FOR THE GOOD
OF THE TEAM

By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

Yardley Hall Series

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

Purple Pennant Series

• THE LUCKY SEVENTH
• THE SECRET PLAY
• THE PURPLE PENNANT

Hilton Series

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

Erskine Series

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

The “Big Four” Series

• FOUR IN CAMP
• FOUR AFOOT
• FOUR AFLOAT

The Grafton Series

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

North Bank Series

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

Books Not In Series

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

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York

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

FOR THE GOOD
OF THE TEAM

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

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

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

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM

CHAPTER I
A HERO RETURNS

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

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

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

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

“Too bad,” murmured Jack.

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

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

“Did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” asked Stuart suspiciously.

“Amenability,” replied Jack gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II
CAPTAIN AND COACH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“True,” assented Mr. Haynes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A steady player?” inquired the coach casually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III
A BOY ON CRUTCHES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. Well, how are you, anyway?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do the fellows like him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! What did you tell him?”

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

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

CHAPTER IV
“ONLY THE CAPTAIN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V
A CLASH OF AUTHORITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try it over,” suggested Thurston.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he tell you he did it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Proof enough,” growled the other.

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

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

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