"Sensible boy," said the Codfish. "You are wasting your glad young days down on that football field, for as long as Dixon runs the captain you will have a pretty slim show. Maybe when he gets through here and into a wider field for his politics, you may be allowed to do something, unless he hands his curse down to his successor."
The talk of the boys uncovered the situation down on the football field. Dixon, in spite of his excellent knowledge of the game, was so thoroughly bound up with the Society of Gamma Tau that, even at the risk of weakening the team, he played his favorites. Frank and Jimmy had come out at the first call for candidates on the eleven. Jimmy, with his natural ability to play the game, could not very well be kept off, society or no society, because the back field was weak without him; Frank, with less knowledge of the game and with Chip's secret grudge still against him, stood little chance. Horton had given Frank an opportunity once or twice on the second team, but as Frank was green, he was soon replaced.
"He's too light," Dixon said to his coach one night after practice, "and doesn't seem to have much football sense. It's no use in bothering with him." And, although Horton was a good coach, such little remarks as these, frequently repeated, had their effect on the older man's judgment. He overlooked Frank when substitutions were to be made in the progress of practice, and finally forgot about him—remembering only, perhaps, that he appeared to have a knack of kicking, albeit in very bad form.
Horton, however, was one of the old school of coaches who had not much use for a kicker. It was his particular hobby that the eleven should be strong enough to carry the ball. And, it might as well be set down now as later, he lost a good many games by having no adequate punter or drop kicker. Finally the blow fell, and in the second cut of the candidates, Frank read his name among those "who need not report for football practice again."
Frank was not particularly sorry, because he recognized his shortcomings in the game of football. He secretly longed to be at the game which came most naturally to him—namely, baseball.
But his friends up in Honeywell Hall raised their voices in protest. "I think it's a shame," said the Codfish indignantly, "but do you remember I told you so?"
"Don't you care, boys," said Frank. "Don't worry about me. I'm going to have a little baseball now and, Mr. Codfish, I want you to help me with my call for candidates. Most of the School nine fellows are playing on the eleven, so we can have the whole place to ourselves."
"What would you say to an organization of class baseball," suggested the Codfish, "same as they do at the colleges? Here's a fine golden fall going to waste. I've been thinking of it for some time, but we had no leader. But now that our thousand-dollar beauty, Frank Armstrong, has been kicked off the eleven, the gap is filled. With the leader at hand, all we want is a press agent."
"Hear, hear!"
"And we have one right ready to our hand—Mr. David Powers, journalist! What's the use of having these cards to play if you don't play them? sez I."