. So when the St. Charles contest was played he and Neil were occupants of seats at a far end of the stand. There wasn’t much to excite oneself over in the course of that game, for the visitor was outplayed from the start, and out-generaled as well. Coach Haynes put in a wealth of substitutes in the third and fourth periods, and even then the final score was satisfactorily decisive, being 21 to 0 in favor of the Cherry-and-Gray. But during the succeeding game, that with the Brown Freshmen, Neil was really sorry for his chum. Stuart pretended indifference and tried very, very hard to maintain a studied calm, but the way in which he clenched his hands and wriggled in his seat and made funny noises in his throat, told Neil that he wasn’t happy. There was no good reason why he should have been happy, for that matter. The Brown youngsters were too many for the Cherry-and-Gray from the first kick-off, and, although Manning fought hard and twice held the enemy from scoring in the first two periods, she couldn’t get her own offense working decently and never once threatened the enemy’s goal. Individually, the Manning linemen were good, but they didn’t seem to get together well. The backfield had lost its aggression completely and, while it was easy enough to lay a portion of the blame on Wheaton, at quarter, by no means all of it was due to him. Leo Burns, recovered from his injury, was at left half, Billy Littlefield at right and Howdy Tasker at fullback. There were flashes of hard, brilliant playing, but on the whole the Manning backfield was a disappointment to-day, especially on attack. During the intermission Stuart was rather silent and carefully avoided discussing the game.

The Brown Freshmen started in in the third quarter harder than ever and at the end of five or six minutes had scored their first touchdown. Better playing and a heavier team counted at last. Coach Haynes made two changes after that, putting Le Gette at right tackle in place of Thurston and Hanson at right half in place of Billy Littlefield. Hanson’s presence bolstered up the backfield perceptibly, but Stuart couldn’t see any improvement in the right tackle position. Probably he didn’t want to. There was one bright spot in the third period when, toward the end of it, Howdy Tasker got away on an old-style fake-kick play and circled Brown’s left end for thirty-odd yards, placing the pigskin on the enemy’s twenty-eight. But the advance failed a few yards beyond, for Wheaton fumbled a pass, and, although Burns recovered it, a down had been lost. Tasker got a scant two yards outside left tackle and then Hanson heaved to Muirgart and the ball grounded. Burns tried a drop-kick from the thirty-five-yard line, but the ball sailed far wide of goal.

Brown crashed her way to a second touchdown in the last period, finding but weak opposition inside the ten yards and putting the ball across from there in three tries at the right of the line. Each of her touchdowns was followed by a goal, and the final score was 14 to 0.

Going back to the dormitory, Stuart’s long-pent emotions burst forth. He called the team a disgrace, an insult to Manning traditions, a gang of loafers and many other choice names. And he said hard things about the generalship displayed and the sort of coaching that could take out a good man like Thurston and put in Steve Le Gette. He didn’t criticize Jack’s playing or Jack’s performance of his duties as captain, nor did he deal unkindly with Wheaton, but about every other player was thoroughly hauled over the coals. As for “Wheat,” Stuart declared that he had done as well as any fellow had a right to expect. “He’s no wonder, but he worked himself to death, pretty near, with a backfield that was asleep on its feet most of the time! Why Littlefield just stopped when he got to the line and looked for a comfortable place to sit down! Hanson was some better, but he didn’t show enough punch to break a lath. If that’s the sort of team Haynes thinks is going to lick Pearsall, he’s got a jolt coming to him!”

Stuart had a lot more to say, and said it, his remarks lasting until long after he and Neil had reached Number 12. Finally, though, wrath and disgust were succeeded by a settled gloom that continued most of the evening. Neil tried to persuade him to go over to the village to the movies after supper, but he wouldn’t, and Neil went off by himself. In the yard, though, he met Jack and Greg Trenholme and Howdy Tasker and, on the way to the village, listened to much post-mortem talk from the fullback. Coming back after, it must be acknowledged, a not very hilarious evening at the little theater, Greg introduced the subject of Stuart. “Neil, why doesn’t he take a tumble to himself and go back to the team and help out? Doesn’t he know that the school’s getting sore at him? After to-day it’ll look worse than ever.”

Neil didn’t answer, and it was Jack who attempted an excuse. “Let the poor fellow alone,” he said. “He’s feeling pretty sore, I guess.”

“No reason for it that I can see,” said Tasker. “He threw up his job when he didn’t have to. I call that deserting in the face of the enemy, by jove! Now, instead of doing the decent thing and playing quarter, he sulks. I like Stuart, but he’s a pigheaded ass!”

“We certainly need him,” said Jack feelingly. “I’m not saying anything against ‘Wheat,’ for he wasn’t any rottener than most of us to-day, but he can’t play the game that Stuart can at quarter, and no one pretends that he can or ever will. I talked to Stuart about going back and got sat on.”

“Have you tried it, Neil?” asked Greg.

“Yes.”

“No good, eh?”

“Some one,” said Tasker impatiently, “ought to talk turkey to him. I should think he’d see that it’s his duty to play. Look here, Neil, you’ve got more influence with him than any one else, I guess. Why don’t you have a real talk and show him that—that—Gosh, I should think after seeing to-day’s game he’d want to get out and do something! I know plaguy well I would!”

“I’ll see what I can do,” agreed Neil readily but not very hopefully. “I’ll try him again to-morrow.”

“Atta boy! Tell him the school’s getting sore with him and—”

Jack interrupted Tasker. “No, don’t tell him anything of the sort, Neil. That would just put his back up. Tell him the team needs him. That’s the only thing that’ll fetch him.”

When Neil got back to the room, Stuart had turned in and was sound asleep, and Neil nodded approvingly. “A good sleep will make him feel better in the morning, I guess,” he said to himself. “And I’ll tackle him before he gets a chance to catch a new grouch!”

It was while they were dressing that Neil said suddenly: “Stuart, will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?”

Stuart grinned. “I’ll either tell you the truth or keep my mouth closed,” he replied. “What’s the question, little one?”

“Aren’t you wanting to be back on the team, Stuart?”

For a long moment it seemed that Stuart meant to keep his mouth closed. He gave far more attention to pulling on a sock than the task appeared to demand. When, however, he had snugged it over his foot fastidiously he looked up.

“Sort of,” he said.

Neil swung over to his dresser, selected a soft collar and thrust a blue tie through the loops.

“Why don’t you?” he asked finally.

“Because I’ve got some self-respect, I suppose. And maybe I’m not wanted, anyway.”

“That’s not so, Stuart. The fellows all want you.”

“Maybe some of them do.” Stuart pulled his trousers on and cinched the belt with a jerk. “I’ll bet Haynes doesn’t, though.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Neil.

“Why, if he wants me, why doesn’t he—” Stuart stopped.

“Say so?” supplied the other. “Maybe he thinks it wouldn’t do any good.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t,” muttered Stuart.

“After all, if the team needs you, and it certainly does, what Mr. Haynes says or doesn’t say hasn’t got much to do with it, I guess. It’s the team you’d be helping and not the coach, Stuart.”

“I wouldn’t be much use there if Haynes didn’t want me, though. And I guess he’s pretty well satisfied with things as they are.”

“I don’t see how he can be after yesterday’s slaughter,” replied Neil. “But I’m glad you’ve explained.”

“Explained what?” asked Stuart suspiciously.

“Why you don’t go back,” answered the other. “I didn’t want to think that it was just your pride that was keeping you from doing your duty. If it’s because Mr. Haynes doesn’t want you, that’s different. I can understand that, of course. No one wants to go where he’s not wanted.”

“You bet he doesn’t,” agreed Stuart.

“I’m glad to know that you would go back if it wasn’t for that,” said Neil. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so,” replied the other doubtfully. Then, seeing Neil’s puzzled look, he added quickly: “Of course I would!”

Neil’s face cleared and he smiled. “That’s the ticket! That’s what I wanted to be sure of!”

“Seems to me you’re mightily interested all of a sudden,” said Stuart dubiously. “I don’t see that it makes much difference what the reason is.”

“It makes all the difference in the world,” replied Neil earnestly. “Anyway, it does to me. You see, Stuart, I’ve thought all along that you ought to forget your—your differences with the coach and the others and just remember that the team needed you. And I guess I’ve blamed you when I oughtn’t to have. I thought it was just hurt pride that kept you away. Now I find that you had a pretty good reason. Don’t you see?”

Stuart thoughtfully stuck his military brushes together and nodded. “I see,” he answered. “You ready?” At the door he added: “You’re a queer idiot, old Neil!”

After breakfast Neil was missing and Stuart went across to Meigs to put in the time before church with Jack. Since Jack’s roommate was Stearns Wilson, Stuart had carefully avoided Number 17 of late, but now, since Jud McColl had eliminated his only excuse for being down on Wilson, there was no reason for staying away. Wilson, however, wasn’t in this morning, as it proved, and Stuart and Jack had the room to themselves. Something of the old intimacy between the two was lacking, it seemed, and the talk, if not exactly constrained, wasn’t like the talks they used to have. Stuart assured himself several times that he held no resentment against Jack, but the fact remained that somewhere there was a fly in the amber of their friendship. Stuart didn’t remain in Number 17 until church time, but left after a half hour or so, feeling oddly relieved when he had closed the door behind him, and returned to Lacey. Neil was still absent, and Stuart, selecting a magazine and throwing himself on the window seat, wondered where the dickens he could be.

If by some magic power he could have seen Neil at that moment he would have been very greatly surprised.

CHAPTER XIII
STUART GOES OUT FOR THE TEAM

Neil was sitting in an armchair in Coach Haynes’ front room, his crutches against his knees. The coach sat near by, close to one of the long front windows, completely surrounded by a Sunday paper. Beyond him, through the casement that reached to the floor, Neil saw the little park, fenceless, deep in yellow and red maple leaves, and the abandoned iron fountain in the center, its basin long dry and filled with the litter of many seasons. But, against the trees, some of them still retaining their gaudy foliage, and bathed in the sunlight of a wonderful early November morning, it looked rather pretty. Mr. Haynes was smoking an after-breakfast pipe, and the clouds of gray-blue smoke writhed and billowed in the shaft of sunlight that fell athwart the worn carpet and almost restored the ancient hues of its floral garlands.

“There never has been a moment since Harven resigned,” the coach was saying, “when I wouldn’t have been mighty glad to have him back in his old position, Orr, but no good would have come of my taking any steps to get him. I think you realize that. I believed that he would come around himself in time, but I thought it would be before this. Now that he has decided to return, I’m very glad of it.”

“Yes, sir, but he hasn’t,” said Neil, smiling ruefully. “I mean, he’d like to, but he thinks you don’t want him.”

“He hasn’t any right to think so,” commented Mr. Haynes. “I suppose he thinks I was instrumental in ousting him, which I wasn’t, but even so he should know that the success of the team means too much to me for me to allow personal likes or dislikes to interfere. Well, what’s your idea, Orr? Do you want me to see him and ask him to come back?”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t expect you to do that!” exclaimed Neil.

“Oh, I’ll do it if it’s necessary,” replied the coach surprisingly. “But I fancy the less I appear personally in the matter the more chance we have of success, Orr. You know Harven, and you know he’s a chap to be handled with gloves—and mighty smooth ones at that! For instance, if he learned you’d been here this morning, and I asked him to come back to the team, he would naturally connect the two, jump to the conclusion that you’d worked on my sympathies and we never would get him. There’s a better way if we can only think of it.”

The coach puffed hard on his pipe and stared through the window for a space. Finally: “You say he doesn’t know you’re here?” he asked.

“Not from me, sir. And I shan’t tell him.”

The coach nodded and a second silence followed. At last he turned and rapped the ashes from his pipe into the ash tray on the arm of his chair. “I’ve got it, Orr,” he said. “The Laird’s the one to do it. I’ll see him this afternoon.”

Neil’s face brightened. “That’s so, Mr. Haynes! They’ve always been great pals! Stuart will listen to The Laird.”

“I’m sure he will. Don’t hurry away, though. I’m mighty grateful to you for doing this, Orr. I wish you didn’t have to use those things.” He pointed smilingly to the crutches. “I’d like you on the team, old man!”

Neil flushed, not at the allusion to the crutches but in real pleasure. You see, he sometimes thought that if he had been like other chaps he could have done rather well in sports, and it was fine to have the coach confirm the thought. He made his way back to school very happy.

Stuart was inclined to be a bit resentful because Neil had left him alone, but he didn’t insist on knowing where the other had been and Neil at once began to bustle around in preparation for church. His prayer book and hymnal had, it appeared, been misplaced, and in aiding in the search Stuart forgot his resentment and any curiosity he may have had. The missing articles were eventually discovered by Neil just where he had left them a week before. It was almost dusk when there came a knock on the door of Number 12 and The Laird came in. Stuart had been humped up on the window seat earnestly wrestling with his English, and Neil was in the middle of a delayed Sunday letter. The Laird explained carelessly that he’d been out for a bit of a walk and thought he’d drop in and pass the time of day. Stuart was glad to see him and equally glad of an excuse to close his books, and he made The Laird comfortable in the biggest of the two easy chairs and was quite merry. Neil ended his letter hurriedly during the first minutes of the trainer’s visit, inclosed it, and, excusing himself, took it down to the letter box in front of Manning Hall. He made the trip very leisurely and, on the way back, stopped in a few minutes with Tom Hanson who lived on the first floor. He was careful not to make his absence suspiciously prolonged, however, and got back to Number 12 some fifteen minutes after his departure. The trainer was still there and neither he nor Stuart appeared to have been aware of Neil’s absence. They were talking football, the pair of them; discussing the chances of Yale coming back in time for the Princeton game next Saturday, and the overthrow of the big colleges in their games yesterday. It was evident to Neil, however, that The Laird had performed his mission, and performed it well since Stuart was unmistakably in an excited and exalted frame of mind. Presently the trainer took his leave, and Neil, after waiting a moment for Stuart to explode the news, asked idly:

“What did The Laird have to say? Anything new in the world?”

“N-no.” Stuart was elaborately careless. Whatever he had to tell, Neil saw, wasn’t going to be exploded! “We were talking about the game Saturday and one thing and another. Where’d you go?”

“Out to post my letter. Then I stopped in at Tom Hanson’s for a minute. It’s getting colder.”

“Yes.” Stuart absently fingered the pages of a book. “I guess we’re in for a cold snap. Glad of it. You need zippy weather for football. That reminds me. I’ve decided to go back on the team to-morrow.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Neil, in surprised and pleased tones. “I’m awfully glad!”

Stuart laughed ironically. “The Laird says Haynes was talking to him to-day. What do you think he asked him?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Asked him if he thought I meant to come back! Looks as if he wasn’t so mighty independent, after all, eh? The Laird says he guesses Haynes would be tickled to death if I showed up again. And The Laird sort of wants me to, too.”

“That’s fine,” commented Neil. “Only, if he happened to be wrong about Mr. Haynes you wouldn’t want to do it, of course.”

“He isn’t wrong,” replied Stuart decisively. “He’s dead right. I—I’ve sort of suspected—just lately, I mean—that Haynes wouldn’t be heartbroken if I reported again.”

“Oh! But you said—”

“I know,” answered the other impatiently. “I didn’t have anything to go on, you see; it was just a—just a feeling. Anyway, I’ve decided to risk it. I’m going out to-morrow afternoon. Gee, it’ll be good to get back into togs again! Of course, I may not get my place back, but I don’t care so much. I’ll have the fun of playing. And—and The Laird says they need me. There’s only one more game before Pearsall, but he thinks we’re going to come back all right. Golly, Neil, we’ve got to! When you come right down to it, Pearsall hasn’t done so remarkably well herself this fall. Yesterday’s win wasn’t anything to brag about. Eleven to three against Lyons was pretty punk, I’ll say. They’ll have to do a great sight better playing two weeks from now if they expect to beat this outfit!”

Stuart, once well started on the subject of football, gave no signs of tiring. In fact, he kept it up until supper and, after supper, until bedtime. Neil listened patiently if not always interestedly, too pleased with the result of the conspiracy to begrudge attention, even though it left him ill-prepared for to-morrow’s recitations. Stuart was too absorbed to notice that his roommate sometimes hid a yawn behind a polite hand.

The next afternoon Manager Locker, early on the field and uninterestedly watching two second-string backs kicking a ball about, beheld with surprise the approach of a youth in togs who had, at the distance of a hundred yards, a remarkable resemblance to Stuart Harven. Nor did his surprise decrease as the youth drew nearer and the resemblance increased. Locker drew in a long breath and ejaculated: “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Then he stepped eagerly forward. “Stuart!” he exclaimed. “Gee, this is great! Say—”

But Stuart interrupted gravely. “Hello, Fred,” he said. “I’d like to report for practice.”

Locker opened his mouth for a good laugh, but something in the other’s face caused him to change his mind. Instead: “Oh!” he faltered. “That’s fine! Well, I guess we need——”

“Might take my name if you don’t mind.” Stuart’s gaze traveled to the breast of Locker’s jacket and came to rest significantly over an inside pocket.

“What? Oh, sure!” The manager hurriedly produced his red book and plucked a pen from a pocket of his vest. There was no harm in humoring the other!

“Stuart Harven, seventeen, Upper Middle Class, 12 Lacey,” announced the applicant soberly. Locker wrote it down.

“Experience?” he asked.

“Two years. Maybe you’d better say three. I played part of this season.”

Locker nodded, as grave now as Stuart. “What position?” he inquired.

“Quarterback.”

“Thanks.” Locker closed his book and slipped it back into his pocket. “I suppose you know about your physical examination? But I forget; you’ve played this season already, you said. Report to the trainer after practice, please. Now, you big chump, come off your high horse and talk sense! Are you really going to play?”

Stuart nodded. “If they’ll let me, Fred.”

“Let you? Let—Say, where do you get that stuff? You watch ’em! I guess the only chap who won’t be tickled pink is Wheaton. And, at that, I fancy he won’t be awfully cut up, for Wheat’s bitten off more than he can Fletcherize, and he knows it! Here they come now!”

The squad was beginning to dribble across the field from the gymnasium. Once past the tennis courts, the balls began to soar. Stuart saw Coach Haynes well back in the second group, talking to Jack. Stuart kept his place beside Fred Locker, waiting, a trifle woodenly, for his presence to be discovered. It was Tom Muirgart who first recognized him and spread the news with a shout. Then Tom, followed by Billy Littlefield and Wallace Towne, hiked across the corner of the gridiron and assaulted him joyfully. It was hard to keep up that expression and manner of unconcern when Tom was banging him between the shoulders and Billy was ruffling his hair with jovial but ungentle hand. Stuart donned his headgear in protection and dodged Tom’s enthusiastic palm.

“Cut it out, fellows,” he growled, embarrassed, and darting an apprehensive look toward the approaching coach. “Don’t make a—a silly scene!” But in avoiding Tom’s blows he backed squarely into the stout arms of Joe Cutts, and Joe seized on him as though he were an opposing center and lifted him, struggling and wriggling, off his feet. After that there was no use in attempting to carry the affair off with dignity and decorum, and Stuart realized it and subsided in weak and futile remonstrances. “Thirsty” and “Howdy” and “Bee” and half a dozen others closed about him and pummeled him joyously or pumped his arms, or, unable to get close enough to lay violent hands on him, shouted their welcome. Stuart alternately grinned and scowled; grinned because grinning seemed to ease the sort of choky feeling in his throat, and scowled to prove that he hadn’t grinned!

And then, the group thinning, he found himself looking straight at the coach. Mr. Haynes smiled and held out his hand. “Glad to see you, Harven,” he said cordially.

Foes may clasp hands and still remain foes. Stuart returned the coach’s firm grip and said: “Thanks, sir.”

Then practice began.

Stuart discovered that a fortnight or so of idleness had told on his muscles surprisingly, but he didn’t allow any one else to suspect it. He went through formation drill in a squad of substitutes, playing his old position. He felt that the atmosphere here was not so sympathetic as it had been among that group of older players, but he didn’t resent it. Nor did he resent being left on the bench when, after an hour’s practice, the second team trailed across from the further gridiron and the scrimmage began. He couldn’t expect to get his place back without a struggle. That wouldn’t be fair to Wheat, who, no matter what might be said of his shortcomings, had tried loyally and hard. For that matter, Stuart reflected, he might get no better than first substitute’s place for the rest of the season. To-day he didn’t care very much. It was so jolly good to get back at all! He had been an idiot to stay out so long, he told himself. Haynes had acted pretty decently. Shown good form, too. Some men would have been sloppy and hypocritical and some would have been sneering or sarcastic. Haynes had hit just the right note, and Stuart was grateful. “You might dislike Haynes,” he said to himself, “but you have to respect the guy!”

Stuart’s relegation to the bench during scrimmage was, perhaps, made more endurable by the presence near by of Steve Le Gette. It wasn’t that Le Gette’s mere proximity gave comfort to Stuart, but it was some satisfaction to know that if Stuart wasn’t good enough for a place in the line-up, neither was Le Gette!

Stuart didn’t spend the whole period on the bench, however, after all, for toward the end of the game Wheaton was banished and Stuart slipped back to his old position for a wonderful five minutes.

CHAPTER XIV
WANTED, A KICKER

Stuart’s return to the fold was a matter of almost as much discussion as his previous retirement had been. But where he had been censured before for leaving the squad he was now censured for returning to it. Among his friends and closer acquaintances, of course, his action was approved, but there were some three hundred and fifty students at Manning that fall and to the bulk of them Stuart Harven was known by sight only, and it was from outside his small circle of friends and admirers that disapproval came. It was largely held that, having left the team, he should have stayed off it for the season; that his return would only have the effect of upsetting football affairs again. Even among the squad there were some who viewed his reappearance on the field rather coldly. There was, however, no doubt as to the sentiment of most of the players, and Stuart was grateful to those for their hearty welcome and friendliness. He needed the encouragement such friendliness gave, for it was speedily evident that his absence from practice, as brief as it had been, had played hob with his game. Much of the old dash was gone, much of his former initiative lacking. He had to prod himself constantly in order to show a semblance of his old form. It was as though the ability to play was inside him but wouldn’t come out! By the middle of the week he despaired of “coming back” and realized disheartenedly that so far as the big game was concerned he might just as well have stayed away. But he was of use to the team, and knew it. He found some comfort in the knowledge, and, which is to his credit, refused to be downcast and kept pegging away as hard as he knew how.

Of course what Stuart realized others saw, too. Wednesday evening Jack brought up the subject after a conference in Coach Haynes’s quarters. “I don’t know what’s the matter with Stuart,” he said troubledly. “He isn’t playing anywhere near his real game.”

“No,” said the coach. After a moment he added: “I’m afraid his coming back is going to make more unhappiness for him, Brewton. I suppose he expected to get his place again, but it doesn’t look now as if he could have it, and I’m afraid he will think he is injured and blame me.” Mr. Haynes shook his head regretfully. “It’s too bad. There’s enough ill feeling on his side toward me already; and there’s another year to go through with yet. That is, if I’m back again.”

“But you will be, sir, won’t you?”

“I hope so, Brewton, but a good deal depends on how things go this year. I was given a one-year contract with the understanding that if things went well this fall I should have another for two. If Pearsall shows us up I fancy I’ll be looking for a new job.” Mr. Haynes smiled. Then he looked grave again. “This trouble with Harven has been mighty unfortunate. The Committee has stood by me, but I suppose they can’t help thinking that another man might have got along with less friction. And I guess they’re right. If I had understood Harven as well in September as I do now I’d have handled him differently. I can’t comfort myself with the assurance that the fault has all been his, you see. I’ve made mistakes, too, Brewton.”

Jack frowned. “Stuart’s awfully sort of touchy and stubborn,” he muttered. “I guess it would be mighty hard for any coach to get along with him much better than you have. He—hang him!—he’s got it in for me now. I don’t know why. He’s as stiff as a ramrod. It can’t be because I took his place, for I went to him before I accepted it and he said it was all right, that he’d rather see me captain than any other fellow. But he acts as if I’d done something against him!”

Mr. Haynes smiled. “Human nature has some queer angles, my boy,” he said. “I fancy Harven really thought he was glad to see you become captain, and I dare say he’s tried to be, but there’s a little hurt feeling that persists, and he can’t help showing it. But I wouldn’t let it bother me. He’ll get over it in time. By the way, what about Towne? Have you heard from him since afternoon?”

“No, sir, but I guess it’s only a cold.”

“Well, I hope so,” answered the coach grimly. “We can’t afford to lose our best guard just now. And we’d certainly be in a hole if he wasn’t on hand to kick field goals. That’s a weak department with us, Brewton. Outside of Towne and Harven we haven’t a fellow we can depend on for field goals. Tasker is a whale of a punter, but if the Pearsall game depended on a three-point tally I’d hate to have to leave it to him! Of course, if Harven was in we’d be safe, but unless he bucks up a whole lot inside of the next week he’s likely to see that game from the bench. If I were you I’d look in on Towne to-night and see how he’s making it.”

Jack agreed and took his departure.

Thursday morning it became known that Wally Towne was ill with something that looked a whole lot like tonsillitis, and consternation reigned throughout the school. That afternoon Baker played right guard and the most promising of the second team’s guards was requisitioned by Mr. Haynes. Baker, however, was not a success, and the second team fellow, although he was scrappy and quick and worked hard, was much too light for the place. On Friday the coach tried an experiment, and Steve Le Gette, second-string tackle, was shoved into the line between Cutts and Thurston. Le Gette had the weight and the size and he soon showed that he had the fight. It was not certain that Towne would not be back for the Pearsall game, but tonsillitis, if you have it severely enough, can play hob with you, and even if Wally was able to enter the final contest it was doubtful that he would be able to play it through; and just now the doctor’s report was far from reassuring. So Coach Haynes set about the development of a new guard, to the chagrin of several substitutes for that position, and, recalling the fact that, with Towne out of the game, there’d be a dearth of goal kickers, looked about him for likely material. In the end, it was Le Gette who seemed the most promising. Tasker would have to do the bulk of the punting and, while he might add to his field goal ability by hard practice, it seemed neither wise nor fair to add to his duties. Le Gette had done some punting the year before on the second team as substitute fullback, and so the coach’s choice fell on him.

Stuart, well wrapped in a big gray blanket against the chill wind that was sweeping across the field, was watching the first and second plugging away down by the thirty-yard line at the far end of the field when some one seated himself on the bench beside him. Stuart, interested in seeing the result of Tasker’s effort to punt into the teeth of the wind, didn’t turn his head until Mr. Haynes’s voice startled him.

“Harven,” the coach was saying, “how are you fixed for time in the morning?”

“Time?” Stuart looked rather blank for an instant, trying to focus his thoughts. It was a trifle disconcerting to find the coach’s eyes on a level with his at a distance of two feet.

“Perhaps I’d better explain what I’m after,” continued the other. “We need another man who can kick goals, Harven. If Towne shouldn’t make the Pearsall game we’d be in a fix. If you were playing I’d not worry, but, to be candid, you may not be.” He paused, but Stuart, turning his gaze away, only nodded. “We need another man, if only to be on the safe side,” Mr. Haynes resumed. “I know that a week is a mighty short time to work in, but I think that if you gave an hour to the business in the mornings and perhaps a half hour in the afternoons you could come pretty close to giving us a new goal kicker. A good deal would depend on the other chap, of course, but I’ve got a fellow who has done some punting and who is willing to learn. He was on the second last year and I’ve frankly told him that his chance of getting into the big game depends on his ability to kick goals fairly well. You’ll find him eager to learn, Harven. I’d take him in hand myself, but I’m no kicker and never was, and I wouldn’t be able to teach him half as well as you will. Now what do you say?”

“Of course I’ll do what I can, sir,” answered Stuart soberly and a bit stiffly. “I can find an hour every morning, if my time suits the other fellow’s. Is it certain that Towne won’t be able to play?”

“No, but we’ve got to be prepared. We may never have a chance to score from the field in that game, but we want to have the goods if the chance does come.”

“Of course. Who is the fellow, Mr. Haynes?”

“Le Gette,” replied the coach promptly.

Stuart looked startled. “Steve Le Gette?” he exclaimed.

The coach nodded. “Yes, I’m trying him at guard in Towne’s place and I think he’ll fit. I’ll tell him to see you after practice and you can fix a time for the instruction I hope.”

Stuart was frowning at his scarred hands. “We—he and I aren’t very friendly, sir,” he muttered.

“I know that, but this is a time when such things don’t matter, Harven,” answered the other quietly. “Each of you has a duty to perform for the team. Personal differences can be forgotten for an hour or so each day, I fancy.”

Stuart was silent a moment. Then: “I can do it if he can,” he replied.

“Good!” Mr. Haynes stretched out his hand and Stuart had put his in it before he realized what was happening. He even grinned a little in response to the coach’s smile. Afterwards he told himself that he wished Haynes wasn’t so keen on hand-shaking. “Much obliged, Harven,” the coach went on. “Don’t spare Le Gette. He’s game for all you can pile on to him. See what you can do in a week. If you think I can help, let me know, but I shan’t butt in on you. It’s up to you and Le Gette.” He nodded and hurried off down the side line.

When the second period started Stuart took Wheaton’s place at quarter and, it seemed to him, did better than he had done any day since his return. He was not confident enough to carry the ball himself, although had he tried a quarterback run in one instance and made it good he might have added another six points to the first team’s score. But he ran the team with not a little of his old brilliance, and Coach Haynes, following the plays, smiled thoughtfully.

The meeting of Stuart and Le Gette was extremely polite and formal. They walked back to the gymnasium together and compared schedules, finding that on every day save Tuesday it would be possible to get an hour together on the field. On Tuesday they fixed on a half hour, possibly forty minutes, following breakfast. They parted with mutual relief on the gymnasium steps.

There was a most enthusiastic cheer meeting that evening, and Stuart and Neil attended, although the former tried to get out of it. New songs and old songs were sung, every one who had the courage to face that sea of faces and could think of anything to say made a speech. There was wild and noisy applause on every provocation and the cheering was deafening. Neil, noting that Stuart’s name brought as vociferous a response as any, glowed proudly.

On their way out of the hall Stuart collided with Mr. Moffit and the instructor took him by the arm and led him aside. “You didn’t come back to report,” he accused smilingly. Stuart grinned. “I meant to, sir, but I couldn’t make it. I suppose you’ve heard——”

“Yes, and I was very glad, Harven. It is always a satisfaction to one to learn that one’s prophesies have been—er—correct. You see, I expected you to go back on the team and laid a wager with myself that you would. It pleases me to win. I thank you.”

Stuart laughed. “You took chances, sir. I didn’t think I would go back.”

“On the contrary, my boy, I was betting on a sure thing. I was rather ashamed to take that end of the wager: it was almost like cheating myself. You see, Harven, what we think and what we think we think are frequently very different thoughts. Well, the best of luck to you!” The instructor nodded and smiled and was borne on and Stuart joined Neil again. As he steadied the latter through the throng at the entrance he said with conviction:

“Miss Muffit’s a mighty decent old guy, Neil.”

“Sure,” agreed Neil. “Every one is when we think so.”

Stuart’s rôle as teacher of the gentle art of kicking field goals began the next forenoon. He had grimly determined to follow Mr. Haynes’s instructions and not spare the pupil, and, as they crossed to the second team gridiron, he announced:

“Haynes tells me that you want to learn, Le Gette, and that I’m to teach you. I wasn’t crazy to take the job, as you can guess, but I did take it and I’m going to do my best with it. What I’m trying to get at is just this.” He stopped and scowled sternly. “You’ve got to work if anything’s to come of this, and I’m going to see that you do work. But you’re not to think that I’m—I’m trying to put anything over on you. I’m doing this for Haynes—I mean for the team, and it won’t get us anywhere if you grouch or sulk.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Le Gette. “I’m not any crazier about this than you are, but if you keep your shirt on I’ll do the same. And I’ll take all the work you can give me, Harven. Let’s go.”

After half an hour Stuart concluded that it was going to be less a matter of the teacher’s not sparing the pupil than of the pupil’s not sparing the teacher. Le Gette was a veritable whale for work, and all Stuart’s admonitions to take time were wasted. Le Gette spared neither himself nor Stuart. And he proved an apt student, too. Stuart had to acknowledge that. He listened to what was told him, copied the other’s methods and got results. A knowledge of punting aided to some extent, but drop-kicking is an art by itself and the pupil had much to learn. When the hour was up and they had to hurry back to the campus, Stuart couldn’t have said whether he or Le Gette was the more exhausted! In the afternoon there was a brief half hour after the Williston game was over, but as Le Gette had played through most of that contest he wasn’t in very good shape for his lesson. For that matter, neither was Stuart, for he, too, had participated. Both were glad enough when the darkness put an end to the session. They went back to the gymnasium in the twilight, crossing the deserted first team gridiron in silence until, just short of the lighted windows of the building ahead, Le Gette said feelingly:

“A shower isn’t going to be so rotten, eh?”

And Stuart answered, almost amiably: “You said something!”

The Williston game had resulted about as predicted. The visitors had proved rather more formidable than expected, perhaps, and Coach Haynes had been forced to use most of his first-string players well into the third period. The exceptions were Whaley and Wheaton. The right end had been roughly used in a tackle and had given way to Wesner in the second period and Wheaton had yielded to Stuart soon after the beginning of the third quarter. Stuart had done well enough; had run the team fast and surely, had recovered a fumble of Tasker’s that might have resulted disastrously and had pulled off three perfect heaves to Tom Muirgart. But as for “stunts” Stuart simply wasn’t there. Those old-time quarterback runs for thirty, forty, sometimes sixty yards were missing. Only once during the time he had played had he dared attempt a run and then he had been spilled promptly for a two-yard loss. On the whole, though, the Cherry-and-Gray had played a hard, snappy game against a doughty opponent, and the final score of 19 to 6 was generally considered satisfactory. There were those who maintained that Williston should not have scored, but there are always pessimists in every community.

CHAPTER XV
THE CONFERENCE

After Breakfast Sunday morning Jack appeared at Number 12 Lacey with a big bundle of newspapers under his arm. It was his first call for over a week and, had Neil been absent, there might have been an appreciable restraint in the atmosphere. But Neil saved the situation, and in a minute the conversation was going smoothly enough. Jack was full of the football news, dumping all save the sporting sections of the Sunday papers on the floor, and read aloud the story of the Pearsall—St. Charles game, which Pearsall had captured by the staggering score of 39 to 0. Stuart forgot his grievances in surprise and concern.

“Golly! That’s three scores more than we made against them! It’s double what we did! St. Charles must have been ’way off her game, Jack. You can’t tell me that Pearsall is that much better than we are.”

But the story held nothing to confirm his theory. St. Charles was credited with having played hard and with having made few mistakes. “I guess Pearsall’s better than we thought she was,” said Jack gloomily. “We didn’t find those St. Charles ends very easy, but Pearsall seems to have run them about as she pleased! Look at some of her gains: ‘Connor made seven outside left tackle’; ‘Morton, faking a throw to Cooper, ran around right end for sixteen yards, St. Charles’ defense having fallen for the bluff’; ‘Loring failed at the center, but on the next try went outside tackle on the left and carried the pigskin to the twenty-eight yards’; ‘Connor got around right end again for six, but a penalty for off-side took the ball back to the forty-one yards.’ Say, that Connor must be some guy!”

“Who went over to the game for us?” asked Stuart.

“Hanson and Joe Jakin.”

“What do they say?”

“I haven’t heard yet. They’re going to report this afternoon. They didn’t get back until late last night. There was a freight smash-up down the line and their train was held up. By the way, in case I forget it, there’s a conference at Haynes’s Tuesday night and he wants you to be sure and come.”

“Me?” Stuart looked surprised. “Oh, well, I guess I wouldn’t be much use,” he added after a pause.

“Yes, you would. There’ll be about eight of us and we’re going over the final plans. I’ll look for you.”

“Maybe I’ll get there,” answered Stuart with elaborate carelessness.

“You will,” said Neil decidedly. “You’ll get there if I have to carry you!”

Jack laughed, and after a moment of indecision Stuart managed a grin. Then they returned to the subject of the Pearsall—St. Charles game and thrashed it all out, if not to their satisfaction at any rate most exhaustively. When Jack took his departure, his precious papers under his arm again, Stuart’s “So long, Jack,” was almost cordial.

In the afternoon Stuart went over to the infirmary and called on Wally Towne. He spent only a few minutes with the patient, however, for Towne was not up to talking much, and the nurse discouraged a longer visit. Towne was certain that he’d be all right for the Pearsall game, but, secretly, Stuart doubted it. Nor could he find anything in the nurse’s expression to bear out Towne’s assertion. He left the room convinced that if there were any field-goals scored on Saturday next they would not be scored by poor old Wally!

Monday was rather an off day on the gridiron so far as the regulars were concerned. Stuart had some fifteen minutes with a first team that was largely substitutes, and the second managed to tie the game at 6 to 6. But so far as the education of Le Gette was concerned Monday was not an off day at all. There was a round sixty minutes of work in the morning and, because practice was shortened, a good forty-five in the afternoon. Le Gette already showed progress, and Stuart acknowledged the fact to the pupil on the way back from the field at dusk. Perhaps his words sounded more grudging than he really felt, for Le Gette laughed and answered: “Don’t say it if it hurts you, Harven.” Whereupon Stuart fell into a silence and wondered if punching the other on the nose would really yield him all the satisfaction he thought it would!

Tuesday the players put their noses back on the grindstone and Coach Haynes turned it fast and unremittingly. When the second team came over and the scrimmage started both sides realized that to-day’s battle was going to be real and earnest, and, although neither Mr. Haynes nor “Old Unabridged” so much as suggested it by word, look or gesture, fur began to fly right away. A day of rest or light work for the first team regulars had put them on their mettle and, paraphrasing the old story, they were determined that no second team could bite them and live! It was a hot, scrappy affair from the first whistle to the ten-minute intermission, and, from the intermission on to the last panting moment when, with their backs to the goal line, the first team warriors repelled the second for the fourth time inside the five-yard line, praying for the whistle. Nominally it ended in a victory for the first, 7 to 6, but virtually it was a tie, for that margin of one point was there only by reason that the second possessed no player with half the ability of Joe Cutts to kick a goal from placement.

Stuart played through the second period—they played two halves of fifteen minutes each—and worked hard. If he didn’t cover himself with glory he at least managed to get fairly well sprinkled with gore, for a second team end put an elbow against his nose in a heated moment of the contest, and life was going far too hectically just then for the administration of first aid. When the flow was staunched Stuart would have been denied admittance at any respectable abattoir! But that was all in the day’s work, and a puffy nose soon responds to the proper treatment, and, anyhow, they’d stopped the second four times inside the five yards! Still, Stuart felt the pace and showed it when the game was done, and Le Gette, himself a dirt-smeared, short-winded, disreputable object, took one brief look at his instructor and shook his head.

“It can’t be done,” he said. “Let’s call it off, Harven.”

And Stuart, wanting to act the Trojan but sensing the call of the showers, nodded as reluctantly as he could, arose and limped off on the trail of the others.

It was while The Laird was delicately administering to his enlarged and ensanguined nose that Stuart asked perplexedly: “Say what’s the matter with me, anyhow, Mac?”

The Laird tossed a wad of absorbent cotton into the basin and replied, “Naught, lad. There’s no break there. ’Twill be fine to-morrow.”

“Oh, shucks, I don’t mean my nose,” responded Stuart impatiently, “and you know it. I mean, what’s the reason I can’t play worth a hang any more? You’ve seen how it is, Mac. I’m not half as good as I was. I can’t play as well as I could at the beginning of last season! Something’s wrong, and I can’t put my finger on it!”

“Eating all right?” asked the trainer.

“Sure. Eating enough, anyway. Sometimes things don’t taste so good, but—oh, it isn’t that. I’m all right that way. Nothing wrong with me. I mean——”

“Don’t think about it, lad.” The trainer wiped his hands carefully and returned things to the shelves. “No one can lay off as long as you did and not break his stride. Given another week or ten days, you’d come back fine.”

“But I haven’t got another week,” protested Stuart. “There’s only three days! And I’ve been back a whole week already and I’m no better than I was when I started!”

“I know,” The Laird nodded sympathetically. “It’s too bad, but I’d not greet. You’re doing your best, lad, and we all know it, and there’s no more any one can do.”

“Well, it’s mighty funny,” growled Stuart. “I’m fit as ever and I know all the football I ever knew, but—but I can’t—can’t deliver the goods! I get sort of scared, Mac. I’m afraid to try anything myself for fear I’ll make a mess of it. The other day I almost fumbled!”

“What of it? There’s others have fumbled and lived to spring an alibi!”

“Maybe, but I never fumbled but once, and you know it: in a game, I mean. And it frightened me, Mac.”

“You think too much, lad, and it’s making you nervous. Forget football for a couple of days. And to-morrow, when you go in, give the ball to yourself and prove you’re just as good as ever you were.”

“I wouldn’t be, though,” answered Stuart gloomily. “I’d make a botch of it. I haven’t got the sand any more, Mac.”

“Try it, just the same, lad. If you get stopped there’s no great harm done. But try it. That’s the only way to tell. There you are. Give the nose a good bath in cold water to-night and again in the morning. The lad that handed you that must have near sprained his elbow, I’m thinking!”

Stuart took his damaged countenance to Coach Haynes’ at half-past seven that evening and afforded more or less merriment to the others present at the conference. There were seven of the players there: Jack, Tom Muirgart, Beeman, Wheaton, Howdy Tasker, Leo Burns and Stuart. And The Laird sat in a dim corner and smoked his pipe incessantly and spoke only to answer questions. Fred Locker came in later, out of breath and apologetic. Stuart took small part in the discussion that lasted well over an hour and a half, although both Jack and the coach by word and manner invited his opinions. The fact was that Stuart would willingly have given his opinions had he had any, but, to his surprise, he found that, save on one or two subjects alone he had formulated none. It was Jack who, aside from Mr. Haynes, had supplied suggestion and criticism, who had, it appeared, really given thought to the questions that arose. For the first time Stuart realized how far short of perfect his conception of a captain’s duties had been, and he felt a new, and slightly envious, respect for Jack.

Coach Haynes was very frank in comparing Manning and Pearsall and made no attempt to spare any one’s feelings. “I don’t think Pearsall has much if anything on us in the rush line. Maybe Walworth is a bit cleverer than Cutts. He’s a good example of the light, quick-moving center, very shifty and a hard man to handle on offense. Their right guard is a remarkably good one, too, and Le Gette will have his hands full. As to ends, I’m not troubling. Our scouts report that Cooper, who played left end for them, was boxed time and again Saturday. Of course, we can’t count much on that, for that fault will probably be largely corrected. It’s when we come to the backfield that the comparison goes against us, fellows. There’s no doubt that, as the two teams played three days ago, Pearsall has a faster, heavier and more aggressive set of backs than we have. Connor, their right half, is an unusually fine player. He made most of their running gains for them and did a lot better against the St. Charles ends than we did. Morton, fullback, is big and heavy and hard to stop. He failed to gain just three times against St. Charles when he bucked the line. At runs outside tackles he’s a bit slow. Loring, the left half, is good but not so dangerous as Connor. Their quarter is experienced and runs off a fast game. He seldom carries the ball himself.

“Pearsall will use about the same plays she used last year, from all the information we have. She has probably a couple of aces up her sleeve, but so have we. She hasn’t developed forward passing much and hasn’t been very successful so far with that style of game. Her punters are ordinarily good. There are weird stories of Loring having made sixty yards frequently in practice but he’s never shown anything of the sort in public. There’s no doubt, however, that he owes his place on the team more to his punting ability than to his running. So it may be that he’s the nigger in the woodpile.”

“You think then, sir,” asked Muirgart, “that Pearsall has the edge on us?”

“Surely. I think she’s at least six points better than we are to-day. Mind you, though, I say to-day, Muirgart. Next Saturday’s another day. Frankly, I’d rather go into a game of this sort with the odds against us a bit. We’ll realize that we’ve got to fight harder and we’ll do it. We can beat Pearsall. I don’t say that just as a bluff. I mean it. We can beat her and we’re going to. We’re going to do it by getting the jump on her right at the start, by making no mistakes and by always, everlastingly trying a little bit harder than she does! Every fellow must go into the game with the determination to outplay his opponent and the conviction that if he really tries hard he can do it. Fellows, I’ve seen teams that were admittedly two scores weaker than their opponents go in and fight and fight and win. I’ve seen it time and again. It’s spirit that does the trick. Teach two teams the same amount of football, have them physically even and put them on the field. What’s going to happen? A tie game? Not once in ten times! One team or the other will have the better spirit and will win the game! Well, let’s get down to business.”

They went over the plays then, discussing, arguing. Every play was judged with relation to Pearsall’s style of defense and her success against such plays during the season. In the end nineteen only were retained. As each could be pulled off at both right and left of center Manning would have at her disposal thirty-eight variations. All reasonable contingencies were brought up and disposed of. Stuart was questioned regarding Le Gette’s probable usefulness as a field goal kicker and gave an encouraging report. “He ought to be tried out in a game to-morrow, though, Mr. Haynes,” Stuart added. “Kicking a goal is a different thing when half a dozen wild Indians are charging through on top of you!”

“I’ve been waiting for the word from you,” replied the coach. “We’ll give him a trial to-morrow and every other day until Saturday. What’s the news of Towne, by the way, Laird?”

The Laird took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.

“He’ll not play, Coach, save you put him in at the end for a bit. And I’m thinking that’s not so wise, for he has his letter already.”

Stuart walked back to school with Jack and Fred Locker and said little on the way. The evening’s proceedings had left him feeling extremely unimportant, and the feeling wasn’t an agreeable one. The manager left them to look in at the mass meeting which, as was evident from the sounds that came from the assembly hall in Manning, was still in progress, and Stuart and Jack paused at the corner of Lacey. There was silence between them for a moment, and then Stuart said impulsively: “Jack, it was a mighty good thing they dished me and made you captain. You’ve got the brain for it, and I hadn’t. I didn’t realize it until to-night.”

“Rot!” said Jack indignantly. “Besides, brain—or what you mean by that—isn’t the only thing a captain needs, Stuart. The right sort of football captain needs what I haven’t got and never could get.”

“What?” asked Stuart.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know how to put it into words. It isn’t exactly popularity, and—leadership isn’t quite it. Those things are part of it, though. I read about a fellow who was a captain over in France in the War. He wasn’t popular exactly. Some of his men loved him but a lot more fairly hated him. But they all believed in him, Stuart, and they’d have followed him to—to Berlin, and cheered all the way! I guess that’s about what I’m trying to get at. What that fellow had is what I haven’t got and what you have, Stuart.”

“I have?” muttered Stuart. “I don’t think I knew it, Jack.” He was silent a moment. Then with a little laugh that held more of bitterness than amusement, he added: “If I had, I’ve surely lost it. No one would follow me to-day as far as the door there!”

“You failed them, Stuart,” answered the other gravely. “But they’ll come back when you say the word.”

“Come back? Oh—well—I guess there won’t be any coming back. I suppose I did play the fool, Jack. Just the same, I guess it was better for the team. You’re a better captain than I was or could have been. I—I haven’t been awfully decent lately, and—well, you might forget it, if you don’t mind, and——”

“Oh, shut up!” said Jack gruffly. “Go to the dickens, will you? Good night, you poor simp!”

Stuart found Number 12 in darkness. Neil, he reflected, was probably over at the cheer meeting. Neil had a sentimental streak in him and loved to get choked up and moist-eyed listening to the Glee Club sing “Old Manning!” Stuart didn’t light up just then, but pulled a chair to the window and put his feet on the window seat and looked across at the lights in Meigs and thought over what Jack had said and what had happened during the evening and a lot of things. When Neil came in later he found him still there.

“Hello,” Neil exclaimed, “what’s your trouble?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to discover,” answered Stuart soberly.

CHAPTER XVI
LE GETTE EXPLAINS

The cold spell continued well into the middle of the week, with brisk winds from the northwest and, if rumor was to be credited, a momentary flurry of snow Tuesday evening. The clicking of the steam in the pipes had a pleasant sound those mornings when, leaping heroically from bed, one slammed the window down, hustled shiveringly into a bathrobe and scuttled along the corridor to the showers. Once inside the swinging doors, the warm steam-laden atmosphere drove out the chills and almost invariably, for some reason, induced song. Disrobed figures, darting in or out of the showers, sang lustily. Robed figures, awaiting their turns, sang, too. As one had to drown the sound of the spray and his neighbors’ voices in order to hear and appreciate his own vocal efforts, the lavatories were so many Babels. At this season football songs were in favor, and a stranger listening outside could not have failed to be convinced of Manning’s might and valor and of the futility of Pearsall’s pretensions!

But one didn’t have to listen outside the lavatories to hear football pæans those days. Every one sang them or whistled them, in hall, on campus, along the village street. Already the big cherry-red banner with the gray M floated beneath the stars-and-stripes from the flagpole in front of Manning Hall and dormitory windows were showing crossed pennants or cherry-colored pillows. In the village the storekeepers were digging out last season’s surplus of flags and megaphones and arm bands, and over the portal of the town hall the ancient and faded length of red and gray bunting was once more in place. In short, Safford was preparing for the big event that came but once in two years and scorned expense! It was even said that Mr. Hutchins—familiarly known throughout school as “Blinky”—had recklessly imported from New York a whole dozen cherry-and-gray four-in-hands the like of which had never been seen in Safford and, which was even more certain, would never be seen at Manning! But, although fellows shied from the ties, they considered that “Blinky” had been very sporting.

Cheer meetings were held nightly, increasing in fervor as the big game approached. Unknown to fame indeed was he who by Friday night had not stood at least once on the platform in assembly hall and voiced his faith in the team! Fellows who never read a newspaper save on Sunday, and then confined themselves to the magazine and “comic” sections, hurried to the village after breakfast and meandered back to the campus with their faces concealed behind the outspread pages of the morning journals. Studious youths who had hitherto been uncertain whether a touchback was a player or an article of football attire became suddenly versed in the rules of the game to the point of argument, and Nutting, who kept the stationery store, sold the four rules-books that had caused him sorrow for nearly two years! In fact, Manning School was undergoing a recurrent malady known as football fever and was experiencing it in its most virulent form.

On Wednesday, however, the malady had not reached its height, and morning recitations were fairly normal; something not to be said of Thursday’s or Friday’s. Stuart and Le Gette put in the usual practice session on the second team gridiron and Le Gette did seven goals out of ten tries by drop kicking and four out of ten from placement. When work was over Stuart announced that the other would have a chance to show what he could do against the second team that afternoon. If Stuart expected signs of trepidation in Le Gette he was disappointed. Le Gette only nodded and said: “I suppose you’ve got to forget the other fellows and just keep your mind on the kick.”

Stuart had no better advice to offer.

When the trials came Le Gette didn’t do so badly. The first time, called back from guard position to try a drop kick from second’s thirty, he showed nervousness but, since his line held fast, he put the pigskin over. A few minutes later, however, on a second attempt, an opposing tackle leaked through and hurried him and the ball went slewing off to a corner of the field. Again he made good, from close to the twenty, and, just before the end came, he failed miserably at a placement kick after touchdown. Afterwards, Stuart kept him out until it was too dark to see the ball, and, with an eager junior chasing the pigskin for them, drilled Le Gette in placement kicking so strenuously that all hands, including the willing junior, were thoroughly fagged out. But on Thursday Le Gette showed improvements both at morning practice and during the game with the second, and Stuart felt a deal of pride in the results of his coaching, even before Mr. Haynes sought him on the bench and congratulated him.

“You’ve done wonders, Harven,” said the coach earnestly. “You’ve pulled us out of a hole. No doubt about that. Le Gette’s as good right now as Towne. I’m mighty grateful to you.”

“That’s all right,” muttered Stuart. “He’s worked like a Trojan, Le Gette has. I’ll say that for him.”

“I guess you both have,” answered the coach warmly. “Perhaps you’d better ease up to-morrow. Mustn’t overdo it.”

“No fear, sir. Le Gette’s a whale for work. He’ll be twenty per cent better Saturday. I’m going to keep him right at it until the last minute.”

“We—ell, all right. Maybe you know best. See that he gets a good rubbing afterwards.” Mr. Haynes nodded and hurried off, leaving Stuart frowning after him. The frown was occasioned by the unwelcome realization that the coach’s commendation had pleased him, and Stuart didn’t want to be pleased by anything the coach said or did.

There was a stiff, grueling practice that afternoon, in which the first team rose in its might and, to use Billy Littlefield’s picturesque metaphor, “chewed the ear off the goats.” Which meant that the first stacked up fourteen points in the first period and twelve in the second, and that all the second could do was drop a rather lucky field goal from the thirty-five yards, aided by a brisk wind. Stuart played all of that second half and played about as usual. In spite of The Laird’s advice, he had not dared to put himself to the test. It was all well enough for The Laird to say that if he was stopped it didn’t matter, but it did matter. The first was on its mettle those days and a win over the second was something greatly to be desired, and Stuart never found a time when, in his judgment, to risk the loss of territory or, possibly the ball, would have been permissible. So he fed the pigskin to the other backs or shied it over the line to a waiting end and never attempted to gain the glory of a spurt outside of tackle or a “knife” through the line.

Thursday’s work-out was the last before the Pearsall game, although there was some signal and formation drill on Friday and a short session for the kickers. The second disbanded with much cheering and romped joyously off the field, elation over the end of a season’s martyrdom overweighing the degradation of a 26 to 3 defeat. That was Thursday. Friday Stuart and Le Gette got in an hour in the forenoon and an hour before twilight, and Le Gette kicked fourteen out of a possible twenty drops from various distances and at assorted angles, and Stuart, unable to dissimilate any longer, slapped his pupil on the back and exclaimed heartily: “That’s booting ’em!”

That was when the afternoon’s session was over. Le Gette, having rescued his sweater from the ground faced Stuart with a broad grin. “I guess I must be pretty good, Harven,” he replied, “to have you say so!”

Stuart frowned. “Oh, I’m not such a pup as that,” he protested. “You’ve done mighty well, and—I’m fair enough to say so.”

“Thanks. All right. Let’s wander.” Then, when they had gone a little way, he turned to Stuart and said: “You’ve got it in for me for blackballing young Orr, haven’t you?”

Stuart, surprised, stared back an instant. Then: “Yes, I have,” he answered coldly. “And if it’s the same to you, Le Gette, we’ll keep off that subject.”

“I thought so. And I didn’t care a whoop. But you’ve been pretty decent in this business, Harven, and I guess I’d like to have you know that you’re wrong.”

“Wrong? How am I wrong? Just because you didn’t like me you needn’t have—”

“Hold your horses,” interrupted Le Gette calmly. “You didn’t get me. I’m trying to tell you that I didn’t vote against Orr.”

There was a moment of incredulous silence before Stuart laughed sarcastically. “Go on, you’re doing fine!” he sneered.

Le Gette flushed but kept his temper. “All right,” he said. “If you take that tone, I’m through.”

Stuart eyed him doubtfully. Then: “There’s no use telling me that,” he expostulated. “I know you did it. Who else was there?”

“That’s for you to find out,” Le Gette replied shortly. “I’ve told you that I didn’t do it. Let’s drop it.”

They went on towards the gymnasium in silence, Stuart thinking hard. After a minute he said: “All right, Le Gette, I believe you. Sorry if I was rotten. But you looked at me funny that night, and I knew you had it in for me——”

“Never did,” answered the other quickly. “Anyway, not until you showed that you disliked me for some reason. But no matter how I felt toward you, Harven, I wouldn’t do a dirty trick like that.”

They had reached the steps, and Stuart paused. “Wait a second,” he said. “I’d like to get this right. It looks as if I’d made an awful fool of myself. I never had anything against you, Le Gette; I mean until that happened. You always looked sort of—of sneery, and—well, I thought you didn’t like me. Then, that night, you had a look— Maybe I imagined it——”

“I guess I looked at you the way you looked at me,” replied Le Gette gruffly. “You always seemed to think I was a lump of dirt! I don’t say that I was awfully cut-up about that blackballing, except that I’ve always sort of liked Neil Orr, for it got your goat for fair. But I didn’t do it, and I didn’t like you thinking I did. That got me peeved and I went on letting you think so.”

“Well,” said Stuart helplessly, “it’s mighty funny!”

“Oh, if you don’t believe me!”

“I don’t mean that! I mean the whole thing’s funny; me thinking you had it in for me and—and blaming you for the blackballing. I—I’m sorry, Le Gette. Honest, I am!”

“Well, I wanted you to know the truth,” muttered the other.

“I’m glad you told me. I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so. Can’t blame you for being peeved, the way things stood. Guess I ought to have explained at the time, only I was too mad.”

“Of course,” agreed Stuart. Then, thoughtfully: “I wish I knew who did it!”

“I don’t mind telling you, but I wouldn’t bother to say anything about it to him because I gave him a dressing down he won’t forget for awhile. It was young Lantwood.”

“Austin Lantwood! But—why, I thought—”

“Oh, he didn’t have anything against you. It was something that Orr had done. He didn’t tell me what.”

“I don’t believe it! Neil never did anything against any one! He’s the squarest fellow in school! If Lantwood says that——”

“Oh, it probably wasn’t anything really,” interrupted Le Gette. “Lantwood’s more or less of a pill. Anyway, he won’t do it again, and if you put Orr’s name up next term there’s no doubt that he’ll make it all right.”

“I’m going to,” answered Stuart. “How’d you know it was Lantwood?”

“Sort of guessed it. Happened to see his face when Severence announced the vote. Afterwards, I followed him out and poked a fist at him and made him come across. He’s yellow and only lied once. Then I gave him a playful jolt in the ribs and he confessed. It wasn’t any business of mine, I suppose, but—well, maybe I thought I might want to square myself some day. Say, let’s go in. I’m freezing to death out here!”

“The little rat!” murmured Stuart as he followed the other into the warmth of the gymnasium.

“All of that,” agreed Le Gette cheerfully. “But I wouldn’t bother with him, Harven. I told him I’d break his neck if he ever did anything like that again. He won’t. Funny thing about it is he’s taken rather a shine to me since then!”

Later, back in Number 12, Stuart asked: “Neil, what did you ever do to Austin Lantwood?”

Neil marked a place in his book with a finger and shook his head as he looked up. “Lantwood? Why, nothing! That is—— Why do you ask?”

“Well, Le Gette’s just told me that it was Lantwood who blackballed you for Lyceum.”

“Lantwood! Funny I didn’t think of him,” mused Neil. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t Le Gette, anyway. You know, I didn’t think it was, Stuart.”

“Lantwood told Le Gette that you’d done something to him some time or other. What was it?”

Neil laughed. “Well, last spring I told him he was a disgrace to the school, and a few things like that, and I dare say he didn’t like it.”

“What for?”

“Why, I found him twisting a kid’s arm one afternoon in the lower corridor in Manning. The kid was a junior, about thirteen, I guess, and hardly up to the other chap’s shoulder. He was crying and I butted in. Lantwood said the kid had called him names and I said I guessed he deserved it. He wanted to scrap, and I couldn’t oblige him very well, so I hauled off with one crutch and he beat it. That’s all there was to it, except that I told him a few things to think over!”

“Well, I’ll be switched!” marveled Stuart. “Think of little Neil’s losing his temper! Golly, I didn’t think you could do it!”

“I’m not sure that I did just that,” replied Neil reflectively. “I was indignant, I guess, but I don’t think I was mad.”

“Well, I hope you’ll never get mad at me, then,” laughed Stuart. “I suppose when you’re really angry you use both crutches!”

“No,” Neil shook his head smilingly, “when I get really mad I don’t say anything.”

“Hope you remain chatty, old son. Well, Lantwood won’t do it again, Steve says, and——”

“Who says?”

“Le Gette.”

“Oh!” Neil hid the amusement in his eyes by bending over his book again. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t Le Gette, Stuart.”

“Yes.” After a moment Stuart added: “He’s not such a bad sort, Neil. I—I was sort of fooled about him.”

“You sometimes are, you know,” agreed Neil mildly.

“Well, when a fellow makes you think he doesn’t like you——” Stuart paused. “I’m going to put you up again for Lyceum right after Christmas recess, and you’ll go through like a shot.”

“All right. Thanks. Now will you kindly let me go ahead with this? Even if you never study, I’ve got to occasionally!”

“What a rotten subject to mention,” groaned Stuart. “I’m in a regular mess with Greek. But a fellow simply can’t get his mind on things like that in the last week of the season. After we’ve trimmed Pearsall——” He stopped and was silent a moment. Then: “Know something, Neil?” he asked abruptly.

Neil nodded without looking up again. “A little something,” he murmured.

“We’re going to get licked Saturday,” announced Stuart in dismal tones. “Something tells me so.”

“That so? What time is it?”

“Quarter to six—nearly.”

“Wait half an hour then and something will tell you differently. I’ve always noticed that you’re a bit of a pessimist just before mealtime!”

“Oh, go to the dickens,” murmured Stuart.

CHAPTER XVII
TASKER GOES OVER

Why, when he had already gone through one Pearsall game, Stuart should have awakened on the morning of November twentieth with his heart in his mouth was beyond him. But he did, and all the time he was dressing and all through breakfast he felt jumpy and scared. He managed to eat a normal amount of food, although he didn’t want anything but a cup of coffee, for fear that his table companions might surmise the degrading fact that he was as nervous as any tyro. It was a relief to get out of doors afterwards and sit in the sunlight in front of Manning with some of the fellows and wait for ten o’clock to arrive. At ten he and Steve Le Gette were to have a final session on the field. He wished now they had decided to meet earlier.

The weather was well-nigh ideal for football; bright, with scarcely a suggestion of breeze and the thermometer around fifty. Perhaps by midday the sun might shine a bit too ardently, but just now it was very welcome. There were almost no classes this morning; none at all for the football players; and the holiday feeling was apparent from the first. Le Gette showed up a quarter of an hour before the appointed time, to Stuart’s relief, and they went over to the gymnasium and donned togs very leisurely. There was no hurry now that the tedium of inactive waiting was past. All either of the boys desired was an occupation to take their minds from what was scheduled to take place at two o’clock. They talked freely to-day, and Steve Le Gette found that there was quite a different side to Stuart Harven from what he had known. Stuart explained Lantwood’s grievance against Neil and from that subject the talk slipped to Neil’s appointment as one of the day’s cheer leaders, Le Gette wondering how he would manage in view of his dependence on crutches. Stuart was confident that Neil would have no trouble, though. “He can do about everything any one else can except walk,” he said. Then, as was fated, the conversation reached the game and they talked of it all the way over to the field and felt better for it.

Practice wasn’t very hard this morning. Stuart tried to make Le Gette more perfect in placement kicking, but it was fairly evident that no amount of practice would ever bring Le Gette’s place kicks to a par with his drops. Of the latter he performed several difficult ones, Stuart placing him at angles such as would probably never occur in contests. They were not alone this morning, for two or three dozen fellows wandered over to the field and looked on. Wallace Towne was one. Towne plainly showed his recent illness, although he told Stuart that he felt perfectly all right and hoped that Haynes would let him into the game for a while.

“Wouldn’t mind so much if it wasn’t my last game,” he said. “You’ve got another year. But I haven’t. Not here.”

“Still you’ve got your letter, old man,” consoled Stuart.

“I know. That isn’t it. I want to smash a couple of ‘Percies.’ Suppose you’ll get in, eh?”

“I don’t know, Wally. I’m hoping Haynes will let me in for a period. Guess that’s the best I can expect. I’m playing rotten.”

“Don’t believe it! You couldn’t. You’ll make it. Wish I was half as certain!”

The advance guard of the enemy had begun to put in an appearance by the time Stuart and Le Gette got back to the campus, and blue pennants and arm bands were well in evidence. Luncheon for the players was a lightweight affair at twelve, at which there was far more talking than eating. Talk is a splendid outlet for nervousness. After luncheon the squad went to the gymnasium and walked through half a dozen plays and listened to a final talk by the coach. Like many of his kind, Mr. Haynes firmly believed that the team scoring first was the team that won. Perhaps later he changed his mind, but to-day he still believed and shared his belief.

“We’re going to get the jump on Pearsall,” he explained. “We’re going to try mighty hard to score inside the first ten minutes. After we have scored we’ll play a safe game, but until we have we’re going to take chances and use every trick that will gain ground. The first punch is what counts, fellows, and we want to deliver it. I want to see Pearsall played right off her feet in the first eight or ten minutes. That means that every one of you must show all the speed and all the snap you know, and a bit more besides. There’s to be no time called, no hesitation about signals. Every man must keep on the jump every minute.”

Manning went over to the field at half-past one. Already the stands were well sprinkled. The townsfolk had showed their allegiance by turning out in their bravest array, many of them bringing lunch along so that they might be early on hand and secure the best seats. The yearly circus and the Manning-Pearsall football game were the only events capable of inducing Safford citizens outside their doors. Pearsall romped on a few minutes later, by which time there was a sufficient number of her adherents in place to give her a rousing welcome. That event started the cheering which continued without respite until the teams took the field. Down in front of the Manning sections, Stearns Wilson, cheer captain, and McColl, Trenholme and Neil Orr, his lieutenants, swung their big cherry-colored megaphones and worked hard. The way in which Neil danced about on his crutches and waved his arms was a wonder and a delight, and it is no exaggeration to say that, although his section held a goodly number of visitors sprinkled in with the students, he obtained quite as good results as any of the other leaders.

The day had turned just a little too warm for the comfort of the warriors, but the absence of wind was something to be thankful for and atoned for the excess of temperature. The Pearsall squad, some thirty strong, looked hard and eager. Statistics gave the visitors a two pound advantage in the rushline and placed the backfield average at the same figure. Five minutes before two Captain Brewton led his squad to the bench and Coach Haynes summoned Stuart.

“Harven,” he announced, “you’re going to start at quarter. I think you can run the team somewhat faster than Wheaton, and speed is what we want. You know the plays. Make them go and make them go fast. I want a score—a touchdown if we can get it, a field goal if we can’t—inside of ten minutes. If we haven’t got it then, you come out, Harven.”

“If we have got it, sir?”

“You play the half through, barring accidents.”

“All right, sir. We’ll have it if it’s to be had.”

“It is to be had, Harven, and I want you to feel so. There are two things to keep in mind every minute. One is accuracy and the other is speed. Get your plays right and then make them go fast. Get the jump from the kick-off and never lose it!”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask, Harven. Your best is mighty good!”

But, although Stuart had spoken confidently enough to the coach, he was filled with misgivings when he trotted out on the gridiron with a thundering cheer beating against his ears. Ten minutes was but ten minutes, and, unfortunately, Pearsall had won the toss and given Manning the kick-off. He was not through being surprised at his good fortune when Joe Cutts stepped forward and shot the pigskin away from the tee. He had hoped to get into the game for a little while; perhaps for a whole period toward the end; but that he should have been chosen in preference to Wheaton to start the game was something almost miraculous. Well, there he was, and Haynes looked for a score in the first ten minutes of playing time, which, thought Stuart as he raced down the field behind the ball, was a good deal to expect! But that wasn’t saying it couldn’t be done. No, sir, not by a long shot! Those chaps weren’t any better than old Manning. Maybe not so good. Haynes had said that it was spirit that counted——

Just then Stuart went slam into a Pearsall tackle, a whistle shrilled and on the Blue’s seventeen yards a carroty-haired half whom Stuart recognized as Connor rolled off the ball and scrambled to his feet.

Pearsall tested the Manning center for a yard, massed her whole backfield on Thurston for two more, gained three through Beeman and then punted. It was Billy Littlefield, playing back with Stuart, who caught, and Billy reeled off most of ten yards before he was toppled. Then, with the two teams facing each other across Manning’s forty-five, the Cherry-and-Gray began an onslaught that became history.

Statistics, if there was such, would show that ninety-nine times in one hundred the first attack by a team in an important game is made at the line. Ninety-seven times in a hundred the second play is also directed at the line. In short, the attempt is almost invariably made to try out the opposing defense in the first minutes of play. This rule is almost as inviolable as the law of gravitation. Recently, however, a famous scientist has shown that even the law of gravitation has its exceptions, and it is possible that knowledge of this fact may have emboldened a lesser scientist—for who dares say that football is not a science?—to conceive of an exception to the rule alluded to. All that as may have been, the rule was flagrantly disregarded. Instead of sending a back experimentally against the enemy’s line, Stuart watched the ball pass by him into the outspread hands of Leo Burns, saw the whole backfield, from balanced formation, dash to the right, saw the Pearsall end neatly boxed by Tasker and Littlefield and saw Burns tearing over the line. I say that Stuart saw all this, but it would be nearer the facts to say that he saw some of it and sensed the rest. For Stuart was busy himself. While Whaley blocked the opposing tackle, Le Gette and Stuart cleaned out a hole that wasn’t used and met the first onslaught of the enemy’s backs. Burns, running wide and without interference, took the pigskin over four white marks before he was pulled down by the Pearsall quarter. The ball was near the enemy’s forty-three when it came to light again.

Pearsall looked bewildered, even stunned. More than that, she looked hurt and injured, as though Manning had played an unfair trick on her. She had had her rush line all set, every husky player from tackle to tackle swinging and crouched, ready to repel the attack. And what had the enemy done? What, indeed, but outrage and transgress one of the fundamental rules and precedents and go scurrying off around an unsuspecting end! Pearsall was surprised, disgruntled and sore. The thing was never done, and Manning had done it! But the Blue had scant time to nurse her grievance, for never had a team sped back to positions and cried its signals as quickly as Manning did in the ensuing five seconds. The Pearsall quarter fairly had to run to get back up the field ere the ball again went into play. And in those few seconds the Manning stand was a bedlam of cheers unmeasured but thunderous.

Again Stuart sent the ball to Burns on a direct pass and again Burns crossed to the right. But this time the play went outside the tackle, and, because Cooper, the Pearsall left end, eluded the interference and managed to get himself in the way, the down netted but three yards, and it was Pearsall’s turn to cheer. But that was only a momentary pause in the advance. Littlefield found a hole awaiting him between guard and tackle and slashed through for three more, and Tasker, faking a punt, went hurtling into and over the opposing right tackle and, fighting, squirming, head-down, took the ball for the rest of the distance before the secondary defense piled on to him.

Pearsall, confused by the opponent’s speed, tried desperately to stem the tide, tried to meet speed with speed and failed. She was still dismayed by that first act of treachery, puzzled by a foe who did the unexpected and kept on doing it. She had been assured that Manning was an exponent of old-style football who would buck the line so long as a foot rewarded her. But Manning didn’t seem to realize that Pearsall had a center and was apparently only partly aware of the existence of her guards! There was little time for conferences, for Manning leaped from the ground to position in a breath and her demoniac quarter began to cry his signals almost before the whistle had ceased! Pearsall was as nearly demoralized as it had ever been her fortune to be for several years.

Inside her thirty-yard line, according to all the rules of the game, her defense should have strengthened and the enemy’s attack slowed down. Yet nothing of the sort happened. With Pearsall’s backs close behind her line, well spread to repel end attacks, Manning again did the improbable. Le Gette fell back to kicking position and Tasker took his place in the line. Pearsall believed no try-at-goal would come on second down, and yet there was no telling what such a crazy opponent would do, and so the backs tried to be in two places at once and were quite unprepared for the quick, short heave from Stuart to Muirgart. A Pearsall back did almost spoil the pass since, scenting an end run, he had sped out at the last instant, but Muirgart pulled the ball down safely near the twenty-yard line and reached the fourteen before the frantic Pearsall back pulled him to earth.

The Blue called for time then, something she might better have done minutes before, and making no pretense of an injury to a player gathered in close conclave near the goal. A substitute end was whisked in from the Pearsall bench and was closely watched by the enemy lest he divulge instructions from his coach before the next play was over. Stuart fumed at the two-minute delay but had to put up with it. He and Jack bent and talked in panting whispers. Back up the field, the Cherry-and-Gray cohorts were chanting “Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!” From the opposite stand the Pearsall contingent was equally clamorous with its slogan “Hold ’em Pearsall! Hold ’em Pearsall!” Then the whistle piped again.

It was first down, the ball a scant yard past the fifteen and well to the left of the goal. Stuart, dripping perspiration, his heart thumping hard, reasoned that Pearsall would look for one of two things, a run around the left on the short side of the field or an attack to the right to center the ball in case a try-at-goal became necessary. What she would doubtless least expect was a straight smash at the left of the line. And so that is what Stuart called for and that is what Tasker performed. A fullback split-buck through left of center, with Tasker taking the ball from Stuart at a hand pass, with Burns and Littlefield charging to the right, with Brewton and Beeman putting the opposing guard out and Cutts heaving at the center, took the ball to the eight yards. Pearsall was shouting hoarsely, frantically, digging her cleats. The substitute end whispered his order as Stuart yelped for action.

“Come on, Manning! Play fast! Get in there, Thirsty! Signals!”

Again the ball went to Tasker, but this time a scant yard rewarded an off-tackle play on the right. Pearsall found encouragement and, when the stick was seen to move but a few feet along the side-line, a wild shout of acclaim arose from the blue-decked stand.

“Third down!” shouted the referee. “About three to go!”

“Let’s have it!” cried Stuart. “Hard, fellows, hard! Here we go! Le Gette back! Signals!”

“Bust that up!” shrieked the Pearsall captain. “Block that kick! Get through, Pearsall!”

“Watch for a fake!” shouted the Blue’s quarter anxiously.

Back went the ball, but although Le Gette swung his long leg, it was Billy Littlefield who snuggled the pigskin to his stomach, put his head down and dashed like a battering-ram into the line. Before him went Burns, behind him Stuart and Le Gette. Straight at the Pearsall right guard he dashed, stopped with a grunt, dug his toes and went on again. Shouts, grunts, wild confusion of sound and movement, and then, suddenly, a wavering of the Blue defense! The line buckled, gave! Then the secondary defense piled in behind it, and the advance paused, stopped. A whistle blew.

Littlefield, void of breath but grinning, was pulled to his feet. “Fourth down! About half a yard to go!” droned the referee.

“Let’s have it!” yelled Stuart hoarsely. “Kick formation! Hold that line, Manning!” Stuart trotted back to kicking position. “Signals!” Then they came, and Cutts passed the ball back to Tasker and the big fullback ran out to the left, Burns beside him, Littlefield behind. Then came Stuart’s frantic “In! In!” and Tasker swerved to the right, Littlefield sent a Pearsall tackle toppling out of the path and, with the enemy all about him, yet, as though by a miracle, eluding them, Howdy Tasker—Fame beckoning him on—spun and twisted, dodged and side-stepped and, finally, with half the Pearsall team clutching and dragging, spurned the last line and went over!

Almost before the whistle had blown Stuart was sprinting toward the side line. “How much time is there, sir?” he demanded breathlessly of the linesman.

“Oh, you’ve got seven minutes yet!” was the reply.

Seven minutes! Then they had scored in eight, well under the coach’s allowance of ten! Stuart swung his head guard in triumph as he hurried back. Now if only he could kick the goal! Le Gette picked up the ball and took it out to the twenty-yard line, Stuart following, and slowly and cautiously lowered himself to the ground. They were still cheering, still shrieking back there on the Manning side, and for an instant the sound worried Stuart. Then he cast an anxious look at Le Gette. Save that that youth’s lungs were pumping hard, he showed no sign of perturbation.

“This ought to be easy, Stuart,” panted Le Gette reassuringly, as he pointed the ball.

“Yes,” agreed Stuart. But there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in that assent. He was wishing with all his heart that he might exchange places with the other. The old self doubt was back and he was horribly afraid. Yet he instructed Le Gette with apparent confidence, took a last look at the bar, stepped forward and kicked. Then he closed his eyes for an instant, not daring to watch the flight of the ball, and opened them only when a mighty cheer burst forth from the Manning stand!

CHAPTER XVIII
IN THE LAST QUARTER

No team could continue the pace that Manning had set at the start, and when Cutts had again kicked off from the midfield and Pearsall had caught and reeled off twelve yards there was a perceptible let-down in Manning’s speed, and, since the Blue had in the interim between the scoring and the kick-off pulled herself together, the opponents appeared more closely matched. Pearsall made her distance once, Connor carrying the ball around Whaley when two tries at the left of center had yielded five yards. The Blue’s fullback got two through Le Gette, but after two more tries at the line Pearsall punted to Stuart on his thirty-two. He managed to dodge back for five before he was thrown heavily.

Manning began then a systematic bucking of the Pearsall center and obtained good results, Tasker and Burns gaining between tackles for enough to take the pigskin in the Blue’s territory. There an off-side penalty set her back and Littlefield was caught off the line and dumped on his head. Stuart punted to the Blue’s fourteen and Pearsall kicked on second down to Manning’s forty. Manning failed to make her distance on three tries and Tasker punted. The kick was short and a Pearsall back landed the ball on his thirty-two. A forward pass grounded, but on the next play Connor again went around Whaley and reached Manning’s forty-six. A second attempt at the same play was spilled for a loss and Pearsall sent her left half close off Thurston for six. The quarter ended and the teams changed fields.

Pearsall had regained her confidence and showed it, and the Blue stand was shouting madly. Pearsall brought off her first successful forward-pass and made it go for nine yards, placing the ball close to the home team’s thirty-yard line. Pearsall’s quarterback got loose around his left and added four more, and Coach Haynes hurried Wesner on in place of Whaley. The Blue was playing desperately and was hard to stop. Yet from the twenty-six her progress was slower and it required the tape to determine her right to retain possession of the ball on the twenty. But she had made her distance by an inch or two, and the Pearsall supporters went mad with joy. Almost on the threshold, the Blue became cautious and, using a right shift, concentrated on the enemy’s tackles. But two tries gained her only three yards and Loring, her left half, went back to kicking position. As was expected, the third down became an attempt at a plunge through center, an attempt that was spoiled by the Manning backs. Then, from the twenty-three, Loring got the ball on a good pass, dropped it and kicked. Manning broke through, but, although Jack Brewton tipped the pigskin with his fingers, the ball went squarely across the bar and the Blue had scored.

The rest of the second period passed without further scoring, although, with but two minutes to play, Stuart, faking a pass to Tasker, hid the ball for an instant and then shot straight through the enemy’s center and dodged and squirmed through the backfield for twenty-eight yards, landing the pigskin on Pearsall’s twenty-nine. That sample of the quarterback’s return to his old form brought the Manning cheerers to their feet, and there they stayed, cheering wildly, imploring a touchdown. But, although Coach Haynes sped Hanson in for Littlefield and Hanson and Lowe and Tasker each banged at the Pearsall line or plunged past tackle, three downs left the Cherry-and-Gray three yards short of her distance and Stuart and Jack held a consultation. Stuart was all for risking a forward pass, but Jack preferred playing it safer on a try at a field goal.

“It had better be Le Gette, then,” Stuart panted. “I’m all in, Jack. But he can do it.”

“All right! Let’s have it!”

Le Gette looked a little bit pale when he dropped back to the twenty-eight. The distance was nothing to bother him, nor was the angle extreme, but this was his first attempt during the game and he was nervous. And things went against him: Joe Cutts passed high and Le Gette wasted a valuable moment getting the ball to position: a Pearsall guard got through between Beeman and Cutts and, although Hanson spilled him, added to Le Gette’s worriment. As a result the ball started well but, short of the goal, veered from its path. There was a moment of doubt that ended with a yell of relief from Pearsall. The pigskin had passed a foot outside the further upright! Le Gette looked as if he wanted to cry, but Stuart said: “Hard luck, Steve! You’ll get the next one!” and the teams lined up once more. Pearsall tried one smash at the foe and then the whistle blew.

Manning and Pearsall sang and cheered all through the intermission, Manning with the confidence that a four-point lead gave her, Pearsall with the hope of ultimate victory. When the teams trotted back again all previous efforts in the line of cheering were paled by the mighty welcomes that burst forth from the stands. Pearsall had made but one change in her line-up, Manning two. Codman was at left guard in place of Beeman and Wheaton was at quarter. Stuart saw the rest of the game from the bench. He held no resentment toward Mr. Haynes, for “Wheat” had proved his right to the position and the coach had fulfilled his promise. If, secretly, Stuart believed that he could have played that second half better than his rival, he gave no voice to the belief. He took what consolation he could from the conviction that he had performed well while he had been in and tried not to be unduly troubled by the reflection that had he tried that goal from field instead of Le Gette, Manning’s score might now be three points bigger.

Pearsall came back for that third period at least twenty per cent better. What had passed in the Blue’s quarters during half-time none but the members of the team and their coach knew, but whatever it was it had had its effect. Pearsall, with her line-up practically unaltered, took command of the situation at once. Manning gave the kick-off to Pearsall and when the ball had landed in Muirgart’s arms near his twenty-five-yard line she kept it but a brief time. Three rushes proved the enemy’s line too strong, and Tasker punted. Fate took a hand then. That punt was high and short and was pulled down on the fifty-yard line. From there Pearsall opened up a new style of attack, placing her backs, three-abreast, close to her line and keeping the plays concealed most bewilderingly. She found a weak spot at Codman and made gain after gain there until Codman was replaced by Baker. She pulled off two forward-passes that were as successful as they were daring, using long heaves far down the field to an unprotected end. Six minutes after the kick-off the Blue was hammering at Manning’s portal and the Cherry-and-Gray, desperate, was fighting for those final ten yards.

Pearsall saw victory ahead and was not to be denied. Amidst a continued welter of noise from the stands, she hammered and banged, gaining two yards here, three there, making it first down at last on Manning’s six. Irmo went in for Cutts, who was showing wear, and the Manning center stood steady. With four yards to go on fourth down, Pearsall, faking a kick, sent Connor skimming around the right end and, with sinking hearts, the Cherry-and-Gray’s adherents saw him stagger across the goal line at the corner of the field. From that touchdown Loring sent over an easy goal, and on the score-board the white numerals changed from 7 to 3 to 7 to 10!

But there still remained nearly twenty minutes of playing time and, undaunted, Manning went back to the contest. Pearsall for the rest of that period seemed content to play on the defensive and punted whenever the ball fell into her hands in her own territory. Manning found the Blue line almost impregnable and was forced to use all the tricks in her bag to make her gains. But luck seemed against her. Forward passes failed and end runs were as often stopped behind the line as beyond it. Yet, by hook or by crook, the Cherry-and-Gray managed to make her distance four times before the whistle ended the third period, though never once reaching far into Pearsall territory. When the period ended the ball was Manning’s on her thirty-four yards, following a punt by the enemy.

Stuart, watching anxiously from the bench, squirmed time and again as the home team’s plays failed to gain and the minutes sped past. There was something psychological in Manning’s condition, and Stuart recognized the fact, although he didn’t use such a long word to describe it to himself. He merely said: “That touchdown has taken the starch right out of them!” It wasn’t that Manning didn’t try hard, for she did. Her men were fairly working themselves to death. But labor and skill, if ill applied, fail of their purpose, and Manning was somehow fighting blindly. Stuart recalled a movie comedy he had seen wherein a man had tried mightily to break through a door in a wall that ended ten feet further along. The team, he thought, was like that man. It was wasting its efforts trying to get through what might better be got around or over. It had tried to get around, to be sure, and it had tried to get over as well, but it hadn’t tried the right way. In running the ends it had been advertising the play beforehand, starting the runner from well behind the line and sweeping the interference along with him. Why, the veriest idiot could have told what was coming! As for her forward passes, he could find little fault with the execution of those. Sheer luck had spoiled them, it seemed. But the team did have a puzzling forward pass play which was well disguised as a half back run, and that had not been attempted. More than once he was moved to speak his thoughts to Coach Haynes, but always something held him back. After all, the Coach had eyes and doubtless saw just what Stuart saw. Perhaps when the fourth period began the Cherry-and-Gray team would find itself again.

While the teams changed fields and water carriers scampered to the side lines with pails and paper cups, Coach Haynes turned from a conference with The Laird and summoned Littlefield to him. A few brief words were exchanged and Billy, throwing off his blanket, ran on. No other change was made. Yet when Manning had wasted one play on an ill-fated attack at the Pearsall line on the left of center, she suddenly changed her tactics, and Stuart, observing, sighed his relief.

“Haynes has sent the right dope, I guess,” he confided to Lowe, beside him. “Now maybe we’ll see something.”

But Pearsall was not napping, and, although Littlefield sneaked through between tackle and end on the left, the gain was short. Another try outside of end went better, but fourth down found them shy three yards of the required ten, and Tasker booted. This time, catching near her twenty-five, her quarterback slammed to earth without gain by Muirgart, Pearsall didn’t kick on first down, nor yet on second or third. Instead, she began a hard drive on Manning’s left wing, hitting Brewton and Baker for short gains and then getting past Jack on the outside for nearly the distance. A fake kick and a quick slam at center gave her first down on her thirty-six. From there the Blue, abandoning defensive tactics, took the war into the enemy’s territory in just seven plays. Muirgart gave place to Jakin at left end and went limping off to the cheers of the Manning stand. Pearsall worked a quarterback run for eight and followed with a well-disguised forward-pass that landed the ball on Manning’s thirty-two. There, however, she hit a snag and, with a yard to go on fourth down, saw her backs piled up with no gain. Almost under the shadow of her goal, Manning took no risk of losing the ball, but, after one futile plunge at right tackle, punted.

Tasker got nearly fifty yards on that kick, and the Manning supporters yelled their relief and delight. Pearsall started back determinedly from her thirty-five, gained four around Jakin, gained one at the same end, made two through Irmo and again kicked. Littlefield caught on his twenty-seven and swept the ball back to the forty before he was stopped. Then began another brave attempt to reach the distant goal. Using C Formation, with the backs spread widely, Manning fought her way across midfield and started a determined march into the enemy country. With Tasker back as though to punt, Littlefield and Burns found gaps time and again and shot through the line only to be brought to earth by the secondary defense. Yet the short gains were consistent for awhile, and the pigskin went nearer and nearer the Blue’s goal. But the minutes were ticking themselves off with fatal rapidity, and as, past the thirty-five, the gains shortened, and, finally, Burns was thrown for a loss, Stuart knew that there was to be no victory for the home team to-day.

On the enemy’s thirty-two, with four to go on fourth down, Wheaton tried a desperate expedient. Given another five yards or so, he would be willing to risk a try for a goal from the field, and so, sending Le Gette back to kicking position and dropping to the ground as though to hold the ball for a place kick, Wheaton called his signals. Pearsall, alarmed, held herself ready to break through. Then the ball sped back into Wheaton’s hands. But instead of kicking it Le Gette only swung his foot past it, and the next moment Wheaton was on his feet stepping back, the pigskin poised for a throw. Then Jakin signaled and the ball sped across the line. It was a fine toss and a fine catch and although the left end did not get free, he made the twenty-two yards before he was smothered by the enemy.

The Manning stand saw victory waving, and such a shout went up from the throats of her devoted hundreds that even the wearied and jaded players felt the thrill. Manning was racing with Time now, for the linesman was slowly edging nearer and nearer, his eyes constantly dropping to the dial of the stop watch in his hand, and it seemed that Time must win. The two-minute period had already been announced, and more than twenty yards remained between the Cherry-and-Gray and a victory. Manning sprang quickly to position, but not so quickly that the time she consumed did not seem interminable to the anxious watchers. Pearsall was less inclined to speed, but the opponent made her hustle. Littlefield tried hard to gain off tackle on the right, but made less than two yards. Next, what looked like the same play resolved itself into another forward pass, but this time Wesner failed to get into place and the pass grounded. Then Fortune again turned her back on the Cherry-and-Gray warriors. Tasker smashed through between left guard and tackle for nearly five yards, but the squawking of the horn spelled disaster and the referee paced off five yards and put the ball back close to the twenty-five-yard line. Jakin had been caught off-side.

Stuart groaned aloud. Third down and thirteen yards to go! And seconds instead of minutes left! Would Wheaton waste any of that precious time on a hopeless rush or would he call on Le Gette for a field goal from about the thirty-three yards that looked equally hopeless? All expectation of a victory had been abandoned by the Manning supporters. Instead, they prayed for a tie score, and, as the precious seconds ticked themselves away, prayed silently.

Yet that silence was broken before the whistle blew again, for Towne was running on, and, behind him, four more substitutes, and the Manning stand answered the cheer leaders’ demand for “A short cheer for Towne!” for Leonard, for Thompson, for Lowe, for Whiting! Cheers for those who retired were cut short, for the whistle piped once more, the referee scuttled to safety and a sigh of relief burst from Stuart. Le Gette was walking back!

“Twenty-four seconds!” some one was crying as he took his stand. But that didn’t worry him. The play once begun, time was of no account. It was the distance and angle that caused him trepidation. He was eight yards behind the line and the line was close to the twenty-five; and the nearer goal post was well to his left. Perhaps had he been fresh, with his lungs not seemingly on the point of stopping work and his heart not pounding like a sledge, he might have faced his task with more confidence. But as it was his spine felt more like a column of water than a thing of bone and his muscles were twitching.

On the stands a deep silence had fallen. Pearsall’s cry of “Block that kick!” had dwindled away. Even the shouts of the opposing players had lapsed to hoarse mutters as Irmo, sighting, prepared to shoot the ball back. Wheaton, crouched behind the center, yelped his signals in a voice that cracked. Steve Le Gette held his trembling hands straight out, stiffened himself on his wobbling legs. Then came the thuds of meeting bodies, the rasping of canvas against canvas, the wild, unintelligible cries, the throaty grunts as Pearsall hurled herself at the enemy. But came, too, the battered brown ball, turning lazily over twice on its shorter axis and settling true into the outstretched hands awaiting it. One more brief glance at the crossbar, a quick turning of the ball, a single step forward, a powerful swing of a leg! Then forms blotted the speeding ball from his sight. The enemy was all about him, plunging past, toppling to the trampled sod.

Up and up, slowly, unconcernedly, went the ball, hung for a moment against the blue of the sky and arched downward. Midway between the posts it sailed and, for a fleeting instant, as it began its descent, it was eclipsed by the white streak of the crossbar!

CHAPTER XIX
STUART SPEAKS HIS MIND

Ten to ten!

A tied score and victory for neither team!

When the outburst that acclaimed Le Gette’s goal had finally died down a strange silence descended over the stands. Near midfield the teams were cheering each other, but the cheers sounded faint and perfunctory. The groups broke up and the players turned toward the benches and then, mingling with the throng, hurried off the field. The cheering section on the Manning side found its voice and broke into measured sound; a long cheer for the Team, a regular cheer for Pearsall—“and make it good!”—and another long cheer for Manning. The remnants of the Pearsall cheering section returned the compliment, and then the stands emptied.

It was a very quiet throng that flowed over the turf toward the campus. There is something woefully flat about a tied football game, and speculation and argument as to what might have happened bring small comfort. Many of the visitors felt cheated because there had been no subsequent spectacle, no snake dance with caps and brightly hued megaphones tossing over the crossbars, no triumphant cheering and singing. Some departed firm in the conviction that that amusement should have been provided for them irrespective of the game’s outcome!

In the gymnasium there was plenty of talk, but it flowed levelly, with no crescendos. Many remarks began with “If” and “But” and ended in the air. The general atmosphere was one of resentment rather than of regret, as though Fate had played a sorry trick. Later on, perspective came to the aid and a more philosophic mood prevailed, but just now there were moody faces aplenty in the locker room. Outside, the fellows were gathered before the entrance responding faithfully to Stearns Wilson’s every demand. Players and substitutes, coaches and managers, trainer and assistants were cheered loudly, but the sound, booming down to the wearied warriors, failed to dispel their gloom.

At supper time the entrance of every football fellow was, as usual, warmly applauded, and cheerfulness was more apparent. Stuart, coming in a few minutes late, with Neil, was met with a salvo such as had been accorded only Jack Brewton. Stuart, drawing his chair out, looked back to see who had followed him into the hall, and was surprised to discover that the long-continued chorus of “A-a-ay!” was in his honor. He felt an odd sense of pleasant confusion and tried to hide it by drinking from an empty water glass. A crowd that included Stuart and Jack and Neil invaded the moving picture house after supper and, finding a really humorous comedy to laugh at, returned to school in better spirits.

But in Stuart’s case the spirits didn’t outlast the night, and when he awoke nearly an hour before he needed to on Sunday morning and found the world gray and soggy under a drizzling rain he became horribly depressed. He couldn’t get to sleep again, but lay listening to the patter of the drops on the window ledge and faced a blank future. There didn’t seem to be anything to get up for! Nothing this morning nor any other morning! Life looked frightfully drab and dull. No more football! Nothing ahead but lessons! He groaned and pulled a sheet over his head. Of course, he might go in for basketball. That was pretty good fun. Or hockey. Either one would at least keep him in training. But for what? More basketball or hockey! Just now he was in a martyrlike mood and told himself that he’d never try football again; anyhow, not at Manning. He had made a dismal failure of it and self-respect at least forbade his going back to it. They’d elect Howdy Tasker captain next Saturday evening, probably. Well, Howdy was all right, but he had had enough of working under some one else. And Haynes would be coaching again, he supposed. Well, Haynes had been pretty decent lately, he’d say that, but if he went back to the team next year there’d be the same old rows! No, he was through with football; plumb, everlastingly through!

Neil awoke with a prodigious yawn and a backward stretch that knocked his knuckles resoundingly against the wall. Neil always awoke that way. Then he sat up and, as Stuart thrust the sheets from his face, blinked across smilingly. “Hello,” he said. “What time is it?”

“About a quarter to eight,” answered Stuart morosely. “Go to sleep again.”

“I’m slept out. Gee, it’s raining, isn’t it?”

“No, some fellow’s cleaning his teeth out the window,” said Stuart sarcastically. Neil brushed the remaining sleep from his eyes and studied his roommate for a moment in silence. Then:

“Whence the grouch, son?” he asked sympathetically.

“Oh, what’s the good?” asked the other vaguely. “Nothing to look forward to now but just a lot of beastly studying!”

“Cheer up, Christmas vacation’s only a month away!”

“We-ell,” acknowledged Stuart grudgingly. Then, with triumphant pessimism: “And after vacation come exams!”

Neil laughed. “I guess you’re beyond human aid this morning! Been awake long?”

“Half an hour, I suppose. I’ve been thinking.”

“That explains it. Thinking always did have a bad effect on you, Stuart. What have you been thinking about?”

“Lots of things. About football, for one. I’m going to quit.”

“Why not? The season’s over.”

Stuart scowled. “I mean for good. I’m through.”

Neil digested that startling information a moment. Then he asked carelessly: “Did it ever occur to you that you might be elected captain again?”

“Me?” Stuart stared across incredulously. “You’re crazy! Not a chance! Anyhow, I wouldn’t accept!”

“Wouldn’t you? Why?”

“You know why,” replied Stuart shortly. “After what happened this year, do you think I’d—I’d—— Anyway, they wouldn’t want me for captain. And I don’t blame ’em. It’ll be Howdy, I guess. He’ll make a good one, too.”

“Yes, I think he would,” agreed Neil. But there was a suggestion of reservation in his tone that caused Stuart to view him suspiciously.

“Look here,” he charged, “for the love of Mike, don’t go around making cracks like that, Neil!”

“Like what?” asked the other innocently.

“Why, about me being captain next year! Think I want fellows to think that—that I’m looking for it—or would take it if it was offered? Well, by golly, I don’t! That would be the limit!”

“All right, I won’t mention it. Suppose, though, some one else suggested it? Want me to say officially that you’d refuse?”

“Yes, I do! You say it as officially as you know how. But I guess no one but you would ever think of it, you crazy coot!”

“Well, that’s that,” replied Neil. “Let’s get up and have a good shower before the gang takes possession.”

“I don’t want any shower,” grumbled Stuart.

Nevertheless, he followed Neil out of bed and down the hall, and presently he might have been heard whistling a football tune quite cheerfully above the hiss of the water.

After breakfast, at which meal he consumed rather more food than for many weeks past, the feeling of depression took possession of him once more, and it was not until the sermon was nearly finished that a possible explanation came to him. The explanation held just six letters: H-a-y-n-e-s! His thoughts went back to a conversation held long before in the coach’s room, especially to the closing words of that conversation. “When the season’s over I’m going to give myself the satisfaction of telling you just what I think of you!” “When the season’s over I’ll be ready to hear it!” Stuart, remembering, squirmed in his seat. The season was over and the time had come.

Stuart didn’t hear any more of the sermon, if he had heard any before.

When dinner was done and he and Neil were back in the room he mooned restlessly around for awhile and then took up his cap. “I’m going out for a bit,” he explained carelessly.

“Want me to come along?” asked Neil, looking up from the letter he was writing.

“No, don’t bother,” answered Stuart hurriedly. “I won’t be long. I—I’ll just mosey around. Maybe walk over to the village or somewhere. Back soon.”

Neil nodded. “Better take an umbrella. It’s pouring now.”

But Stuart chose a raincoat instead and took himself off, leaving Neil to gaze reflectively at the closed door and tap the end of his pen thoughtfully against his teeth.

Stuart wasn’t sure that Mr. Haynes was in town. He might, for all he knew, have hurried off home by this time. If he had done so, Stuart would be a whole lot relieved. At least, that’s what he told himself, only to retract it a minute later. He had something to say to the coach, something that had to be said sooner or later, and it would be a heap better to say it now and get it off his chest!

Mr. Haynes answered the door himself when Stuart had rung, Mr. Haynes in a faded blue dressing gown and slippers, a section of a morning paper in his hand. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find Stuart on the threshold, a fact proved by his greeting. “Hello, Harven,” he said cordially. “Come in. Throw your coat over the chair there. Rather a wet day, isn’t it? I expected you’d be over.”

Stuart preceded his host into the dim study and took one of the two chairs drawn close to the long windows. The little park before the house was dismal and sodden to-day. Mr. Haynes plowed his way through a litter of papers and sank into the opposite chair rescuing his pipe from the ash tray and reaching for his pouch.

“The Courant has a pretty good story of the game,” he said as he filled the bowl. “Have you read it?” Stuart nodded. “Gives you a lot of credit, Harven, but no more than you deserve. The way you drove the team in the first quarter was as nice a thing as I ever saw. I dare say you’ve wondered why I didn’t put you back in the second half, Harven.”

“No, sir, I haven’t. You said it would be Wheaton.”

The coach nodded. “Yes, I said that, but after your showing—” He paused and lighted his pipe. “I’m going to be honest. You ought to have gone back, Harven. I believe now that if you had gone back we might have won. I made a mistake. You see, Wheaton had worked mighty hard, fairly sweated for us for weeks, and I thought he deserved his reward. It doesn’t do, though, if you’re a coach, to let sentiment get at you. I ought to have known better. Well, it’s too late now. Of course, we might not have won, even if you had been in, but I shall always be bothered by the possibility. We put up a good game, though, and in several ways showed up better than Pearsall. For one thing, we were in better condition. And we have more ground gained to our credit. On the whole, Harven, we haven’t any cause to be sore over that game. We faced a good team, a better team than I’d suspected, and if we didn’t outplay them we came mighty close to doing it!”

“Yes, sir.” Stuart studied his hands a moment. Then, “When it comes to placing the blame for losing—for not winning, though—” he went on, “I guess I’ve got a good deal to do with that, Mr. Haynes. I guess if I hadn’t acted crazy and made things harder for you and thrown up my job—not that Jack wasn’t a mighty good captain, though: I don’t mean that, sir! But if things had gone smoother at the first——”

“I know, Harven. Between us we sort of botched the business, didn’t we? It wasn’t altogether your fault. Knowing you as I do now, I see that I was half to blame. I got a wrong impression of you when I took hold here. My mistake was in not trying to make a friend of you first of all. You didn’t give me much encouragement, but I should have tried. You see, Harven, I’ve learned since then that you are hard to drive but easily led. And you’re loyal. I tried to drive you. That was my first mistake, and maybe my biggest. I should have set out to win your friendship. I might not have succeeded, of course, but I should have tried.”

“I—I guess you would have,” muttered Stuart.

“Succeeded?” Mr. Haynes smiled. “Hang it, Harven, I almost believe I could have! Anyway, I like to think so.”

“Just the same, there’s no reason for you to take any of the blame, Mr. Haynes,” said Stuart. “I thought I knew it all, and I didn’t. The fellows oughtn’t to have made me captain. I didn’t have the head for it. That’s been proved twice over. I showed rotten judgment lots of times. It was a good thing for the team that I was chucked.”

“You weren’t chucked,” said the coach earnestly. “No one—I, least of all—wanted you to resign. That letter to you was badly conceived and badly written. All any one wanted was to get things running smoothly, but the Committee went about it the wrong way. When you offered your resignation I protested against its acceptance. So did Wilson and McColl. But the majority of the Committee were against us. The majority had put themselves in a hole, and rather than crawl out they pulled the hole in on top of ’em. I felt all along that if you and I could pull together we could go a long way, Harven, but I didn’t know how to manage you. Well, all that’s ancient history now. There were mistakes made on both sides, mistakes that aren’t likely to be made again, I guess. Because, Harven, you’ve got good sense and you’re fair, and you know that I was right about the two things that caused the most friction between us. I mean the abolishment of training table and the injustice of barring Le Gette from the team because of something he had done to offend you personally. I made plenty of mistakes, but on those two things I was right. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Stuart honestly. “The fellows were in better shape this year than they were last. There wasn’t any slump this year, and last year there was. And about Le Gette, why, he—I found out just the other day that he didn’t do what I thought he did.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the coach heartily. “And even if he had, Harven, I still would have been right in not sacrificing him to your personal animosity. Don’t you agree with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! I’m not ‘rubbing it in,’ Harven. I’m not always right in my premises and judgments, any more than any one else is, but I wanted to know that you recognized that in those things I was right and that you were fair enough and frank enough to say so. Because if it should happen that we were to work together again next fall it would make it easier for both of us. Perhaps I haven’t expressed myself very clearly, but I guess you get what I’m driving at.”

“Yes, sir. But I don’t believe I’ll be playing next year.”

“What? Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Stuart vaguely.

“Well, I certainly hope you will. If I came back I’d surely need you.”

“But you are coming, aren’t you, sir?” asked Stuart.

“I can’t say. You see, I was engaged for this season only. Although it wasn’t set down in the contract, it was naturally understood that a renewal of the contract depended on my success with the team this fall. Well, I don’t know how the Committee on Athletics view the result. In some ways we had a good season. We won five games, lost two and tied one. We got through without injuries worth speaking of, although the credit for that isn’t mine. If we had won yesterday’s game I might fairly claim success. Between you and me, I still claim it. But the Committee may not look at it as I do. Results are what count, Harven, and there’s no getting around the fact that we didn’t win our big game.”

“Oh! But we didn’t lose it, either, sir. That ought to mean something, I’d say. Besides, I guess all the fellows think that you did mighty well. I do, anyway. I thought, of course, you were coming back.”

“Perhaps I shall,” replied the coach, smiling.

“Not that you’d care much, I suppose,” added Stuart. “I guess you wouldn’t have much trouble finding a job!”

“Perhaps not, but it doesn’t do a coach any good to change too often. I’ve been at it four seasons and this is my third place. That doesn’t sound very well, does it? I was at Erskine College the year after I graduated and then I went to Fisherville and stayed two. I left there because Manning offered me more money, and I needed it. I don’t expect to spend my life as a football coach, Harven, but while I’m at it I want to do the best I can. I’ve got a sort of a law practice back home, but it’s only the start of one, and I can’t afford to depend on it yet. You see, there’s a family at home, too, and they have to live.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were married, sir!”

“I’m not. The family consists of my mother and two sisters, unmarried. One of my sisters looks after the office while I’m away, but there isn’t much to do, unfortunately. My town’s a smallish one and there are two lawyers already established there. It’s slow work to build a practice, Harven, in a place like that.”

“I should think it would be,” mused Stuart. “I think I’d rather coach football than be a lawyer, anyway.”

“It doesn’t lead very far, though. I hope that I’ll be in a position to drop it after another two years. Meanwhile, I’d rather stay here than look for a new place. Next year ought to see a whale of a team here. Look at the material we’ll have: you and Hanson and Thurston and Burns and Tasker—no end of good players. Why, we can start with practically a veteran team! And we’ve laid a good foundation this fall, Harven: we’ve got a system at work. Whoever has the job of coaching next fall will have a cinch!”

“You bet! We’ve got some corking second-string fellows, too, Mr. Haynes: Lowe and Leonard and—and Thompson—”

“And Irmo. He has the making of a fine center. And we’d be pretty well fixed for guards with Beeman and Le Gette. Le Gette played a fine game yesterday. And if it hadn’t been for his field goal we’d have lost. I want you to know, Harven, that I certainly appreciate the work you did with Le Gette. I don’t believe another chap on the squad could have taught him what you did in that short time.”

“He was a mighty good learner,” said Stuart warmly. “You simply couldn’t tire him! Lots of times I’d want to quit and he’d keep me at it. With Le Gette kicking field goals next year we’d ought to be pretty well fixed.”

“Yes, but I’m hoping you’ll share that duty with him,” said the coach.

“Well, I don’t know,” murmured Stuart. “If you don’t come back——”

He stopped suddenly and felt the blood creeping into his cheeks and, to hide his hideous embarrassment, jumped to his feet.

“I must be getting back,” he said. “Neil will think I’m lost or—or something!”

“Must you? Well, I’m glad you dropped in. Do it again before I go, won’t you? I’m sticking around until the last of the week. Oh, by the way,” he continued as they shook hands, “wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me after the season was over?”

Stuart caught the kindly quizzical gleam in the other’s eyes and grinned sheepishly.

“I—I guess I’ve said it,” he muttered.

CHAPTER XX
“FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM”

The football banquet and election was held the Saturday after the Pearsall game, as was the established custom. Coach Haynes, urged to remain for it, did so, and sat at the head of a long table in the upstairs parlor of the village hotel, for the occasion transformed into a banquet hall and hung with cherry-and-gray streamers and flags. All players who had taken part in the Pearsall or Brown games were on hand, as were Mr. Pierson, chairman of the Committee on Athletics, the manager and Assistant manager and The Laird. In all, twenty-six persons sat down to the feast, and good-fellowship and jollity held sway from oysters to ices. Mr. Pierson spoke and Mr. Haynes spoke and—well, about half of the number said their say before the feast was over. Even The Laird was lifted to his feet and compelled to say something; and it is only fair to add that The Laird, although slow at the start, did extremely well once he had forgotten his embarrassment, and had the whole company convulsed. And, of course, there was singing, a whole lot of singing that, no matter if it wasn’t beyond criticism, sounded mighty well down below on the sidewalk where, after the movie theater had closed its doors, a half-hundred Manning fellows stood and waited to learn the result of the election. There was a well-defined rumor to the effect that the election was “fixed,” but rumors are not always correct. In any case, the rumor produced no expressions of indignation.

It was nearly half-past ten when Mr. Pierson took his leave, pursued down the stairs by the vocal assurance that he was a jolly good fellow. Mr. Haynes, too, would have left then, but by unanimous—and extremely loud—protest was induced to keep his place. The Laird always had witnessed the elections and so he simply drew a chair to a window and stuffed his pipe with evil-smelling tobacco. It was Jack who rapped for order with the lid of a sugar bowl and announced that nominations for the captaincy were in order.

Wally Towne and Harry Leonard found their feet simultaneously and, although Leonard was both nearer and larger than the other, Jack looked right past him and gravely said: “The Member from the Hospital has the floor!”

“It gives me great pleasure,” announced Towne when the laughter had subsided, “and—er—does me much honor to place before you the name of one whose right to the captaincy of the team is incontestable. It would be a waste of time for me to set forth this gentleman’s qualities, because you all know them as well as I do. Fellows, I nominate Stuart Harven!”

There was a din of clapping and cheers. Stuart, struck dumb by surprise, stared incredulously at the speaker. Then he was on his feet. “Fellows! Mr. Chairman!” But others were before him, several others, and Jack, glancing mockingly at Stuart, recognized Tasker. Tom Muirgart, at Stuart’s left, pulled him forcibly back into his chair.

“Shut up,” he said sternly. “You’re out of order!”

“But I don’t want—I won’t accept——” stammered Stuart.

“Order!” called Jack, thumping vigorously with the sugar bowl lid. “Mr. Tasker has the floor.”

“Mr. Chairman, and fellows,” began Howdy, “in seconding the nomination of Harven I’d like to say a few words.”

“Go ahead, Howdy!”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“You tell ’em, Old Timer!”

“Towne says it would be wasting time to say anything about the nominee, but I don’t agree with him. I’ll say there’s a lot to say about him. I’ll say——”

“Take a fresh hold, Howdy!”

“I’ll say—” Howdy gulped and started over. “Look what happened this fall. We elected Harven captain and he got out. I don’t pretend to know all the facts, but I do know that there were mistakes made. Whether Harven made them or the Ath. Fac. or Coach Haynes doesn’t matter. Maybe they all made ’em. Anyway, it’s all over and past now. But what I want to say is this. There aren’t many of us would have acted better than Stuart Harven did under the circumstances. He didn’t sit down and sulk. He saw that he was needed on the team and he walked right back and—and enlisted as a private! And he worked hard and he made good. Every fellow who played during those first ten minutes of the Pearsall game knows that he did. I haven’t got my breath yet! He mighty near drove us off our feet, but we liked it and loved him for it and—and, by gosh, we got there! If I never play football again I’ve had my money’s worth, fellows! And if I play twenty years I’ll always remember that touchdown and be proud that I had a hand in it! Now, I’ll say that a fellow who can handle the team like that, and—and who is the sportsman that Harven is, why, I’ll say—I’ll say——”

But Tasker didn’t have to say any more, for the cheers drowned his voice, and after moving his lips a moment longer he sat down. Half a dozen others demanded recognition, among them the frantic Leonard, and Billy Littlefield was the fortunate one.

“I’d like to say—if I can make myself heard—that I second the nomination of Harven, and I move that we cut out the red tape and declare him unanimously elected!”

“Seconded!” “Atta boy! Let’s call it a day!” “Harven!”

Jack rapped strenuously. “We’ll have to do this in order,” he announced. “Are there any further nominations?” He looked inquiringly at Leonard, but Leonard, into whose ear Leo Burns was talking emphatically, made no move. Jack whanged the lid down. “We’ll proceed to ballot,” he said gravely. “Gentlemen, is it your pleasure——”

“Hold on!” That was Stuart. In spite of the efforts of Muirgart and Thurston, beside him, he managed to get to his feet. “I’m—I—It’s mighty good of you fellows, and I appreciate it, but I can’t accept. I mean it. I’ll work hard next year and do all I know how, but you’ve got to elect some other chap. I had my whack at being captain, and I made a mess of it, and I’m through. Any one of you will do better than I could. I nominate Howard Tasker. He——”

“You’re out of order, Mr. Harven,” said Jack sternly. “The nominations are closed!”

“All right, but——”

Jack pounded vigorously, and Stuart, still protesting, was yanked back into his chair.

“I move that a standing vote be taken, Mr. Chairman!” called Littlefield. Several seconds were heard.

“Moved and seconded,” droned Jack, “um-um-those in favor-um-contrary minded-um-um-carried! Are you ready for the vote? Those in favor of the election of Stuart Harven to the captaincy will rise and remain standing while——”

Every one save Stuart was on his feet in the instant, cheering, and the balance of Jack’s oration was lost. Even Coach Haynes found himself standing, and, smiling apologetically, sat down again. Leonard, who had entertained the mistaken idea of nominating Hanson, was shouting as loud as any. Jack’s announcement of the result wasn’t heard beyond the sugar bowl whose lid he was rapidly pounding out of shape. Tom Muirgart, grinning, rumpled Stuart’s hair.

“You’re elected, son!” he chuckled. “Get up and make a speech!”

Stuart swallowed hard, grinned in a sickly fashion and shook his head. “All right,” he muttered. “But—but it was a put-up job, Tom!”

“Sure it was!” roared Tom. “It was all fixed. Neil Orr warned us that you’d refuse, and so we had to——”

“Speech!” “Get up there, Cap!” “Speech, Harven!” “Shoot, son!”

Stuart arose, more embarrassed than he could remember ever having been in his life. Comparative silence had been restored and two dozen faces were fixed expectantly on him. But the faces all expressed liking and good will and Stuart found courage.

“I meant what I said, fellows, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. So—well, I accept.”

“You bet you do!” agreed Jack from the end of the board. “You’re elected!”

“All right, but—you’d have done a heap better if you’d selected some one else. Just the same, I thank you, and—and I’ll do my best; and it will be a better best than last time! I made a lot of mistakes, but I’m not going to make them again. Next year things will go a heap better, and if we don’t lick Pearsall to a stiff froth I—I’ll eat my hat!”

Enthusiastic applause greeted that prophecy. When he could make himself heard again Stuart continued. “There’s something else I want to speak about, fellows. We’ve just got to have Mr. Haynes back next year. You don’t need me to tell you that. But I understand that the Committee on Athletics may not be satisfied with his work because we didn’t lick Pearsall. That’s poppycock. It wasn’t his fault. Every fellow here knows that we had a far better team this fall than last. We were in better physical shape and we knew more football. Now it seems to me that it would be a mighty good plan to let the Ath. Fac. know how we feel about Mr. Haynes, let them know that we want him back next year; yes, and the year after that! I propose that we get up a petition and sign it all around and hand it in. It ought to have some weight with them, and as I understand that they are to make a decision the first of next week, the sooner we do it the better. That’s all, I guess. Except that I thank you fellows again for the honor you have done me.”

Stuart sat down again while the table cheered long and heartily. Thurston sprang to his feet, but, seeing that Mr. Haynes was also standing, seated himself again. “After you, Coach,” he said.

“Thank you,” replied Mr. Haynes. “I only want to say that I appreciate Harven’s words. I feel very proud and, at the same time, rather humble. How well I’ve succeeded this season is for you to judge, but I am conscious of having tried hard, and, while I made mistakes, I have learned by them. To know that I have retained your liking and that you still have faith in me is—well, it makes me feel pretty good. I congratulate you on the choice you have made, for, no matter what he says, I know that Stuart Harven is the man for the job. We’ve had our differences of opinion, he and I, but we’ve got over them. What he says about another year I subscribe to heartily, fellows, and if he has to eat his hat I’ll help him! I’ll be right on hand to do it because the Committee on Athletics very kindly offered me a contract for two years more this afternoon and I signed it!”

Pandemonium reigned supreme then. Billy Littlefield started “For he’s a jolly good fellow” and every one joined. The beauty of that song is that you don’t have to know many words and you can keep on singing it as long as your voice will hold out. In the end, however, it changed to the school song, and while that was still in progress some one started downstairs and the others followed and, still singing, the party made its way out to the sidewalk, where, the news announced, cheers drowned the song.

A few minutes later Stuart found himself walking back to school with Jack’s arm linked in his. Before and behind were others, laughing, singing, sometimes cheering, but at the campus the throng separated into smaller units and ultimately Stuart and Jack found themselves alone in front of Lacey.

“Come on up for a minute,” urged Stuart.

“Pretty late, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter to-night. I shan’t get to sleep for hours, and—I want to talk things over.”

So they made their way through the silent corridors to Number 12, to find Neil still up and dressed, an expectant grin on his face. Stuart shied his cap at him. “I’ll bet you had a hand in it,” he charged. “That villainous grin gives you away, old son!”

“Not guilty!” Neil laughed. “I told every one you wouldn’t accept, didn’t I, Jack?”

“You did, Neil, you certainly did,” assented Jack gravely.

Stuart grunted. “Huh, a lot of attention you fellows paid to him, I’ll say!”

Jack grinned. “We certainly did. We stuffed the ballot box, old son. We saw that it wouldn’t be any use to tender the captaincy to you, so we stuffed it down your silly throat!”

Stuart’s pretended indignation faded to a smile as he sat himself on the window seat and took one knee into his hands. Jack perched beside him and Neil swung his chair around to face them after he had turned down the light halfway. “Who started it, Jack?” asked Stuart.

“I don’t know, really. Nobody, I guess. That is, it seemed to be sort of taken for granted all around that you were to have it. The only—only conspiracy was to-night before dinner. Then we sort of fixed to railroad the election through. You weren’t to have any chance to refuse it, or, if you did kick up your heels, we weren’t to pay any attention to you. Of course, everything was strictly according to Hoyle——”

“Yes, it was!” jeered Stuart. “Suppose I didn’t see how you refused to recognize Harry Leonard?”

“Well,” said Jack, “Leonard was only delaying traffic. He had a fool notion that Tom Hanson wanted the election.”

“Didn’t he?”

“Who, Tom? I don’t believe so. Anyhow, he hadn’t a chance, and it was an act of simple kindness to keep him from making a show of himself. Besides, I did give Leonard a chance to speak his little piece, and he wouldn’t.” Jack grinned. “That was after I’d seen Leo talking to him. Maybe Leo showed him the futility of—er—his course.”

Stuart grunted again, and Neil said wistfully: “I wish I’d been there!”

After a moment’s silence in the dim room Stuart said thoughtfully: “Well, there wasn’t anything to do but accept, but—but I don’t see yet why they did it. After the failure I made of it this time, and all!”

“They did it for just one thing, Stuart,” replied Jack earnestly. Stuart looked the question. “They did it for the good of the team.”

The talk died away and each of the three boys sat there in the half-darkness and thought his own thoughts. Stuart’s excitement had given place to a feeling of contentment and well-being and good will. His thoughts passed over his school life, and, while he saw very clearly the many mistakes he had made, he was not disturbed. Wasn’t it Mr. Moffit who had said that one learned by mistakes? Well, he had learned, he told himself, and whatever the mistakes of the future might be, they’d not be the old ones. Thinking forward, he made many good resolutions, most of which, it is only fair to say, he kept. A yawn from Jack broke the long silence.

“I was almost asleep,” he said. “You night owls can stay up if you like, but I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t break up the party,” begged Stuart plaintively. “Say, I wish you were going to be here next year, Jack. I’ll miss you, you old coot.”

“Thanks; same to you. I guess, though, you’ll be much too busy to miss any one, old son. You’ll have a football team to look after, and, speaking from brief experience, I’ll say that’s a man-sized job! Stuart, if you don’t beat Pearsall next year I’ll come back and lick you!”

“You’re permitted to come back and try!”

“Huh! Well, just you see that I don’t have to. Here’s Neil to look after, too. Don’t forget that. That’ll keep you busy, you know; he’s always getting into trouble.”

Stuart failed to note the twinkle in Jack’s eyes. He looked across at his roommate and nodded gravely.

“That’s so,” he assented. “Some one’s got to look after old Neil.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

Printer’s, 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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Table of Contents

- FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM
- CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I A HERO RETURNS
- CHAPTER II CAPTAIN AND COACH
- CHAPTER III A BOY ON CRUTCHES
- CHAPTER IV “ONLY THE CAPTAIN!”
- CHAPTER V A CLASH OF AUTHORITY
- CHAPTER VI DEFEAT
- CHAPTER VII THE ATH. FAC. TAKES A HAND
- CHAPTER VIII A NEW LEADER IS CHOSEN
- CHAPTER IX OUT OF A JOB
- CHAPTER X THE HANDICAPS
- CHAPTER XI THE LAST LAP
- CHAPTER XII NEIL INTERVENES
- CHAPTER XIII STUART GOES OUT FOR THE TEAM
- CHAPTER XIV WANTED, A KICKER
- CHAPTER XV THE CONFERENCE
- CHAPTER XVI LE GETTE EXPLAINS
- CHAPTER XVII TASKER GOES OVER
- CHAPTER XVIII IN THE LAST QUARTER
- CHAPTER XIX STUART SPEAKS HIS MIND
- CHAPTER XX “FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM”
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE