DANFORTH PLAYS THE GAME

I

“Oh, see the pretty little boy! Is the pretty little boy going to play football? The pretty little boy is going to play football—per-haps!”

The speaker, one of four youths seated on the grass near the side line, chuckled as the subject of his humor turned inquiringly.

“What will happen to the pretty little boy and his nice clean trousers and his beautiful red jersey?” continued another of the quartette, adopting the first speaker’s sing-song style. “Oh, please, teacher, I’d rather not say! It will be a perfect shame, will it not?”

“It will not!” responded a third youth promptly and emphatically. The boys laughed enjoyably, unaffected by the fact that the “pretty little boy” was viewing them doubtfully, uncomfortably from the distance of a dozen yards away.

It was hardly fair to call him pretty, although his fresh complexion, yellow-brown hair and rather finely cut features made him strikingly good-looking. He was fairly tall for his age, which was fifteen, well made and carried himself with a lithe grace emphasized by the new suit of football togs he wore. The khaki trousers were quite immaculate, and so were the red stockings, and so was the red jersey. Even his shoes were unscuffed, and altogether he looked very much as though he had but a moment before stepped from the pictured advertisement of some dealer in athletic supplies. Possibly it was the fashion-plate suggestion that had prompted the group near by to ridicule.

At first Harry Danforth had not associated the remarks with himself and had looked around out of sheer curiosity. When he understood that he was the butt of their humor the blood flooded into his cheeks and he faced hurriedly away. Like many boys with fair complexions, he blushed on slight provocation, and he was always ashamed of it. He walked slowly away in an effort to evade his tormentors, but their voices still reached him.

“Oh, see the blush of modesty upon the face of the pretty little boy! How beautiful is modesty!”

There was more, but Harry didn’t hear it. Taking refuge at the edge of a group of waiting candidates, he sought to forget his burning cheeks. But as, at his advent, many of the fellows turned to observe him, his embarrassment continued.

“See the study in red,” whispered one youth laughingly to his companion, and although he had not meant the strange boy to hear him, the latter did hear, and felt the blood surging harder than before into his face. He was heartily glad when, at that instant, the coach summoned them on to the field.

There were fully sixty candidates on hand that first afternoon of football practice at Barnstead Academy. Some few of them were members of the last season’s eleven, more were second-string players of the year before, and the balance were, like Harry, new candidates. Mr. Worden, the head coach, a finely built, pleasant-faced man of about thirty, took the names of all who had reported. In this task he was assisted by a boy of eighteen or so whose name Harry later learned was Phillips. Phillips was manager of the team. Harry gave his name, age, class, weight and details of former football experience to Phillips and was promptly sent to the awkward squad, or Squad Z, as the school facetiously termed it. There he was one of a group of some twenty youths whose ages ranged from thirteen to sixteen and who, in the course of the hour’s instruction that followed, exhibited every phase of football inexperience. The awkward squad was in charge of a large boy whom the coach addressed as Barrett. Barrett looked to be about seventeen and wore a vastly bored expression all the time that he labored with the beginners. If his features lighted at all during that period it was when Harry showed by his handling of the pigskin that he at least might possibly have the makings of a player. Barrett watched him speculatively, almost interestedly, at intervals, and once even vouchsafed a grunt of satisfaction as Harry fell neatly on a wabbling ball and snuggled it under his chest.

Meanwhile the more advanced candidates were punting and catching or trotting about the field behind a shrill-voiced quarterback. Harry, in the intervals between his own duties, had time to watch, and what he saw he found a little bit discouraging. Where he had come from, quite a ways beyond the New England hills that closed this pleasant valley at the west, he had been looked on as something of a player. On his high school team he had made a reputation for himself that was quite remarkable considering his age, and when, in the Spring, he had announced his impending departure for preparatory school his schoolmates had set up a veritable howl of despair. Once reconciled, however, they had pictured in gorgeous colors Harry’s football future. Of course he would make the school team at Barnstead at once, would do wonderful things there and then go up to college far-famed and glorious. Pete Wilkinson, avid reader of romance, had drawn Harry aside and begged him not to accept the first offer he received from college scouts.

“Just hold back on them and they’ll give you anything you want, Harry. Wait till you get all the offers and then choose the best. Why, the big colleges will do most anything for fellows who can play the game the way you can!”

Harry had gravely promised to be discreet in the matter, not considering it worth while to point out to the sanguine Pete that even if the colleges clamored and fought for him, which he didn’t in the least consider likely, he had already made up his mind where to go and that all the bribes in the world would not change his mind. But while he was a person of some note at Hillston High School, he felt himself a very small and unimportant atom here at Barnstead. He had come quite unheralded and his fame had not preceded him. Here he was just one more kid to be hammered into shape or, found wanting, to be tossed aside with the other discards in the yearly game of making a football team. And watching the play of the experienced fellows, Harry saw that there was quite a difference between Hillston standards and Barnstead! The team here was evidently made up of fellows much older than he, for one thing. His roommate, a chap named Colgan, whose athletic interests stopped at an occasional set of tennis, had told him that Coach Worden showed a partiality for the younger candidates and that Harry’s youthfulness would not be a disadvantage if he could play the game. But this afternoon, with so many older fellows in sight, Harry felt that if he made the school team inside the next two years he would be lucky. But in spite of discouraging thoughts he paid flattering attention to Barrett’s instructions, performed as well as he knew how and proved a shining example to the other members of Squad Z.

After an hour of rather wearisome instruction in the a, b, c’s of the game the awkward squad was dismissed. Harry imagined he could hear Barrett’s sigh of relief! Donning his sweater, Harry trotted in the wake of the others across the end of the field, through the gate and up the hill to the gymnasium. As he knew none of his companions, and as the work had left them too tired to want to be sociable, he spoke to no one until, having had his shower and dressed himself, he was walking across the campus toward his room in Temple Hall. And even then the conversation was none of his choosing!

“Why, if it isn’t our friend the football hero!” exclaimed a voice. Harry was passing a group of half a dozen boys on the main path across the campus. Resisting the impulse to turn, he kept on his way until a second youth called to him.

“Hi, kid! Why so haughty?”

“I beg pardon?” Harry paused and faced them then. They were all rather older than he, one, a dark-complexioned fellow of seventeen or eighteen, evidently being the leader of the party.

“Don’t apologize,” he begged. “You don’t mind our speaking to you, do you?”

“No,” replied Harry quietly, feeling the blood creeping into his cheeks and hating himself for it. “What did you want, please?”

“Why—er—suspecting that you were a stranger to our—to these classic shades we wouldst make thee welcome,” replied the dark chap with a grin. “Wouldst impart to us thy cognomen?”

“My name’s Danforth,” answered Harry shortly, facing the smiling faces about him with a frown.

“’Tis a fair name, my boy. Why blush for it?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not!” gibed another boy. “What do you call it? Say, kid, you’re as red as a beet. What are you ashamed of?”

“Nothing. Is that all you want?”

“Leave us not in anger,” begged the first speaker. “Tell us, rather, of your doughty deeds upon yon trampled field of battle. Didst lay about thee mightily? Didst slay the first team with thine own good right hand?”

“No,” replied Harry, biting his lip to keep down the anger that was beginning to boil inside him.

“No? And what didst thou do, O Ensanguined Knight?”

“I minded my own business, for one thing,” answered the other shortly, turning to go on.

But some one seized his arm and spun him around again.

“Is that so?” asked the dark-complexioned youth threateningly. “Say, you’re a sort of a fresh kid, aren’t you?”

“Not when I’m left alone.”

“Well, suppose I don’t choose to let you alone?” The bully stepped close to Harry and stuck his face down with an ugly leer on it. “What would you do then, Fresh?”

“Let him be, Perry,” said one of the group. “He’s only a kid.”

“He’s a pretty fresh kid, though,” replied Perry. “You are, aren’t you?” He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder and gripped it hard.

“If you don’t like my—my ways, let me alone,” answered Harry between set teeth.

“Sure I’ll let you alone!” Perry thrust his right foot forward, and with a sudden push sent the other stumbling backward. When Harry brought up he was seated under a bush at the side of the path and Perry and several of the others were laughing heartily. But one of the group had sprung forward, and now he was helping Harry to his feet.

“Don’t mind him, kid,” he said in a low voice. “Run along now. No harm done.” He brushed some leaves from the boy’s back and gave him a good-natured shove in the direction of the dormitory. But Harry, his face white now and his body trembling, strode across to the group and faced the chief tormentor.

“You’re a big bully, that’s what you are!” he declared hotly. “Leave your crowd and come over here with me! I dare you to!”

Perry growled something and lifted his hand, but the others intervened.

“Cut it, Perry! Let the kid alone.”

“That’s right; no scrapping, Perry. He’s too small for you.”

“I—I’ll punch his pretty little face for him!” snarled Perry, striving to push by his friends.

“You touch me and I’ll show you something you won’t like,” said Harry, standing his ground.

“You shut up, kid, and run along home,” advised one of the crowd. “There’s going to be no scrapping to-day. So cut it out.”

The boy who had helped Harry to his feet laid a hand on his arm and pulled him away. “That’ll be about all, kid. Come along.”

“All right,” answered Harry, resisting for a moment. “But he can’t do that sort of thing and get away with it. I’ll get even with him before I’m through. And I’ll fight him whenever he likes.”

“You’d put up a grand little fight, wouldn’t you?” sneered Perry across the shoulder of one of his crowd. “Say, Fresh, you just keep away from me or you’ll get hurt, and hurt badly. Do you hear?”

“I hear you talk,” scoffed Harry. “That’s all bullies can do!”

Then his rescuer dragged him away just as a second group of boys came up demanding to know what the row was about. Harry accompanied his new friend for some distance in silence. Finally, moved to defense by the other’s unspoken censure, “Well,” he muttered, “you wouldn’t like it yourself, I guess.” His companion smiled. Then,

“Kid,” he said gravely, “you’ll find a lot of things you won’t like before you get through here.”

II

A week later the awkward squad ceased to exist. Some few of the members, discouraged by the sheer irksomeness of the labor, voluntarily resigned; others, who showed no football possibilities, were dismissed, and the rest, perhaps ten in all, went to Squad C. Among the latter was Harry. Hugh Barrett, the big left guard, who had reigned over the awkward ones, had taken a sort of professional interest in Harry, an interest evinced by muttered words or grunts of commendation at first and by sharp criticisms later. Once he asked the younger boy:

“You fellow in the red shirt! Where’d you learn to catch a ball that way?”

“At home. I played on my high school team three years,” answered Harry. Barrett grunted.

“Three years, eh? How old are you now?”

“Fifteen.”

“Must have started young,” muttered Barrett. “What’s your name?”

“Danforth.”

“Well, take charge here, Danforth, till I get back. Keep ’em passing.”

Meanwhile Harry had settled down into his groove at school. Lessons were proving a bit harder than expected, but, thanks to a summer of coaching at the hands of one of the high school instructors, he was keeping up his end. Tracey Colgan, with whom Harry roomed in Number 16 Temple Hall, was turning out to be a much more companionable and likable fellow than Harry had at first hoped for. Tracey came from some small town in the vicinity of Boston and possessed all the frigidity of manner popularly associated with New Englanders. But underneath the icy coating was a warm heart and a liveliness of temperament quite unsuspected. After Harry got to know him better—and you can’t room with a chap very long without getting to know him—he liked him very much. He was rather tall and thin, good-looking in a way—nice-looking would be a better word for it—and excruciatingly clean and neat. It seemed to Harry that Tracey was forever bathing or scrubbing, while as for his attire a badly tied scarf made him positively wretched and he consumed more time in dressing than Harry took for his entire morning preparations! Tracey was rather a grind, which, perhaps, was fortunate, since just at this time Harry needed some one to set him an example in studiousness. Not that Harry didn’t want to study, for he did. He had no mistaken notions of what he was at Barnstead for. But football is a hard taskmaster, he was an enthusiastic lover of it, and previous success had made him ambitious to win further honors. In short, during those first two months of school he was inclined to spend a little too much time and energy on football and not enough on his lessons.

Perry Vose, for Tracey had easily supplied the name of the boy when Harry had recounted his adventure, had so far not troubled Harry again. Once or twice, on the field or in School Hall, they had passed, but there had been no display of hostility other than a scowl. After he had cooled off Harry had been a little ashamed and regretful of his loss of temper. As Tracey had pointed out, a new fellow was liable to a good deal of kidding and even some roughing-up at the hands of the older boys. It was all a part of getting settled down. Tracey thought his chum had escaped rather easily, and to prove it narrated some fairly hair-raising hazing exploits that he knew of. As for the chap who had befriended him that day, Harry had only glimpsed him once or twice from a distance, not a surprising fact when it is considered that Barnstead Academy boasted of some two hundred and forty pupils.

Of course life wasn’t quite all football for Harry. Recitations averaged four hours a day for the Lower Middle Class, of which he was a member, and the evenings were largely given over to study. And several times he and Tracey met on the tennis court in the morning after a hurried breakfast and played a set or more before the bell summoned them to first recitation. And Sundays were in the nature of holidays. There was church in the forenoon in the school chapel, but after that the rest of the day was theirs for whatever orderly recreation they chose. Tracey was fond of walking and he and Harry and Joe Phillips, the football manager, often took long, wandering trips about the autumn country. The discovery of chestnut trees was one of their delights. The burs had not yet begun to open, but the boys set down the location of the trees in their minds and bided their time. As the days went by Harry’s circle of acquaintances increased in a haphazard and natural way. You sat next to a fellow in class and spoke to him about some trivial matter. Then you nodded to him when you passed him on the campus. And finally you dropped into his room by invitation, or he dropped into yours. And in dining-hall, of course, it took but one or two days to get on speaking terms, at least, with the fellows at your table. At the end of his first fortnight Harry was surprised to discover how large a circle of speaking acquaintances he had. Of real friends he had so far but one, Tracey. Friendships aren’t made in a day even at preparatory school. Next to Tracey, Joe Phillips was the fellow he knew best. Joe, however, was several years older than Harry and, while he was a fine chap in every way, Harry experienced no affection for him. Perhaps Harry made acquaintances more easily than the average boy. He was eminently attractive to look at, had a winning smile, could listen as well as talk, and was, in short, thoroughly companionable.

On Squad C Harry performed creditably for a week. Work at the dummy had begun and a provisional eleven had been made up. The first game was but a few days away. Harry had been placed with the halfbacks, a position for which his experience recommended him. Squad C began to thin out as the first contest drew near. Some of the fellows went to the first team as third substitutes, others went to Squad B, which had now developed into the second team, in like capacities, and a few fell out of the race. Just before the Belton game Harry was taken on to the second and a few days later Squad C, like Squad Z, ceased to exist. By that time the number of candidates had dwindled from sixty-odd to about forty, and most of those who remained were certain to last the season out either on the school team or the second, barring accidents. Harry was glad to get into the second team fold, but he had no intention of remaining there.

The Belton game, looked on beforehand as not much more than a good practice, proved a tough contest and Barnstead won out eventually by the slim margin of a kicked goal, the final score being 7–6. That was on a Saturday, the last Saturday but one in September, and on the following Monday Coach Worden made a number of changes in the line-up of the first team. Several substitutes were given opportunities to show what they could do, while Jones, who had exhibited remarkably poor generalship as quarter in Saturday’s game, gave place to Bob Peel, a small, freckle-faced youth with red hair and any amount of vim. Unfortunately, however, Peel, while a good director, was only a mediocre player in the backfield, and that Monday afternoon a fumble by him of a long punt paved the way for a touchdown by the second and a subsequent victory. Harry got in that day at left halfback for a full ten-minute period, and after the scrimmage was over the school was relishing the knowledge of a discovery. For in ten minutes Harry, using every bit of the daring, reckless courage that had brought him fame at Hillston, and all the knowledge he had gained since, dashed through the first team’s defense or around its drawn-in ends for long gains time after time and opened Coach Worden’s eyes to the fact that here was a youngster worth watching and cultivating. Hugh Barrett, even when a play with Harry hugging the ball went through his position, grunted commendation and nodded his head knowingly. He had, he told himself, seen from the first that Danforth had something in him. So Barnstead Academy took a sensation with it up the hill and back to the dormitories, and the sensation was the sudden appearance on the football horizon of a new star whose name was Danforth!

Barnstead met Cruger’s School and Thurston Polytechnic on succeeding Saturdays—there were no mid-week games—and scored one victory and met one defeat. The victory was overwhelming and the defeat, at the hands of Thurston, a heavier and far more experienced team, was honorable. Barnstead reached the middle of the season hopeful and determined. Harry was still on the second team and was still making good. Of course he had much to learn, but he was learning it fast. And the school at large, having enjoyed its sensation, settled down to a hearty admiration of “the kid halfback,” as they called him and looked for great things from him. Some criticism was aired because Worden did not at once move Harry from the second to the first. There were plenty of critics who declared that “young Danforth could play rings around Norman.” Norman was the present first choice for left half, a hard-working but not especially brilliant youth who had already had two seasons on the team. But Worden, if he heard the criticisms, paid them no heed. Harry needed training and experience in fast company before he was ready for the School Team, and the coach meant that he should have it. The second eleven worked prodigiously those days and the first had all it could do to register anything like a decisive victory. To be sure, the second had its slumps, as when, the Tuesday after the Thurston game, it allowed the first to tally four touchdowns and only saved itself from a shut-out by lifting the ball over the cross-bar for a field goal. To even matters, however, the first team itself was only human and sometimes let down in its play and allowed the second to tie or, infrequently, to win.

Four games remained on the schedule when October was half gone: Carver Academy, Pleasanton High, Norwich Academy and St. Matthew’s. St. Matthew’s was Barnstead’s dearly hated rival in every sport and the victor in most. The Blue triumphed almost yearly on the track and won more than her share of the baseball contests. It was only in hockey and football that the records of the two schools came anywhere near balancing. At hockey Barnstead, aided by better ice facilities, was the master, while at football the Brown had almost, if not quite, as many wins to her credit as the Blue. This year, having met defeat last November, the Brown considered it her turn to triumph and meant to do so. And to this end the school worked as one.

And yet there was an exception after all, and that exception was Perry Vose. Perry was eighteen years of age, strongly built, good-looking in a dark and somewhat surly way and what the fellows who had seen him perform called a corking player. But in spite of his ability Perry was not on the team this year. Why this was so Harry learned from Tracey.

“He played in the line two years,” said Tracey. “Left guard, I think. Maybe he was right. Anyhow, he has a beast of a temper and can’t hold on to it. In almost every game he was cautioned for slugging or rough work of some sort, and several times he was put off. Worden stood a lot from him because he was such a dandy player. But last year in the Pleasanton game he mixed it up with the chap who played opposite him, the umpire or the referee caught him, the other chap got a cut lip and Perry was put off. After the game Worden told him he needn’t report again until he could play decently and like a gentleman. Perry ‘sassed’ him for fair, they say; I didn’t hear it; and Worden told him then that he needn’t report again for football as long as he was coaching because he wouldn’t have him. Faculty heard about it and Perry came mighty near being expelled. He had to apologize to Worden and went on probation for two months. That didn’t make him care any more for the coach, and he still hates him like anything. Mention Worden to Perry and he will foam at the mouth!”

And Tracey smiled reminiscently.

“He seems to have a good many friends, though,” said Harry.

“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort when he behaves. Lots of fellows like him, or pretend to, because his folks are pretty well fixed and Perry always has a lot of money to spend. And he spends it. Still, maybe it isn’t only that. I dare say lots of fellows like him just for—for himself. He can be very decent if he wants to. It’s his old temper that plays hob with him. You and he had any more trouble?”

“No, he’s let me alone and I’ve let him alone.”

“Good scheme, chum. He’s a bad man in a mix-up.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” replied Harry stoutly. “But I don’t see that there’s any use in having a fuss. I said I’d get even with him some day, and I intend to, but I don’t want to lose my place on the second on his account. And it might come to that if we had a row and faculty heard of it.”

“You’re wise. Keep away from him. And if he tries to start anything, run. It would be like him to get you into a rumpus just so faculty would hear of it and, maybe, put you on pro. He’d like that because it would lose Worden a good player.”

“You don’t mean Vose would want to see us beaten just because he dislikes Mr. Worden!”

“Hm; not exactly, perhaps. Still, I wouldn’t wager much on it! If he could get even with Worden I dare say he wouldn’t care a continental whether we won or lost at football!”

“He’s a dandy!” said Harry indignantly. “If that’s the way it is you can bet I’ll keep away from him. I’ll even run if necessary! But if ever I do run from him I’ll run back again when the football’s over! And then he will learn something!”

“Easy!” laughed Tracey. “Perry Vose is three inches taller than you are and three years older—almost.”

“He’s a bully, and I never saw a bully yet who wasn’t a coward at heart.”

“I wouldn’t count too much on that, Harry. He may be a bully, but you’ll find he’s no coward. And he’s a mean chap in a fight. Take my advice and let him alone.”

“I mean to—at present,” replied Harry. “I can’t afford to take any chances. I want to make the first before the season’s over. Think I will, Tracey?”

“Don’t see how you can help it. I’m not much of a football fan, but I hear what the fellows say, and they all seem to think that you are some wonder. Guess I’ll have to wander down to the field and see you in action some day.”

“It’s quite a sight,” laughed Harry.

“I suppose so.” Tracey was silent a moment. Then, with a smile, “Funny how my stock’s gone up lately,” he added.

“How do you mean?”

“Why, since the fellows discovered that you were a star football player I am treated with much more respect. You see, I happen to be your roommate. Case of reflected glory.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry.

“Fact, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if I went down to posterity as the fellow who roomed with Harry Danforth at prep school! Say, don’t turn me out next year, will you? Think how I’d feel!”

“You make me sick,” grumbled Harry. “You’re twice as popular and—and important as I am.”

“I used to be,” sighed Tracey, “but now I’m just Danforth’s roommate. Still, fame is fame, and——”

But just there Harry shied a book at him, and in the scuffle that followed fame was forgotten.

In the Carver game Harry had his first try on the School Eleven. Worden put him in at the beginning of the third quarter at left half, displacing Norman. Harry did good work against a team that averaged several pounds lighter and established himself more firmly than ever in the affection and admiration of his fellows. And yet when the fourth period began it was Norman who went in at the left of quarter and Harry retired to a blanket and the bench. Just why this was he couldn’t see, since he was conscious of having played well, better, he honestly believed, than Norman. But facts were facts, and he saw the last ten minutes of a rather listless combat from the substitutes’ bench. Barnstead had no trouble rolling up twenty-seven points and was only scored on when Jones, who took Bob Peel’s place in the last period, fumbled the ball on Barnstead’s thirty yards and a quick-witted and long-legged Carver forward got it and tumbled through a broken field for a touchdown. Poor Jones, whose fortunes were trembling in the balance before, was a sad-faced youth as the players trotted back to the gymnasium after the game, and Harry pitied him. From thence on Jones was frankly a second-string quarter and Bob Peel ruled the roost. Football, like life, is a case of the survival of the fittest, and the boy who makes good in the first more often than not makes good in the latter. And the lessons learned on the gridiron, lessons of obedience to authority, confidence, unselfishness and self-control, are lessons that stand one in good stead in the bigger game to follow. Harry, with some dim notion of this in his mind, mentally compared Jones’ conduct under discipline to Perry Vose’s. Jones probably had a bad hour or two with himself, but the next Monday he turned up smiling and cheerful, and all the rest of the season he worked hard when work was given him, served patiently with the waiters on the bench and never once gave voice to a disgruntled expression. Jones was a good loser, which is scarcer than a good winner. And Harry, looking on, learned a lesson from Jones.

The team had its troubles that week. Plaisted, the best guard the school had, and, with the possible exception of Captain Ted Corson, at fullback, the best player of all, wrenched his knee in practice on Tuesday and went off for what the doctor predicted would be a full week. Parrett, first substitute, took his place at the right of center and filled it fairly satisfactorily, but Plaisted was missed. I think that if ever Worden was tempted to retract his words and offer Perry Vose his old position it was then. But he didn’t. Nor did he show any sign of yielding when, a week later, Plaisted returned to work, hobbled around rather uselessly and was finally retired for good with a bad case of water on the knee. By that time Pleasanton High had come and gone with trailing banners and Barnstead had scored another victory. But the Pleasanton game, although it had been won decisively, 15 to 3, proved to Coach Worden that Parrett was not another Plaisted and that the right of the line was now its weak place. Several experiments were tried during the first of the week, but it was not until Captain Corson was changed from fullback to right guard that the difficulty seemed to be solved. Ted Corson had played guard two years before and so was no novice in the line. To fill Corson’s place, Carstairs, right half, was pulled back to full, and Harry Danforth at last became a member of the School Team. Norman was moved across to the other side and Harry went in at left half. And the school applauded.

III

As the Norwich Academy game drew near the school rose rapidly toward the zenith of football enthusiasm. Studies suffered, as they always do at such times, and the faculty, made wise by experience, was as lenient as possible. It was less the players and substitutes themselves who made sorry showings in the classrooms than the school at large. It was the non-combatants whose minds refused to mix football with study, to the detriment of study. They not only had to watch and speculate upon the local football situation, but must keep close tab on the progress of the college teams as well. Nearly every preparatory schoolboy is for one reason or another an enthusiastic partisan of one or other of the universities. Usually he has selected his college by the end of his first year at school and from then on, or until he changes his inclination, he follows the fortunes of the football heroes representing his future alma mater with breathless interest. So it can readily be seen that the months of October and November constitute a busy season for the schoolboy, with the interest and excitement drawing to a breathless crisis about the middle of November. Barnstead Academy talked football, read football and dreamed football. It had football for breakfast, dinner and supper, and nibbled on it between meals! City newspapers with accounts of the college and big school gridiron doings were at a premium, while illustrated weeklies, picturing and describing recent contests, were passed around from room to room and read and re-read until torn and tattered.

Tracey Colgan, who had heretofore been as little enthusiastic about football as anyone in school, became so deeply interested that he journeyed day after day to the field to watch the play of Harry and, incidentally, the rest of the team. One can’t room with a football player and listen to his talk without eventually becoming at least mildly enthusiastic. Harry was very glad of his chum’s new-found interest, since it gave him someone to talk things over with, someone sympathetic. And Harry was grateful for sympathy just then, for things weren’t going any too well and there were many hours of discouragement. But while sympathetic, Tracey was also sane.

“Look here,” he would say, “what’s the use of getting yourself all stirred up about it? Supposing you don’t keep your place until the St. Matthew’s game. What’s it going to matter a year or two from now? There’s no use getting white hairs and wrinkles over it as far as I can see.”

“That’s because you’ve never played,” replied Harry mournfully. “If you had you’d—you’d understand.”

“I understand that you football chaps are a lot of crazy idiots for two months every year,” answered Tracey. “Great Scott, anyone would think that your blessed lives depended on your making the first team! Suppose you just stop a bit and consider the fact that there are about two hundred fellows here who never looked a football in the lacings!”

“There aren’t; there are only two hundred and forty fellows in school and I guess half of them have played football at some time or other.”

“Well, I was speaking—er—approximately,” replied Tracey, undisturbed. “What I’m trying to make you see is that you and the rest of your tribe are taking the whole thing much too seriously and that the world’s going to keep right on humming around whether you get a black eye in the St. Matthew’s game or look on from the grandstand.”

“That’s all well enough for you,” objected Harry, “but you don’t see it the way we do. If you——”

“Or you don’t see it the way the rest of us do,” laughed Tracey. “All right. Go ahead and have your conniption fits. But if you keep on worrying the way you’re worrying nowadays you’ll not only lose your place on the team, but you’ll fill an early grave. And flowers are expensive this time of year.”

“I’m not worrying,” replied Harry a trifle resentfully.

“Oh, no, not at all! You’ve been sitting there with that book in front of you for forty-five minutes and you haven’t looked into it once. Bet you don’t even know whether it’s an algebra or a French dictionary!”

“I do, too! It’s”—Harry stole a glance at it—“it’s Cicero.”

“Good stuff! Emulate our old friend then. Bet you Cicero never lost his head over football.”

“He never lost his head over anything,” grumbled Harry, “except his silly old orations.”

“He was a wise old party,” returned Tracey, who had taken a volume of Shakespeare’s Works and was hunting through the pages. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew something about football, either. Here it is. Listen to this. Mr. Cicero is speaking to Casca. ‘Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time; but men may construe things after their fashion, clean from the purpose of the things themselves.’ Yes, sir, I guess they played football where Cicero went to school!”

“That’s nonsense. Besides, Cicero didn’t say that; Shakespeare said it.”

“Makes it more probable, then, that the remark refers to football,” replied Tracey untroubledly. “For, if I remember right, they played football in William’s time.”

“You ought to join the Debating Society,” grunted Harry. “Shut up now, will you, and let me study.”

Harry’s uneasiness was due to the fact that a youth named Dyker, familiarly known as Dutch, was pressing him closely for the position of left halfback. Dyker had played two years on the second and had won promotion that Fall to the first team as substitute. Just at present Harry and Dyker were alternating in the coveted position and Harry’s heart was filled with fear. Dyker had the advantage of years, being seventeen, and, besides, was a rather clever punter, something which Harry made no claim to be. Harry used to dream about this time that he had sprained an ankle or broken an arm and that Dyker had ousted him for the rest of the season, and groan so loudly in his sleep that Tracey would shy a pillow across at him and beg him to turn over.

For my part I think that many of Harry’s fears were groundless and that in pitting the two boys against each other Worden was only trying to develop each to the utmost. Harry’s dashing brilliancy in a broken field kept him head and shoulders above his rival, who, even if he could punt well and might be needed in the big game for that accomplishment, was only a fair ground-gainer after all. But Harry didn’t realize that and there were moments, when, as it seemed to him, Dyker was pressing him closely for his place, that Harry could almost find it in his heart to wish that Dutch would bust something and retire from the struggle.

Work grew very strenuous that last fortnight. The dummy was resurrected and hung again on his twenty-foot railway, and for three days the first team fellows went back to first principles, throwing themselves upon the stuffed and headless figure at the end of the chain, falling on wabbling, elusive balls and chasing them across the turf to catch them on their erratic bounds. And with this primary instruction went final polishing in signal work and the development of the attack. And almost before anyone realized it, it was Saturday and the day of the Norwich contest, beyond which lay but four days of practice before the final struggle of the football season.

Barnstead turned out to a boy that afternoon, in spite of a drizzling rain, and practiced the songs that were to be sung at the St. Matthew’s game and cheered on the slightest provocation at the behest of eight tireless, merciless cheer leaders who, armed with brown megaphones, waved their arms and shook their fists and demanded “A regular cheer, fellows, and make it good!” on the slightest provocation. Norwich sent over a small but determinedly noisy group of youths, who answered every vocal challenge from across the wet field.

Harry started the game at left half, and provided the first sensation when, two minutes after the kick-off, he stole a forward pass and dodged and squirmed his way through the ruck of players and sped across seven white lines for the first score of the game. When, having placed the pigskin squarely back of the posts with practically no opposition, he scrambled to his feet, eight discarded brown megaphones were tumbling about the turf in front of the stand and eight red-faced cheer leaders were leaping and gesticulating, while from some two hundred eager throats a vast and deafening roar of sound was sweeping across the field.

Later, in the second twelve-minute period, Harry again brought the stand to its feet when, from a double pass behind the line, he got safely away around his own right end and reeled off almost thirty yards before he was pulled down into a puddle. But the most encouraging feature of that game was the work of Captain Corson at right guard and of Carstairs at fullback. Corson was as steady as a wall against the strong attack of Norwich, while Carstairs, in a position he had played but a few days, shone brilliantly. The first half ended with the score 7 to 6, Norwich having failed to kick goal after her touchdown in the second period.

Worden made several changes in the line-up when the second half began. A new left tackle went in, a substitute center was tried, Jones took Peel’s place at quarter and both halfbacks were fresh men. Harry viewed Dyker’s substitution with misgiving as he drew a blanket about him and settled down to watch the contest from the bench. He was a little bit angry with the coach and looked so glum that Bob Peel, squeezing himself into a seat between Harry and a substitute end, ventured consolation.

“Cheer up, Danforth,” said the quarter, kicking him good-naturedly on the ankle. “You don’t know when you’re well off. All we have to do is sit here and see those poor chaps work. It’s fine!”

Harry smiled faintly. “That’s all right for you, Peel. You’re sure of your place. I’m not. Just when I get going fairly well Worden yanks me out and puts in Dyker.”

“Oh, I guess he wants Dyker to help with the punting. It’s up to Carstairs, and it won’t do to work him too hard to-day. As for being sure of your place”—Peel shrugged his shoulders—“there’s no such thing, Danforth. Any of us may wrench a knee or an ankle or something, and then where are we? Why, it’s the uncertainty that makes half the fun!”

“Is it?” muttered Harry without enthusiasm.

“Sure. What the dickens is Carstairs doing off there? He’s way out of position if that’s a delayed pass. Thought so! Lost a yard! I suppose I ought to be sort of pleased when Jones slips up like that, but I’m not. He’s a good old sort, Jones. That’s better! Right through left guard for three! If Dyker would put his head down and forget to slow up every time he strikes the line he’d do a heap better. Let’s see how he boots this. Not bad. Nearly forty yards, I guess. Seems to me if Worden took him in hand he could make a real punter out of Dutch. He’s got another year, hasn’t he?”

“I think so,” answered Harry. “He does punt well, doesn’t he? Gets them off quickly, too.”

“Yes, if he could plunge as well as he can kick he’d get a place. As it is I guess you’re pretty certain to start the game next week. Here comes that delayed pass again. That’s a lot better. We ought to have a score coming to us pretty soon.”

Barnstead was down on Norwich’s thirty-three yards, and it was first down again. Carstairs swept around the left of the Norwich line for six yards or so, made two through center and then fell back as though to try a drop-kick. But the ball went to Simmons, who was playing right half, and Simmons wormed past left tackle for the necessary gain. From the twenty-two-yard line the home team carried the pigskin to the threshold of a score, only to lose it a yard from the last line. Norwich held beautifully. After kicking from behind its goal line the visiting eleven got the ball on a fumble near mid-field and started toward Barnstead’s goal. The Brown’s defense was pretty thoroughly tested during the ensuing five or six minutes and Norwich made the thirty yards without losing possession of the pigskin once. There, however, the Brown stiffened and, after two tries that netted but five yards, Norwich made a forward pass that worked finely and took the ball half the distance to the goal. But the Brown line was pretty tight now, and after being thrice repulsed Norwich tried a desperate place kick from a difficult angle and missed. With the ball back in mid-field the quarter ended.

“I wonder,” mused Bob Peel, “if Worden’s going to be satisfied with what we’ve got. It’s taking chances, I say.”

Apparently the coach had determined to play on the defensive for the remainder of the game and made no change in the line-up. Harry, who had hoped to get in again, scowled at Coach Worden’s back as the latter strolled past the bench. Peel, seeing, laughed.

“Isn’t he the mean old thing, Danforth?” he asked. “Good thing, though, he didn’t turn around just then and see your expression. He might have sacked you for calling him names!”

“I wasn’t,” answered Harry, grinning in spite of himself.

“Thinking names, then. It’s the same thing.”

“Well, I do think he might let me play,” said the other. “You, too.”

“Me? Oh, I don’t mind. You see, Danforth, he’s keeping us out of it because we’re too precious to take chances with. Looking at it in that way, you see, it’s a fine old compliment to our worth and abilities.”

“I don’t look at it that way,” murmured Harry.

“Might as well. Hello! Look at that!”

A Norwich back, the ball tucked into the corner of his left arm, was streaking down the field, evading player after player of the opposing team and crossing one white line after another, while the stands broke into wild, unintelligible tumult! Only Jones, playing well back, stood between the Norwich runner and the goal, and hundreds of voices died into silence as the two forms, one speeding desperately and one advancing alertly and cautiously, drew near. Then a great shout of triumph and relief from the supporters of the home team broke forth, and Peel murmured: “Good old Jonesy! Tackled like a man!”

For Jones had brought down the runner on the twenty-four-yard line with as pretty a tackle as had been seen all season, and Norwich’s hope of winning the game died a sudden death. Coach Worden hurried a new end into the field in place of Shallcross, and the teams lined up on the twenty-four yards. But Norwich’s bolt had been sped. Three attempts at the tackles gained but six yards, and when the left half fell back to kicking position and held his hands for the ball nearly half the Barnstead forwards came rushing through upon him and the ball, striking a leaping figure, went bounding back up the field. The substitute end fell on it near the forty yards, and Dyker punted down the field and out of bounds at Norwich’s thirty-yard line. Three minutes later the game was over, and Barnstead had won by the narrow margin of one point. Harry, trotting back to the gymnasium in the wake of the players, forgot his enmity against the coach in the satisfaction of victory.

IV

Barnstead celebrated that evening. Not that the school was unduly elated because of the victory over Norwich, nor that the score was anything to be especially proud of, but merely because football enthusiasm was rampant and the afternoon’s success, slight as it was, provided an excuse. As soon as supper was over the fellows congregated in front of School Hall and began cheering. Songs followed the cheers, and then a voice cried: “We want to march!” The suggestion won immediate favor, and in almost less time than it takes to tell it the fellows were falling into line four abreast, two hundred throats were singing the school anthem and the march had begun. Shouting, cheering, singing, pushing and jostling, the long column swung around the corner and began the circuit of the campus.

Harry found himself between Tracey, who had been with him when the celebration began, and a substitute tackle named Cummings. Linking arms, they followed on, adding their quota to the noise and hilarity. The procession paused at each dormitory to cheer the resident instructor, and wound four blocks out of bounds to reach Mr. Worden’s rooms in a little white clapboarded cottage. The noise soon brought the coach to the doorway and, when the throng had quieted down, he made a short speech that rekindled the waning enthusiasm. After that the procession headed back to the campus, paid a visit to the principal’s residence and finally disbanded in front of School Hall. As it was a Saturday night there was no imperative need of studying, and so Harry and Tracey followed a discordant group of revelers across to Hutchins Hall and spent an hour with Joe Phillips and his roommate, Bert Means, talking football and predicting an overwhelming victory over St. Matthew’s.

The Sunday morning mail—one called for it at the office between breakfast and chapel—brought a letter to Harry from Pete Wilkinson, back home. Pete had written once before during the Fall, and as his letters, while rambling, held a deal of home news, Harry was always glad to get them. The present epistle, four full pages in length, detailed the doings of mutual acquaintances since his last report and brought the chronicles of the Hillston High School Football Team down to date. Toward the end Pete wrote:

Fellows think it funny we don’t see more about you in the papers. We read most everything from around there and haven’t seen your name in them but once some time ago. Aren’t you on the team for regular? I see your name down at left half sometimes and sometimes I see a fellow named Dyker down. Tom Rawlins told George High the other day that he’d heard you weren’t making good and George told him he didn’t know what he was talking about. And I guess he don’t. Write me how you are getting on, Harry, and tell me all about everything. Do you like the school and how many fellows are there there? Who is your coach? Are you going to try for the hockey team this winter? I hear that Barnstead is a great place for hockey. I wish my father would let me go there next year, but he says it costs too much. How much does it cost, Harry? Are you coming home at Christmas? Answer soon. All the fellows want to be remembered to you. Good luck, Harry, and I hope you do fine a week from to-morrow. All the fellows say the same. Your friend, Pete.

Harry replied that afternoon and answered Pete’s numerous questions to the best of his ability. The effect of writing this letter and a less lengthy one to his father and mother was to make Harry a little bit homesick, and, after he had mailed the two epistles, he went off alone for a long walk through a gray mist that added very little to his spirits.

But Monday dawned fair and crisp, and the qualm of homesickness was gone and forgotten. Practice that afternoon was as hard as any during the year. Coach Worden was not satisfied with the team’s defense, and so for the better part of an hour the second was given the ball time and time again, on the first team’s thirty yards, on its twenty and, finally, on its five, and told to put it over. It did so at last, from the five-yard line, but not until the first team forwards were battered and tired out. There was signal work on the floor of the gymnasium that evening and on the two evenings following, but the final hard practice out of doors came on Tuesday. After that the team were given only enough work to keep them in shape. There was a fifteen-minute scrimmage on Wednesday and a good deal of punting and catching and some signal practice. All the week it was Harry who had the call for left half and Dyker got into the play but once, for a brief ten minutes or so on Tuesday. Thursday it rained hard all day, and the short work at signals planned to take place on the field was held in the basement of the gymnasium. In the evening there was a chalk talk upstairs, during which the players underwent a pretty stiff examination as to their familiarity with the plays to be used against St. Matthew’s. The second team disbanded Thursday afternoon and had its annual feast in the visitors’ dining-room. Afterward it moved in a body to the auditorium at the top of School Hall and helped make the mass meeting a howling success. Most of the first team fellows joined the assemblage after Coach Worden released them, arriving late, but receiving each one a deafening cheer as he tried to slip unostentatiously into a seat at the back of the hall. All the songs which had ever been sung at previous games and many new ones were rehearsed, with the aid of the school Musical Club, and every player got his share of applause. There were speeches, too, and it was well toward ten o’clock when, after singing the school anthem, the crowd, still joyously noisy, made its way down the stairs.

Harry, who had arrived at the mass meeting late and had done his best to reach a seat undetected and had failed, met Joe Phillips on the way downstairs and paused at the entrance to talk to him. Joe had made a speech and was feeling exhilarated and communicative. Consequently when Harry started off alone across the campus for his room most of the fellows had disappeared. Overhead there were still a good many heavy, dark clouds floating, but here and there a frosty star twinkled, and over the top of Noyes Hall the moon was trying bravely to make a showing. As Harry reached the corner of his dormitory he became aware of three boys ahead of him on the flag walk. They had almost reached the entrance when he saw them and the dim light above the doorway threw their forms into relief without revealing their faces. They had stopped just short of the entrance, and as Harry approached, his rubber-soled shoes making almost no sound on the flags, one of the three raised an arm and appeared to throw something at a window. Startledly, Harry listened for the resultant crash of breaking glass. But there was no sound save the scrape of feet as the trio dashed up the steps and disappeared through the entrance. Then Harry saw that the window, which was one of those in Mr. Adams’ bedroom, was raised at the bottom. The room was dark. Wondering what mischief the three boys had been up to, Harry reached the entrance almost on their heels, just in time to see the last of the trio, apparently one of the older boys and rather heavily built, disappear around the turn of the stairs. There was only time to note the general build of the youth and the fact that he wore a dark-brown sweater, at the back of which, an inch or two above the hem, gleamed a small white tag. Then they were gone and a faint snicker of laughter floated down from above through the empty hall. At that moment the door of Number 2 opened quickly and Harry, one foot on the first step, turned to find Mr. Adams confronting him, Mr. Adams pulling a faded red dressing-gown about his gaunt form and scowling angrily.

“You, Danforth?”

The resident instructor’s voice held both surprise and wrath and Harry, equally surprised and a trifle disconcerted, replied a bit uncertainly:

“Yes, sir?”

Mr. Adams held out a thin arm, from which the sleeve of his sleeping garment fell away, and opened his outstretched hand. In it lay a squashy brown mass. Harry viewed it doubtfully.

“What—what is it, sir?” he asked.

“You know perfectly what it is,” replied the instructor, his voice shaking with anger. “It is an apple, a rotten apple! Your aim was so good, sir, that it landed against my face! A rotten apple! Outrageous, Danforth, outrageous, I say!”

“But—but, Mr. Adams——”

“If that is your idea of a joke, Danforth, I fear we shall have to tame your humor, sir. It’s insulting, sir, insulting!”

“But I didn’t, sir!”

“You didn’t! Oh, certainly not!”

“I was just coming in when you opened your door and——”

“But I asked you and you confessed!” replied Mr. Adams triumphantly. He was growing calmer, but the crimson spots on his thin cheeks told plainly that his anger still held. “Don’t make matters worse by lying, Danforth.”

“I’m not, sir. I didn’t throw it, word of honor, Mr. Adams!”

“A likely story! Who did, then? This—this unspeakable abomination”—the instructor’s long nose seemed to quiver with disgust as he viewed the object in his hand—“was thrown into my room, right on to my pillow as I lay in bed, against my very cheek, sir! Faugh!” He made as if to hurl the apple through the doorway, but thought better of it. “I jump from bed, Danforth, open my door and find you here, guilt stamped eloquently upon your face! And now you have the—the brazen effrontery to tell me you didn’t do it! I shall see that you are severely punished, sir, and the fact that you have added lying to your—your gutter-snipe act will make me no more lenient, sir!”

“But I tell you, sir,” protested Harry, flushing resentfully, “that I did not do it! You’ve got to believe me, sir! I know that appearances seem against me, but I was halfway between your window and the corner of the building when the apple was thrown, sir.”

“Indeed?” sneered Mr. Adams. “Then you saw it done, did you?”

“Yes, sir—that is——”

“Well? Well? Did you or did you not? Go on with your story. Let’s see how fertile your imagination is, Danforth. You didn’t do it yourself, but you saw it done. Very well; pray proceed!”

“I—I saw someone in front of the window, sir, as I came along. They—he ran away and I came in here and you opened your door and called my name, and I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ That’s all I know about it.”

“Really?” Mr. Adams smiled sourly. “And the boy you saw in front of the window? What became of him, Danforth?”

“He—he ran away,” faltered Harry; “quickly.”

“Very quickly indeed! So quickly that, although I fairly bounded to the window, there was no one in sight when I reached it; no one, I should say, but you. Sounds a likely story, Danforth, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t help it, sir,” replied Harry doggedly. “It’s the truth.”

“Which way did this—this figment of your imagination run, sir?”

Harry glanced toward the stairs. Not a sound came from the upper floors. Mr. Adams tapped impatiently on the floor with one slippered foot.

“I—I can’t say, sir,” answered Harry finally.

“You can’t say! You don’t know whether he entered this dormitory or not?”

“I——” Again Harry hesitated. Even if he told what he knew it was unlikely that the boys could be detected now. “I think they came in here, sir.”

“You think! Don’t you know whether they—— Look here, you said before that there was but one boy! Now how many were there? Careful, Danforth! You’re getting mixed!”

“There was more than one; I think three. They came in here, sir. That’s all I can say.”

“You saw them enter this dormitory?” pursued Mr. Adams relentlessly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they turn to the right or to the left? Or did they go upstairs?”

“I can’t tell you, sir. They—they came in ahead of me.”

“That will do, my boy. Go on to your room. You’ll hear more of this—this pleasant little escapade, this gentlemanly trick—in the morning.”

“Don’t—don’t you believe me, sir?” asked Harry desperately.

Mr. Adams smiled sarcastically. “Oh, perfectly, Danforth, perfectly! You tell a most convincing story, I assure you. Dear me, yes, most convincing. Let us hope, Danforth, that you’ll be able to do as well before the Principal in the morning. But don’t try to embroider it any more, Danforth. It’s quite elaborate enough as it is.” The instructor smiled broadly but disagreeably. “I shall—ah—preserve this odoriferous memento of my pleasant experience, this slight token of your respect and regard, Danforth, as Exhibit A. I’ve no doubt your Principal will view it with interest. Good night!”

Mr. Adams’ door closed with dignity, but as it had shut upon a corner of the dressing-gown and had to be reopened, the effect was somewhat marred. Harry, smarting with the injustice of the instructor’s conviction, apprehensive of what would follow and generally discouraged, sought his room. The light was turned low and Tracey was sleeping audibly. After a moment of indecision, for he wanted very much to tell his story and get sympathy, Harry undressed as noiselessly as possible and tumbled into bed without arousing his chum. But sleep didn’t come easily that night. Disturbing thoughts of what might lie in store for him kept him wakeful, and when, long after eleven had struck, he fell into slumber, equally disturbing visions haunted his sleep.

V

“You haven’t much to go on,” said Tracey the next morning. “You don’t know whether the fellows stopped on this floor or went on to the third. And as for the brown sweater, why, there are at least a hundred in school. You might look for a sweater with a white tag on it, I suppose. I don’t understand the tag business. Sweaters don’t have tags on them except when you buy them, do they? Did it look like a new one?”

“I couldn’t tell,” replied Harry. “It was dark on the stairs and I only saw the chap for a second.”

“Adams is a pig-headed old codger, anyway,” said Tracey disgustedly. “You couldn’t convince him that you didn’t do it unless you had the fellow who did do it and go and make an affidavit before a notary! You’re up against it, chum, I guess. Perhaps, though, Dobs”—the Principal was called Dobs for short—“will believe you. He isn’t a bad sort, Dobs. Neither is Adams, for that matter, except that he’s as stubborn as a mule and as full of dignity as a—a camel!” At any other time Harry might have protested at the simile, but this morning he was too down in the mouth to care. “I suppose,” went on Tracey, “that Adams didn’t mind being hit with the apple much, but the fact that it was rotten offended his blessed dignity. If you’d only chucked a green apple——”

“I tell you I didn’t!” cried Harry exasperatedly. “I don’t know anything about it! I——”

“I know! I meant to say it was a pity the fellow who did it didn’t throw a green one,” answered Tracey soothingly. Harry grunted. After a moment’s thought: “I suppose that even if you found out who the fellow was,” continued Tracey, “it wouldn’t do you much good. I don’t suppose he’d ’fess up to it.”

“He’d have to if I knew him,” replied the other grimly. “Why, confound it, Tracey, if Dobs thinks I’m lying he will—will——” Harry choked. Tracey nodded sympathetically.

“Pro,” he answered. “I know. Off goes your head! No more football. It’s—it’s a shame, old man!”

“And Adams will tell his story and I won’t have a show at all,” mourned Harry. “If—if he says I can’t play any more I won’t stay here, Tracey! I—I’ll leave!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, chum. After all, you know, things like this are likely to happen to a fellow occasionally. And as for football, why, there’s another year coming, and——”

“You make me tired! Another year coming! Just when I’ve beaten Dyker out for my position, and the St. Matthew’s game comes to-morrow! No, sir, if he says I can’t play to-morrow I’ll quit, Tracey! It isn’t fair! I didn’t do anything and they’ve no right to punish me for something I didn’t do! You—you just wait and see!”

“You’ll think differently later, I guess,” said Tracey sympathetically. He put an arm through Harry’s. “Come on and have some breakfast. You’ll feel better after that.”

“I don’t want any breakfast,” sighed Harry. But he allowed the other to draw him to the door and down the stairs and across to the dining-room. And afterward, had he thought about it, he would have had to confess that Tracey’s prediction had been a true one. For he did feel better, a whole lot better, and even began to look forward to his visit to the office with more assurance. After all, he had done nothing, and Dobs would just have to believe him!

But, sad to state, Dobs didn’t, although I really think he wanted to and tried his best to. Circumstantial evidence was overwhelmingly against Harry and Mr. Adams had told his side of the story convincingly. Moreover, Harry’s desire to shield the real perpetrators led to complications. He owned to having seen three boys at the instructor’s window and the Principal wanted to know directly why he had not stated that number to Mr. Adams last night. Harry had difficulty in explaining that satisfactorily, and, while it was a small matter, it caused the Principal to entertain doubts of Harry’s candidness. In the end the Principal, regretfully, as even Harry could see, gave the only verdict possible: Guilty! Harry was sentenced to a month’s probation, which meant many hardships of which but one affected him seriously. Boys on probation were not allowed to represent the school on any athletic team.

“I’m very sorry, Danforth,” said the Principal gently. “Let this be a lesson to you, my boy. Take your punishment like a man, and play the game! Remember that it is adversity that is the real test of us all!”

Harry made no audible reply, but walked out of the office mutinous and defiant. He would not stay there a single hour longer, he told himself hotly. Everyone was unjust and unfair. He hated the whole school and everyone and everything connected with it! He would go back to his room, pack his bag and leave immediately! But the next moment recollection of the folks at home, of what they would think of his conduct, came to him. His parents wouldn’t understand, of course. They might even—yes, he greatly feared they’d insist on his coming back! Plainly, home was not the place to go to if—if he did shake the dust of Barnstead from his shoes. And if he didn’t go home where was he to go? He had a little money, about eight dollars, but that wouldn’t last long; in fact, when he stopped to think about it, it wouldn’t much more than take him home! And home—Harry shook his head and sighed—home didn’t look very good to him. He could imagine just the way his father would frown and click his lips impatiently. Mr. Danforth had never played football, had hardly, in fact, even seen a game, and Harry was pretty certain that he would never understand the motives prompting his son to give up a school career in the middle of the first term! And besides, he had, he reflected, grown rather fond of the school and—and some of the fellows. And, after all, Dobs wasn’t really a bad sort; and Dobs had told him to “play the game.” Running away wouldn’t be playing the game, and so—so—well, he guessed he’d stay!

The Principal rendered his verdict just before ten o’clock. By eleven, so quickly does news circulate at school, it was very generally known that young Danforth was on probation for something he had done to offend Old Adams. School sentiment was divided. Some fellows condemned Harry unheard for risking his place on the team and thereby putting the morrow’s game in jeopardy. Others, and these were mostly fellows who had at some time or other run foul of Mr. Adams in study hall, declared that the instructor was always looking for trouble and that it was a fair wager that whatever Danforth had done he did not deserve the punishment meted out to him. But of course it was to Coach Worden and Captain Corson that the tidings brought the most dismay. To lose a first-string halfback on the very eve of the Big Game was a misfortune to try their patience and fortitude. But as there was no help for it Mr. Worden promptly drew a line through Danforth and wrote Dyker after it. And presently, having discussed and mourned the loss of the left half to its heart’s content, the school at large accepted the situation, perked up and again set its gaze confidently on the morrow.

The mass meeting that night was the biggest and most enthusiastic of any. Coach Worden addressed the fellows, as did Captain Corson and several members of the faculty. Neither Harry nor Tracey attended. Harry for the reason that probation confined him to his room after supper, and Tracey because he didn’t want to leave his chum to moon there alone. But I fancy that these two boys were the only absent ones that evening, and they were probably not greatly missed. Certainly the two hundred and odd occupants of the hall managed to make plenty of noise without them! After they had cheered and sung to their heart’s content indoors they piled downstairs and out on to the campus and began all over again. Tracey went to the window and watched them massed in front of School Hall, but Harry remained at the table where, for an hour past, he had been making a weak pretense of studying. It had not been a very cheerful evening for Tracey, for Harry was far too downhearted to be good company and conversation had languished early.

“There goes Mr. Warren after them,” announced Tracey with a chuckle. “He will break that up quick time.”

“Hope he does,” grunted Harry. “How’s a fellow going to study with that beastly noise going on?”

Tracey’s prediction proved correct. The cheers died suddenly away at the instructor’s advent across the yard and the crowd broke into small fragments and dissolved quietly. Yet not altogether quietly, either. For presently, from the upper end of the campus, came one shrill and defiant cheer:

“Rah, rah, rah! Warren!”

VI

The day of the St. Matthew’s game dawned fair and crisp. There was a little breeze blowing out of the northwest, but it was not of sufficient strength to have any influence on the play, unless, as seemed improbable, it increased by afternoon. The team piled into a coach and were driven over to the neighboring village of Turner, where they were to have their luncheon at the little hotel, returning afterward just in time to warm up before the contest. St. Matthew’s began to put in an appearance about eleven, with the arrival of the first eastbound express. The village, bedecked with brown flags and bunting, began to show specks of blue. The game was to start at two o’clock, and by one the first of the invaders appeared in the persons of two small and enthusiastic youths, who carried blue flags, wore blue arm bands and who marched the length of the campus before proceeding to the field, critically viewing the buildings and being greeted with loud and ironic cheers from various windows. After that the stream from the village set in in earnest and the blue flags fluttered into the field by the dozens. But for every blue one there were at least twenty brown, and later, when St. Matthew’s started the cheering, the heroic efforts of her supports were drowned by the deafening response that swept across the field.

Harry and Tracey reached the field early and were lucky enough to find seats at the end of the third row in the stand. There were plenty of empty seats toward the top, but the boys wanted to be as near the play as possible. At twenty minutes to two the St. Matthew’s players, first-string men and substitutes, some thirty in all, trotted through the end gate to the cheers of the blue contingent across the white-streaked turf. Five minutes later the brown-clad warriors appeared, Corson in the lead, and eight earnest, imploring cheer leaders seized their megaphones and summoned such an outburst that the players, doffing their blankets on the side line, viewed the sloping, brown-flecked bank in surprise. Then came a cheer for St. Matthew’s, and then St. Matthew’s answered it with one for Barnstead. The local band struck up a march, flags fluttered and waved, late comers crowded the aisles and the rival teams went through their warming-up practice. Brown ovals arched against a cloudless blue November sky and the thud of leather against leather punctuated the shrill cries of the quarterbacks as they trotted their squads over the field.

In the midst of it all Harry glanced up to see a group of three fellows pushing their way up the aisle past his seat. They were laughing merrily and paying not too much attention to the comfort of those in front of them, being evidently determined to get seats at any cost of politeness. One of the boys, daring the conventions, wore only a brown woolen sweater over his vest, and as on such an occasion, when parents and friends attended who could, Barnstead was very particular to look her best, Harry looked again and a trifle disapprovingly at the big youth. The latter turned just then to make a laughing remark to one of his companions and Harry saw his face. He was Perry Vose. That in a measure explained the costume, for Perry was known to take delight in defying school conventions. As Harry’s gaze left Perry’s countenance there was a momentary rift in the ascending file, and the younger boy’s eyes fell on a tiny square of white just above the bottom of the brown sweater at the back. Instantly he was on his feet, Tracey viewing him curiously. One by one the throng in the aisle found accommodations at left or right, but the three boys kept on, doubtless seeking places together. Harry watched, his heart thumping against his ribs, and ascended two or three steps in order to see better. Tracey was anxiously demanding what was up, but Harry paid no heed to him. Then suddenly he had a clear, unobstructed view of Perry Vose climbing the stand above him. There was the brown sweater with the white tag just as he had glimpsed it the other night at the turn of the dormitory stairs. And there was the rather heavy, thick-set body he had seen. The last doubt fled and Harry started impetuously after Perry. But a few tiers beyond he stopped and reconsidered. Then, descending again to his place, he spoke softly to Tracey.

“You know Perry Vose, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, pretty well. Why?” Tracey viewed his chum’s excited face uneasily.

“I want you to go up there—I’ll show you where he is—and tell him someone wants to speak to him at the gate. Don’t say who it is. Tell him you don’t know. Tell him any old thing, only get him down to the gate, and do it quick!”

“Well, but what——”

“Don’t ask questions, Tracey; just do what I say, like a good pal, won’t you?”

“Why—why, yes, I suppose so. But look here, Harry, don’t get into any fuss with Perry. What do you want to see him about?”

“I’ll tell you later. Go on, please. I’ll wait down at the gate. Hurry up; there goes the whistle!”

Doubtfully Tracey left his seat and Harry pointed out where Perry Vose sat near the top of the grandstand between his two companions. Then Tracey climbed the aisle and Harry sought the gate.

On the gridiron St. Matthew’s was just kicking off to the Brown. Harry heard the thud of the blue-jerseyed youth’s shoe against the pigskin and saw the ball arch into low flight down the field. Then the crowd about the entrance hid the rest from him. Minutes sped and Vose didn’t appear. Thrice the whistle shrilled beyond the barrier of spectators and Harry incuriously wondered what was happening. Then a brown sweater came into sight around the corner and Perry Vose, an impatient frown on his face, was searching for the person who had sent for him. Back of Perry, hovering anxiously about the corner of the stand, Harry spied Tracey.

“Vose!”

Perry found the voice and stared doubtfully as Harry strode up to him.

“Hello,” he said. “What do you want, kid?”

“I want to speak to you a minute. Come outside here, will you?”

“Haven’t time. I’m looking for someone.”

“That’s all right,” answered Harry. “You’re looking for me.”

“The dickens I am!” Perry stared blackly. “Do you mean you had the cheek to send and get me down here?”

“Yes. I’ve got a few words for you, Vose. Will you come outside, please?”

“If I do I’ll give you what for!” declared Perry angrily. But he followed the younger boy through the gate and around to the back of the stand. “Now, what is it?” he demanded shortly.

“I guess,” began Harry, “that you heard I was put on probation and so lost my place on the team.”

Perry nodded, a gleam of understanding in his eyes.

“Well, I worked hard for that place, Vose, and I want to play. And what’s more, I mean to.”

“Fine! Go ahead, kid. I don’t object,” laughed Perry.

“I can’t unless you go with me to Mr. Adams or the Principal and tell the truth.”

“Tell the truth? Say, what the dickens are you talking about? I haven’t got time to stay here and hear your silly troubles. I want to see the game, kid.” And Perry moved away.

“Hold on, Vose!” Perry stopped uncertainly. “Either you do what I say or—or you fight!”

Perry stared in amazement. The other boy’s eyes, however, stared back just as hard and unfalteringly. Perry tried bluster.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. You must be plumb crazy! What have I got to do with your playing on the team? Say, you make me tired. I ought to punch your silly head for you, that’s what I ought to do! And I’ll do it, too, if you bother me any more!”

“That’s all right. You may have a chance to try. But what you’ve got to do is go with me to Mr. Adams——”

“Oh, forget it! What would I do that for?”

“To tell him you shied that apple at him,” replied Harry quietly. “I’m being punished for what you did and it isn’t fair, Vose.”

“Shied—— Say, what are you talking about?”

“You know very well. You threw that rotten apple into his room the other night. I saw you do it. He thought it was me and told Dobs. Now——”

“Poppycock! I never saw your old apple!”

“Yes, you did. And either you own up and let me out or you fight.”

“Fight, eh?” Perry scowled fiercely down at Harry. “Then I guess I’ll fight, kid. And if I do you’ll be an awful messy-looking youngster when I get through.”

“Oh, you may be able to lick me——”

“I’ll half kill you,” growled Perry.

“And then again you may not,” continued Harry. “Anyway, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you lick me I’ll keep still and won’t tell. If I lick you you’ll go with me to Mr. Adams and own up. What do you say?”

Perry laughed ironically, but his gaze swept the lithe, clean-cut figure before him, and there was a hint of grudging admiration in his tones when he answered.

“Sure, that’s a bargain! You meet me here right after the game, kid, and I’ll give you what’s coming to you!”

“After the game won’t do,” replied Harry firmly. “It’s got to be right now.”

“Nonsense, kid! I want to see what’s going on, and——”

“You’ll fight right now, behind the gym, Vose; that is, if you’re not afraid to!”

“Afraid! Afraid of you!” Perry flushed angrily. “Why, you—you——” He paused, cast a longing look toward the gate, from beyond which a thunderous cheer broke onto the air at the moment, and then turned curtly on his heel. “Come on,” he said.

VII

Confidence is a fine thing. The only danger of it is that it is likely to get too ripe; in which case it becomes overconfidence and loses battles. And in spite of the late-season loss of Parrett and the eleventh-hour loss of Danforth, Barnstead went on to the field that Saturday afternoon overconfident. Why, it would be difficult to say. There seemed no really good reason for it, for it was well known that St. Matthew’s had more than an average team this year, with, besides, the prestige of more victories than defeats to her credit. Facts are facts, however, explainable or not, and the fact in this case is that the Brown faced its opponent at the kick-off with far too good an idea of its own ability. And when the awakening came it left Barnstead for the moment dismayed and disorganized.

Perhaps it was lucky that the awakening arrived early, in short at the end of the third minute of the play. Bob Peel had taken the kick-off and had run it in fifteen yards. Then two plunges at the Blue line and a dash around the left end had netted but seven yards and Carstairs had punted well into St. Matthew’s territory. Treat, the Brown’s left end, was on the back the moment the ball fell into the latter’s arm and tackled so hard that a fumble resulted. Norman picked up the pigskin on the run and was not stopped until the Blue’s quarterback brought him to earth near the twenty-yard line.

There was great rejoicing on the Barnstead stand and Bob Peel hurried his men into place and threw Carstairs at the middle of the Blue line. But although the fullback gained three yards then and two more on left tackle, it was plain that the St. Matthew’s line was stronger on defense than it had been credited with being. A forward pass failed and Peel chose to kick from the seventeen yards. What happened then was one of those sudden reversals of fortune that make football the uncertain and exciting game it is.

Surber passed low, Carstairs was consequently slow in getting the ball away and half the Blue line came charging through. The ball struck someone and bounded back up the field. A blue-legged forward took it on the bound, eluded the frantic tackle of Dyker, and tore off up the gridiron. For the first twenty or thirty yards it seemed certain that he would be pulled down from behind, for at least four Barnstead players were hot upon his heels. But when he had passed the middle of the field he was virtually alone, and although friend and foe alike trailed after him over one white line after another, he was never headed and so went stumbling, breathless and tuckered, between the Brown’s goal posts for a touchdown.

It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly that for a moment Barnstead supporters merely stared at each other, while from across the field came wild pæans of joy from where blue flags waved and tossed ecstatically. St. Matthew’s could hardly fail of kicking the goal and in another minute the scoreboard proclaimed: Barnstead, 0; Visitor, 7.

If the effect on the Brown’s supporters was numbing the effect on the home team itself was, for a few minutes, paralyzing. Surber messed the kick-off and the ball went to the Blue on her thirty-eight yards, from where, playing like streaks of lightning, and using a quick shift that left Barnstead hopelessly at a loss how to meet it, she tore off gain after gain until suddenly the Brown was well back in her own territory, literally digging her toes in the turf in a vain endeavor to stop the triumphant rush of the oncoming adversary. Down near the twenty-five-yard line Barnstead did finally find herself long enough to momentarily stay the Blue. But, finding the opposing line strengthening, St. Matthew’s swept past Shallcross’s end and made its first down on the twenty yards. Three plunges netted short gains and then a long forward pass across the field gave the Blue the rest of her distance. Barnstead made her final stand on her twelve-yard line. The fight she put up then brought back hope to the breasts of her friends. Thrice the Blue was hurled back for less than two yards of total gain and St. Matthew’s was forced to try a field goal. Her kicker went back to the twenty-five yards and dropped the ball easily over the cross-bar for another three points. And the scoreboard changed its legend to Barnstead, 0; Visitor, 10.

On the kick-off Surber sent a long one that let the Brown’s ends down the field, and when St. Matthew’s lined up it was on her twenty-two yards. The stand she had made almost under the shadow of her goal had given the Brown courage again, and now the Blue’s efforts were less availing. But nevertheless the battle swayed back up the field, even if slowly. It was taking St. Matthew’s the full four downs now to make her distance, and she was using every play she had, every ounce of strength and every bit of cunning in the endeavor to strike again while her adversary was weak, arguing, no doubt, that with a sixteen or seventeen point lead she would not have to do much later but play on the defensive. But the quarter ended with the ball near the middle of the field and gave the demoralized Brown warriors a few moments in which to confer and get their bearings. Coach Worden sped in a substitute for Shallcross, who was having very much of an off-day, and the substitute doubtless bore instructions from the general on the side line, for the blanketed team crowded around him when he came on.

The second quarter showed a vast improvement in the Brown. She had apparently found herself again. The line played lower and closer and, although bunching the backs up to the line gave St. Matthew’s a better opportunity for forward passes, that opportunity was taken advantage of but once. Two minutes after the whistle piped Barnstead had gained the ball on downs and the brown flags waved triumphantly. Five minutes later still Barnstead was knocking importunately at St. Matthew’s portal. But the door didn’t open, and so, to continue the metaphor, the Brown entered by way of the window, Norman dropping a pretty field goal from a difficult angle and placing a 3 on the scoreboard where a moment before an obnoxious 0 had been. But that ended the scoring in that half for either team. The battle raged fiercely from one thirty-five yards to another, each team showing the strain, St. Matthew’s punting on the slightest provocation and Barnstead hurling her backs at the line in an effort to wear down her adversary. The whistle put an end to her hopes, however, with the ball in the Brown’s possession on St. Matthew’s thirty-eight yards. Had the period lasted five minutes longer the wearied Blue line must have given way. With fifteen minutes in which to recuperate, however, there was no telling what the final outcome would be.

It was almost at the instant that the whistle terminated the first half that the door bell tinkled at the Principal’s house. The Principal, kept away from the first part of the game by a press of business, was drawing on his coat in the hallway when the maid opened the door, revealing two boys.

“Is the Doctor at home, please?” asked a voice.

The maid turned inquiringly and the Principal nodded. “Tell them to come in,” he said. Discarding his coat, he led the way to his study, the callers following.

“Sit down, please,” said the Principal. “Now, then—— Hello, young gentlemen; what’s this? Has there been an accident?”

“No, sir,” answered the younger, who was by far the more self-possessed of the two. “I—we—that is, sir, we had—had a slight misunderstanding and——” His voice trailed into silence while the Principal gazed from one disfigured countenance to the other. I think the Principal’s sense of humor—a sense popularly supposed not to belong to a Principal—saved the day for the boys. A slight smile trembled about the Principal’s mouth and he said dryly:

“A slight misunderstanding, eh? How fortunate it was not a serious one! What is your name, my boy? Vose I have the honor of knowing.”

“Danforth, sir. Could I—would you please let me tell you about it? We tried to find Mr. Adams, but he was not in, and so we came to you.”

“Explain by all means,” replied the Principal, settling himself in the big leather chair with a sigh of resignation. “But please be as brief as possible, Danforth.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. This is the way it all came about, sir. You see——”

“Really, my boy, I’m afraid I haven’t time to hear any family histories. Suppose you come and see me this evening after supper.”

“But that will be too late, sir! I want to get to the field and——”

“That’s just what I want,” replied the Principal with a smile. “So——”

“There isn’t much to tell, sir,” interrupted Perry doggedly. “I threw that rotten apple at Old—at Mr. Adams, and he thought Danforth did it, and you put him on pro and he lost his place on the team——”

“Succinct, indeed, Vose!” said the Principal approvingly. “And now you come to tell me so I’ll let Danforth get into the game, I presume? But what about this—this slight misunderstanding? I presume that you are both of you aware that fighting is not countenanced here?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry eagerly, “but there wasn’t anything else to do! And we thought you’d understand it if we came to you and told you all about it, sir. He—he didn’t want to own up to it, and so I—we decided we’d have a—just a small, harmless sort of a scrap, sir, and if I won it he was to come with me and put me right, sir.”

“Hm; and I presume, although your appearances might leave me in doubt, that you—er—won, Danforth?”

“Why—why, yes, sir. But he put up a dandy—I mean it was very close.”

“He’s too quick for me,” growled Vose. “He won all right.” And he felt gingerly of his nose, which had a reddened and swollen look.

The Principal glanced at the clock on his desk. “Well, one thing is certain, boys. None of us will see that game if we stay here much longer.” He pressed a button and a bell tinkled somewhere at the back of the house. “Minnie will take you to the bathroom. I’d advise you to bathe your faces before returning to society. Here she is. Run along now.”

“And—and may I play, sir?” asked Harry anxiously.

“I suppose so. You’d both better come back Monday morning and we’ll look into this a little more closely. For the present the matter stands. Go ahead and play, Danforth, if they need you. We’ll thresh all this out another time.”

VIII

The scoreboard still told the same tale, and the third period was half gone. Down near the St. Matthew’s thirty-yard line the Brown was charging desperately, and one white streak after another was passing slowly, but, as it seemed, surely, under the grinding feet of the two teams. St. Matthew’s was on the defensive indeed, for the intermission had failed to bring back more than a little of the power and snap of their early performance. It was with them now only a question of keeping the Brown at bay, but the Brown was becoming more difficult every minute. What Coach Worden had said to them in the gymnasium between the halves will probably always remain a secret, but the result was plain to all. At last Barnstead was playing as she could play, as she might have played from the first. But the Fates were still against her. Over-eagerness had thrice brought penalties for off-side, and once she had lost a down by the merest fraction of an inch on the tape measure. But, undismayed, she was fighting royally, pressing the Blue before her, determined on crossing that last white line. Bob Peel, disdaining the points a field goal might bring, continued to hurl his backs against the Blue line, which gave way grudgingly, fighting over every foot of yielded territory. Carstairs piled through left guard for four, Dyker made a scant yard off tackle, Norman hurled himself past left guard for two, Peel got four more around his own right end. The pigskin was over the twenty-yard line now and the Barnstead cohorts were shouting themselves hoarse, the cheer leaders waving and leaping, purple-faced, perspiring, almost voiceless. Coach Worden, squatting near the thirty yards, felt a hand on his arm and looked around. The boy beside him had already addressed him twice without result.

“Hello, Danforth! What is it?”

“I’m off probation, Mr. Worden. Please may I play, sir?”

“Eh? Off probation? Why—I don’t know, Danforth. Yes, I guess we can use you pretty soon. You’re sure you’re all right with the Office?” Mr. Worden observed him sharply. There had been trouble one year when a player had allowed his desire to play to get the better of veracity.

“Yes, sir, I’ve just come from Dobs, sir. He said I might.”

“It looks to me as though you’d been playing already. What under the sun have you been doing to your face? You ought to have something on that eye, my boy, or it will be a sight by suppertime.” His glance fell to the hand which rested on the canvas knee beside him. “Hm; I see; been mixing it up with someone, eh? Think you can do anything if I let you go in?”