THE SECRET PLAY

By Ralph Henry Barbour

The Purple Pennant Series

• The Purple Pennant (in prep.)
• The Secret Play
• The Lucky Seventh

Yardley Hall Series

• Winning his “Y”
• For Yardley
• Around the End
• Double Play
• Change Signals
• Forward Pass

Maple Hill Series

• The Brother of a Hero
• Finkler’s Field

The Big Four Series

• Four Afloat
• Four Afoot
• Four in Camp

• The Half Back
• For the Honor of the School
• The Captain of the Crew
• Behind the Line
• Weatherby’s Inning
• The Spirit of the School
• The New Boy at Hill Top
• The Junior Trophy
• Benton’s Venture
• On Your Mark!

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY ═ Publishers ═ New York

[“Ecstatic youths ... were capturing the players and raising them shoulder-high.”]

THE
SECRET PLAY

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE LUCKY SEVENTH,”
“AROUND THE END,” ETC.

Illustrated by
NORMAN P. ROCKWELL

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1915

Copyright, 1915, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE SECRET PLAY

CHAPTER I
“THE COACHLESS WONDERS”

A blue runabout chugged blithely along Troutman Street, in the town of Clearfield, one afternoon in mid-September, honking hoarse warnings at the intersections of other thoroughfares and rustling the yellow and russet leaves, which, because of an unprecedently early frost two nights before, had already sprinkled the pavement.

In the car, clutching the wheel with an assumption of ease somewhat belied by the frequent frowns of anxiety which appeared on his face, sat the proud owner, Richard, or, as some of us already know him, Dick Lovering. Dick was seventeen years of age, tall, nice-looking, with dark eyes and hair and a lean face a trifle more pallid than one would expect on the driver of an automobile. But Dick hadn’t had that runabout very long, only about a fortnight, in fact, which accounted for his anxiety at street crossings and corners and, possibly, for the lack of healthy color in his face.

The car was painted a deep and brilliant blue, and, appropriately enough, had been dubbed by its owner “Eli Yale,” answering, however, quite as readily to “Eli.” Its varnish was as yet unmarred by scratch or blotch and its brass shone resplendently. To make no secret of it, the car had been presented to Dick by the members of the Clearfield Baseball Club at the completion of a successful season which had netted the club much money. Dick had been the manager and had conducted affairs so capably that the gift was well-deserved. The car had been bought at a bargain, having been used but a few days by its previous owner, and was proving a wonderful blessing to Dick, who was very far from being wealthy enough to purchase such a luxury himself. Dick, you see, was not as well able to get about as other boys, for he had been a cripple all his life. You’d never have suspected it to see him guiding Eli around the corner of B Street, for to all appearances he was quite a normal and healthy lad. But had you looked on the running-board at the left of the car you’d have seen a pair of crutches secured there, crutches without which Dick was quite unable to get around, or had been until the blue automobile had appeared on the scene.

Morris Brent, who had owned the car first and whose reckless driving of it had resulted in an upset and a broken leg, had initiated Dick into the science of running it and had found him a clever pupil, but the latter had not yet gained complete confidence and skill, and so when, just as he was passing the first house on his right after leaving Troutman Street, his name was called loudly and unexpectedly, Dick, glancing startledly about, unintentionally opened the throttle and Eli fairly bounded forward and was a quarter of the way down the block before Dick could bring him to a stop. When the brake was set and the driver, sighing with relief, looked back along the tree-bordered street he saw a short and somewhat stout youth waving and pursuing. Fudge Shaw—his real name was William, but everyone outside his family had forgotten the fact—arrived panting and laughing.

“That was a b-b-bully stop!” he gasped. (Fudge had an entertaining habit of stuttering in moments of excitement.) “Going out to the field, Dick?”

“Yes. Climb in.”

Fudge, attired in football togs, seated himself with a grunt beside the other, slammed the door and beamed about him. Fudge had very blue and very round eyes, so round that he constantly wore an expression of pleasant and somewhat excited surprise. He also had a good deal of sandy-red hair. He was ambitious to make the High School Football Team, was Fudge, and since Spring had refused all entreaties to have his hair cut. Viewing that mop of hair one would have doubted the necessity of the head-guard which he dangled in one hand.

Dick started up again and traveled cautiously yet briskly through B Street, but not until he had everything adjusted to his liking and one hand on the bulb of the horn did he indulge in conversation, although Fudge, unperplexed by problems of gears and levers, chattered busily.

“Gordon promised to stop for me,” he confided, “but he didn’t, and I didn’t know it was so late. I was writing.”

Fudge paused as though inviting curiosity. Eli said “Honk! Honk!” hoarsely before he chugged across Main Street, and Dick asked, “Another story, Fudge?”

Fudge nodded carelessly. “Yes, and it’s going to be a peach. It—it’s a detective story, Dick. I meant it to be just a short one, but it’s turning out to be quite long. I guess it’ll be a regular novel before I get through with it. Detective stories are lots of fun to write. Maybe I’ll read some of this to you some time, Dick.”

“Thanks,” replied the other gravely. “What’s it about, Fudge?”

“Oh, about a murder and a peach of a detective chap named ‘Young Sleuth.’ You see, this old codger Middleton was found murdered in his library, surrounded by oodles of money. There was only one window in the room and that was all barred over with steel bars. And there was only one door and that was locked on the inside and they had to break it open. How’s that for a situation? You see, having his money all scattered around showed that he wasn’t killed for that, don’t it? And the barred window and the door locked on the inside—get that, Dick? On the inside, mind you!—thickens the plot a bit, eh?”

“Rather!” agreed Dick, anxiously viewing a buggy half a block ahead. “How did the murderer get in, Fudge?”

“Why, you see—well, I haven’t worked that out yet,” he confessed. “I’ve just got to where the old millionaire’s beautiful daughter sends for ‘Young Sleuth’ to unravel the mystery and bring her father’s murderer to justice. It’s going to be a peach of a story, all right!”

“Sounds so,” returned Dick, sighing with relief as the buggy turned to the right into Common Street. “You must read it to me when you get it finished. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get ‘Young Sleuth’ to work for us here, Fudge, and find a football coach.”

“That’s right! Isn’t it the limit for Farrell to leave us like this? I hope they turn him down good and hard when he comes back in the Spring and wants to coach the nine again!”

“I guess he couldn’t do anything else, Fudge. Farrell’s all right. You or I’d do the same thing probably if we got word that our mother was very ill in Ireland and wanted to see us. We’d do just as Joe did; pack up and go back there.”

“Maybe,” agreed Fudge. “But it leaves us in an awful hole, doesn’t it? Lanny White says he doesn’t know where to look for a new coach, and it’s pretty late, too. Mr. Grayson told him he guessed we’d better try to do without a coach this Fall. Just as if we could!”

“I suppose it would be hard,” said Dick. “Gordon said that Lanny had heard of a man in Bridgeport.”

“He didn’t pan out,” replied Fudge. “He was a man Bert Cable knew, but he hadn’t ever coached a football team. Now Lanny’s after a chap in Westport. He coached Torleston High a couple of years ago. It’s a bum outlook, say what you want. Lanny’s going to make a dandy captain, but he can’t coach too. No one could. There’s the First Team, and the Scrub Team and the Third Squad. Maybe if Lanny didn’t do any playing himself he’d get by all right, but what’s the good of a captain who doesn’t play? Besides, he’s too good a halfback to lose.”

“It’s too bad,” observed Dick sympathetically as, having turned into Common Street, he now drew the runabout to the side of the road where a gate appeared in the high board fence surrounding the athletic field. “By the way, where are you going to play, Fudge?”

“Me?” Fudge grinned. “Oh, I’m out for a guard position, but I’ll play anything they’ll let me. I’m versatile, I am, Dick! Say, honest, do you suppose Lanny’ll give me a show?”

“If you show him,” laughed Dick. “Seems, though, you might be a bit inexperienced for the First, Fudge.”

“I don’t expect to get on the First—this year. I want to make the Scrub Team. They say you get a lot of fun on the Scrub. Experience, too. They can’t say I’m too light, anyway!”

“No, you’re not that,” agreed Dick as, having stopped the engine, he secured his crutches, placed the tips on the ground and swung himself from the car in the wake of Fudge. “Hope you have luck, anyway.”

Once past the gate Fudge, with a startled “They’ve begun, Dick!” scurried off, leaving Dick to make his way toward where a small group of fellows were standing along the side line watching the first practice of the season. Returning greetings, Dick paused and looked around him. The gridiron had been freshly marked out and the creamy-white lines shone brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight against the green turf. Down near the west goal the First Squad was jogging about in signal practice in charge of Chester Cottrell, last year’s quarter. Dick noted that, as composed this afternoon, it was made up entirely of last year’s first and second string players; Grover, Horsford, Cable, Haley, Kent, Wayland, Toll, McCoy, Hansard, Cottrell and Felker. Two of the regulars were absent from the squad; Lanny White himself, whom Dick soon espied working with the green candidates, and Morris Brent, who last year had played fullback in one or two of the principal games and was this Fall the logical candidate for the place. Doubtless, though, Dick reflected, Lanny was keeping Morris out of the game on account of his injured leg. Morris’s folks had strongly objected to the boy’s taking part in football this season and had appealed to the doctor to support them. The latter, however, to everyone’s surprise, especially Morris’s, had declared that he didn’t believe kicking a football around would hurt that leg. It was evident, though, that Lanny wasn’t going to take chances, for Dick saw Morris, sweatered, hands in pockets, speedily following in the wake of the Third Squad with Lanny. The Scrubs were having practice by themselves at the east end of the gridiron, and Dick wondered who was in charge. With the idea of finding out, he made his way leisurely along the side line and, after traversing a few yards, was overtaken by George Cotner, the manager, a squarely built and stocky youth of eighteen with an alert countenance.

“Hello, Dick,” greeted Cotner. “Come out to see the Orphans play?”

“Is that what you call them?” asked Dick.

“That or the Coachless Wonders,” was the smiling response. “Isn’t it the dickens about Farrell? Mean trick to play on us, I say.”

“Oh, I guess he didn’t mean to play any trick. Guess he’d much rather have stayed here in Clearfield and coached the team than have been called home to see his sick mother.”

Cotner shrugged his shoulders. “If he was called home,” he said.

“Well, wasn’t he? That’s what I heard. What do you mean?”

“I mean that Joe wasn’t getting much money here, as you probably know, Dick, and he’s a pretty good coach. His contract expired this Fall and it hadn’t been renewed. The Athletic Committee was ready to renew it, but Joe didn’t show up. Then came that letter saying his mother was ill in Ireland and he was going home to visit her. It just occurred to me that maybe his mother was another school somewhere and that he was after more money.”

“Oh, I don’t think that of Joe,” answered Dick, shaking his head. “Joe was always terribly loyal to Clearfield, George. Besides, he could easily have told the Committee if he thought he wasn’t getting enough salary.”

“Yes, and the Committee would have told him that he was getting all the school could afford to pay him. Well, I don’t know anything about it, more than I’ve been told, but that idea occurred to me. Lanny’s worried stiff about it. He’s had three different men on the string and not one of them has been landed. Two wouldn’t think of the job at the salary and the third had never done any football coaching. That was Bert Cable’s man, a fellow over in Bridgeport named Mooney. I guess we’d been moony if we’d taken him. It’s tough on Lanny, though. He’s trying to look after three squads at once and doesn’t really know what to do with any of them. And now Grayson is making a talk about getting along without any coach at all! And some of the grads on the Committee are more than half agreed with him. They say we haven’t much money and what we have we ought to use in fixing the field up and building a new grandstand. Wouldn’t that jar you? Fancy trying to turn out a winning eleven without a coach! And this is our year to beat Springdale—if we’re ever going to do it again.”

George Cotner scowled across the gridiron a moment and then continued with his grievance. “We’ve got pretty fair material this year, too, Dick, and we ought to come out on top, especially if Morris Brent comes around in good shape and turns out the drop-kicker and punter he threatened to be last year. But we ought to have a good coach to look after him. Lanny’s afraid to let him practice for fear something will happen to his bum leg again, and afraid to keep him out of practice for fear he won’t get in shape for Springdale. Even if Lanny could coach the First Team, there ought to be someone to look after the others. There’s the Scrub down there running around like chickens with their heads off, going through signals when they ought to be handling the ball and learning the a, b, c’s. Harry Partridge is trying to captain them, but he doesn’t know anything about it. He’s a good guard, but he’s never had any responsibility and he’s terribly unhappy right now. Besides, hang it all, we ought to be mapping out a campaign. But when I tell Lanny that he looks wild and runs his hands through his hair and says he has all he can attend to without bothering with plans. Why, if we had——”

But Manager Cotner’s speech was rudely interrupted by a football which, wandering erratically off the field, collided violently with the small of his back. By the time he had chased it and returned it at a round-arm throw to Pete Robey he had lost the thread of his discourse. The Scrub Team trotted past at that moment and Dick answered the waving hand of Gordon Merrick who was playing right half on that eleven.

“Want to see you after practice,” called Gordon. “Don’t go away. Important!”

“Me, too!” shouted Will Scott. “I want a ride home just as much as he does, Dick!”

Dick laughed and turned again to George Cotner who was ruffling the leaves of the red-covered memorandum book he carried. “It seems to me,” he said, “that some one of the graduates ought to come out and coach.”

“Sure, but there aren’t any; any who know football well enough to teach it, I mean. And that isn’t all, either. A coach has got to know how to get the work out of the fellows, and he’s got to be able to plan like a—like a regular planner, and scheme like a regular schemer. Take Joe Farrell, now. Joe isn’t exactly a brainy fellow, and he isn’t what you’d call well-educated, but, by Jove, Joe used to have the whole season all mapped out long before practice began. When he started he knew just what he was going to work for, and he worked for it. And got it—usually.”

“Oh, he was all right,” Dick agreed. “Wish he was coming back. I suppose, though, if he does come it’ll be too late for this season. Do you mean, George, that there isn’t a high school graduate in Clearfield able to coach the team? It doesn’t sound possible.”

“Well, name one! Name one and I’ll go and fetch him out here. All the good players have gone away, I guess. Lanny and I got a catalogue the other day and went through the alumnæ and couldn’t find a football man in the lot; no one we knew anything about, anyway. Of course, we might get some of the fellows who are in college to come back for a few days at a time and help, but that wouldn’t cut much ice. No, sir, you’ve got to have someone in charge, someone at the head. Even if he doesn’t know an awful lot of football he’s there; if you see what I mean.”

“I understand,” said Dick. “Wish I could think of someone.”

“So do I. Wish I could. Just to show how things get by when there’s no one around to take charge, look at the dummy.”

“I don’t see it,” responded Dick, his gaze traveling across to where the two uprights and cross-bar stood empty.

“That’s just it. If Farrell had been here the dummy would have been up and ready for use. I never thought of it. Neither did Lanny. He told the First Squad to go over and tackle and when they got there there was nothing to tackle. It’s stowed away in the gym.”

“Life is indeed filled with woe, George,” laughed Dick.

“Well, it is,” grumbled the other, smiling a little nevertheless. “Lanny jumped on me because the old thing wasn’t hung.”

“Well, as manager of the football team—” began Dick slyly.

“Oh, I know. I ought to have seen to it. But there you are. I never had seen to it and didn’t think of it. Everything’s the same way. We haven’t got balls enough, we’re short of blankets and—and everything! I’m going to resign if we don’t get a coach inside of a week!”

“I dare say you will have one,” said Dick soothingly. “Someone will turn up, you’ll see.”

“Where from?” grunted George. “Maybe you’d like the job, Dick?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied the other thoughtfully. “Perhaps—perhaps I should, George. I might think it over.”

Cotner laughed, and then, seeing Dick’s sober countenance, said hurriedly: “Well, I dare say you could do it, by Jove! The fellows tell me you managed that baseball club to the King’s taste, Dick. Still, I don’t suppose you know much football.”

“No more football than baseball, George, and I’ve never played either.”

“No, of course not.” George shot a puzzled glance at him. “Well, you knew enough baseball, it seems. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be mighty willing to see you try it, Dick!”

“Thanks. Maybe if no one else turns up I’ll apply for the position.” Dick ended smilingly and George Cotner wondered how seriously the other meant what he had said.

“After all,” he said doubtfully, and apparently with a desire to be pleasant, “a coach doesn’t need to have been any great shucks himself as a player. It’s—it’s brains and—leadership that do the business, I guess.”

“They help, I fancy,” replied Dick, gravely. “I think Lanny is yelling for you, George.”

CHAPTER II
DICK RECEIVES AN INVITATION

Clearfield is a fairly typical New England mill town, lying some two miles in from the coast. Doubtless the early settlers had been attracted by the water power to be derived from the river which flows around the town on the north. Certainly, they could not have been influenced by æsthetic or sanitary considerations, for the town occupies what must have been in their time a more or less level meadow a few feet above the river and a very few more above the sea, and, aside from the possibility of good drainage—which probably never occurred to them—those first residents of the future Clearfield found few natural advantages and little of the picturesque. To be sure, northward and westward the country breaks into low hills and is attractive enough, but a distant view of those hills could scarcely have made up for mosquitoes and malaria, for Needham’s Mill, as the first settlement was called, was surrounded by marsh.

However, the Clearfield of to-day is no longer Needham’s Mill. The marshes have disappeared—although it is still no uncommon thing to strike a peat-bed when excavating for a cellar—and there is a small-sized city of some seventeen thousand inhabitants, with broad, well-shaded streets, some fine buildings and many manufactories. Clearfield is famous for its knitting mills, but has divers other industries as well. The railroad crosses Mill River from the north, and the trains stop at a new and commodious station, post-card pictures of which you can purchase at Wadsworth’s Book Store and at Castle’s Pharmacy. It is no longer quite correct to say that the river flows around the town, for within the past ten or fifteen years the town has crossed the river and the larger mills and the boat-yards are built along the stream in what is known as the North Side and which is reached by two well-built bridges. Clearfield is served by a trolley system, and, if one wants to reach the shore he may step into a big yellow-sided car at Town Square and be whisked to Rutter’s Point, where the summer hotel and the cottages face the ocean, in a very few minutes. The Common, a square of turf bisected by paths and set with benches and a band-stand, occupying a block in the older part of town, is the center of the business section. Facing the Common are Clearfield’s best and newest business blocks and the Town Hall and the post office, and it was toward the Common that Dick Lovering conducted Eli and Gordon Merrick at the conclusion of football practice.

Gordon was fifteen years old, a very live-looking boy with clean-cut features, dark hair and eyes and a well-built, athletic figure. He and Dick were very good friends, and on the way in from the field they had found so much of strictly personal interest to discuss that after Dick had drawn up before the post office he remembered, while Gordon had gone inside for some stamps, that the latter had quite neglected to mention the important matter he had alluded to at the field. Tom Haley, a big, powerful-looking boy of sixteen who played center on the school team, stopped to talk a moment. Tom was pessimistic to-day.

“Lanny had us doing signal work most of the afternoon,” he said. “He’s putting the cart before the horse, Dick, for half of us can’t handle the ball yet without dropping it. When are we going to get someone to coach? Heard anything about it?”

“I heard to-day that Lanny was trying to get a man in Westport who has been coaching Torleston High School. That’s all I know, Tom.”

“I suppose it’ll be hard to find anyone as late in the season as this. Well, I guess it’s no affair of mine. Glad it isn’t. How’s Eli running?”

“Like a clock,” replied Dick warmly. “He’s a fine little car. I’d take you home, Tom, but I’ve got Gordon with me. He went in the post office.”

“Thanks, that’s all right. I’d like a ride sometime, though, Dick. I’ve never been in one of those things.”

“Well, I never had until a couple of weeks ago,” laughed Dick. “I’ll get you to-morrow and take you out to the field if you like, Tom.”

“Will you? You bet I’d like it! Much obliged. It’ll be out of your way, though. You know I live over by the railroad.”

“I know, but Eli doesn’t mind the cars!”

Tom smiled as he nodded and went on, and Gordon hurried out of the post office. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as he jumped back into the car. “There was a mob at the stamp window, though.”

“What was it you wanted to see me about?” asked Dick as he turned the car cautiously about and narrowly escaped a corner of a coal-wagon.

“About Mr. Grayson,” replied Gordon, relaxing his clutch on the side of the car as the danger was averted.

“What has he been doing, Gordie?”

“It’s what he’s going to do. He’s going to have a birthday next month.”

“Think of that!” marveled Dick. “I didn’t suppose high school principals ever paid attention to anything so—so frivolous as birthdays!”

“I don’t know that he does,” laughed the other, “but some of the girls are. Hasn’t Louise Brent said anything to you about it?”

“No. I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”

“You haven’t! What’s the matter? Haven’t quarreled, I hope.” Gordon’s tone was vastly concerned.

“No, but I’ve been busy. Stop your kidding and tell me what you are trying to get at.”

“Well, the girls—quite a lot of them, mostly seniors, I think—want to give Mr. Grayson a present of some sort on his birthday. You know he’s pretty popular with the ladies, Dick.”

“What’s it going to be? A sofa-pillow?”

“No, you idiot! What the girls want to do is get up a purse, collect a lot of money, you know, and refurnish his office for him.”

Dick whistled. “That would be a lot of money! He certainly needs new furniture, though. But the question is whether Mr. Grayson is popular enough with the fellows, Gordie.”

“Oh, he’s not a bad old scout, Dick. Of course, he’s always been rather down on athletics——”

“Hold on now! Let’s be fair. He hasn’t been down on athletics, Gordie. He merely thinks that we fellows pay too much attention to it. He’s not—not awfully sympathetic, but it isn’t fair to say that he’s against it. Now go on, and pardon the slight digression.”

“All right; he’s not what I said. Anyhow, I think most fellows like Grayson pretty well. They ought to. He’s awfully fair and—and decent, even when he gives you fits about something.”

“I trust he has never had occasion to give you fits,” said Dick gravely.

Gordon grinned. “Well, we’ve had one or two slight misunderstandings,” he replied cheerfully. “But I don’t hold it against him.”

“That’s sweet of you. I hope you’ve told him so.”

“Oh, dry up and listen. And don’t wobble the car about so! It gives me heart-failure. That’s what Morris did the day we went through the fence.”

“Your conversation is so absorbing that it quite takes my mind from the car,” replied Dick. “Perhaps you’d better wait until I get you home.”

“All right, seeing that I’m most there—if nothing happens. There’s Fudge on the porch.” Gordon waved and Fudge shouted something unintelligible and Eli chugged around the corner of Troutman Street and drew up at the Merricks’ gate. “Come on in a minute,” said Gordon.

“No, you sit right here and unfold your tale. I’ll put the brake on hard so Eli won’t run away. There! Now what’s the scheme and what must I do about it?”

“Well, they wanted me to talk to you about it first; the girls, I mean. They seemed to think you had a certain amount of sense. I don’t know why they thought so, but——”

“Never mind the compliments, Gordie. You tell them that I am with them heart and soul and think it’s a fine idea. Now, what is it?”

“Well, they want to do the thing quietly, you see; keep it a secret.”

“I don’t just see how they can,” Dick objected, “if they mean to raise money by subscription.”

“Keep it a secret from Mr. Grayson, I mean, you idiot! They want to get the things and then smuggle them into the office when he’s out.”

“They’ll have trouble keeping it dark, I’m afraid,” said Dick seriously. “Someone’s almost certain to let it out.”

Gordon nodded. “That’s what I said, but your sister——”

“Is she one of the conspirators?” asked Dick.

“Yes. She said she was certain none of the girls would tell and so it would be up to the fellows. And of course I had to stand up for my sex, Dick, and tell her that none of us would let it out.”

“I don’t see why I haven’t heard something about all this,” mused Dick.

“You have—now. The girls were keeping it quiet until this morning. Nell Sawin called me up on the telephone after breakfast and told me and said I was to speak to you about it and make you come to-night.”

“Come where to-night? Your talk is wonderfully lucid, Gordie.”

“To Louise’s house,” laughed Gordon. “There’s to be a sort of meeting of the—the——”

“Criminals,” prompted Dick.

“Ways and means committee, or something. Just a few of the girls and you and Morris, naturally, and Lanny and me. Will you come?”

“Yes, of course. Hold on, though! To-night? I don’t believe I can, to-night, Gordie. You see school opens to-morrow and I haven’t really done a thing yet.”

“That’s all right. No one has. Anyhow, it won’t take long and you can go home afterwards and study as much as you like. They especially want you there, Dick. In fact, I don’t dare to show up without you!”

“Well, if that’s so I’ll go,” laughed Dick. “Joking aside, though, I like the scheme. Mr. Grayson is a fine man, Gordie, even if he does happen to be a principal, and it will be a mighty nice thing to show him we think so. I don’t believe the school has ever done anything like this for him since he came here. If it has I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nor I. How long has he been here, I wonder?”

“Must be fourteen or fifteen years. He came as assistant to old Mr. Flagg, who’s superintendent of education now. I suppose Mr. Grayson can’t be much over fifty, Gordie, but I’m so used to thinking him an old man that it seems as if he was somewhere about seventy.”

“I suppose he really isn’t so dreadfully old,” said the other. “I dare say most of the fellows will be glad to chip in and get him a present.”

“How much money will it take?” asked Dick.

“I don’t know. I suppose the idea is to get as much as we can and buy accordingly. If every student gave a dollar——”

“Some of them won’t give a quarter,” replied Dick. “Lots of them can’t afford to.”

“Well, if only half of them gave a dollar apiece——”

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, Gordie. And pile out now; I’ve got to get home to supper. What time does this conference take place? Do I have to ‘doll up’ for it?”

“Of course not. They didn’t say what time. About half-past seven, I suppose. Ask Grace.”

“I might do that,” agreed Dick, as Gordon vacated his seat. “See you later then. Get up, Eli!”

CHAPTER III
A DISCOURAGED CAPTAIN

The Brents lived in a fine, large house two blocks beyond Gordon. Mr. John Brent was Clearfield’s richest and most influential citizen, and “Brentwood,” as his estate was called, was quite the most luxurious in town. The house stood back from the street in a full block of land, and to-night, as Dick and his sister Grace, a pretty, dark-haired girl of thirteen, approached it from the gate, lights shone from many windows and it looked most imposing. As the evening was mild, Louise Brent, hostess for the occasion, assembled her guests on the big screened porch at the side of the house which was much more like a room than a veranda. There were gaily-colored rugs on the floor, many comfortable wicker chairs, a table that held a broad-shaded electric lamp, and plants in tubs and boxes. When all had gathered the chairs were filled and Morris Brent, Louise’s brother, removed a plant from a willow stool and took its place, trying, as Gordon said, to look like a begonia!

Morris was a handsome, finely built boy of sixteen. He was sometimes accused of snobbishness, but in justice to him it should be said that his snobbishness was more apparent than real. Being the only son of John Brent had always made it a little difficult for Morris to win acceptance amongst the fellows on his own merits. Louise resembled Morris but little. While, like him, she was tall, unlike him she had a very fair skin, hair that was more nearly yellow than brown, and blue eyes. Her prettiness was due more to her expression of sweetness and animation than to her features. She was a year younger than Morris.

The other girls of the party were Grace Lovering, Nell Sawin and May Burnham. Nell was sixteen, a round, good-natured girl whom everybody liked, and May Burnham was fourteen, slim, dark and quiet. She was a cousin of Louise’s.

Lansing White completed the quartette of boys. Lanny was sixteen, having reached that mature age within the past fortnight, a lean, capable-looking youth with flaxen hair and eyes so darkly brown that at first glance they seemed black, an illusion probably due to the contrast with the very light hair. He was perhaps the most popular boy in high school, and his popularity was not entirely due to his athletic prowess. He had the fine faculty of making friends instantly and keeping them afterwards. There wasn’t a kinder-hearted or more thoughtful fellow in town than Lanny White, and if he had an enemy no one knew it. Lanny was captain of the eleven, caught on the nine and was a sprinter of no mean ability.

It was May Burnham who explained the project, since it was she who had originated it, and afterwards they all discussed it. Mr. Grayson’s birthday fell on the twenty-fifth of October, and, as Morris pointed out, they had only some five weeks in which to prepare for it. Louise read from a list the articles necessary to a thorough refurnishing of the Principal’s office at the High School. There must be a new rug, a flat-topped desk, a swivel-chair, an easy-chair, a straight-backed chair, a revolving book-case and a filing-cabinet; although, as Louise explained, the latter wasn’t so important since the one now in use was in good condition.

“Only,” she said, “we thought the other furniture ought to be mahogany, and the filing-cabinet there now is oak and it would look sort of funny, I suppose, with the other things.”

“How much would all that cost?” asked Lanny anxiously.

“We don’t know exactly. We can get the furniture from a New York store where papa buys things and they will give it to us at a discount.”

“How much of a discount?” asked Dick.

“Thirty per cent.,” replied Morris. “That would make quite a difference. Read the prices we figured, Louise.”

“Rug, sixteen dollars,” announced his sister, referring again to the paper; “desk, forty-five; revolving book-case, twelve; swivel-chair, twelve; easy-chair, twenty; straight chair, five; filing-cabinet, eighteen. Total, one hundred and twenty-eight.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Gordon whistled expressively. Dick shook his head.

“That’s a lot of money to have to get in four weeks,” he said.

“Five,” said Morris.

“Well, five, if you like, Morris, but we’d probably have to pay for the things before we got them and it would take a week to get them here, I guess.”

“There are nearly three hundred students in school,” said Grace Lovering, “and if each only gave fifty cents we’d have a hundred and fifty.”

“I know, but some won’t give anything—a few won’t, that is—and some will give nearer a quarter than a half.”

“And a lot will give a dollar,” protested Nell Sawin. “I’m going to give two dollars, and so is May, and Louise says she will give five!”

“Let’s start the list now,” said Louise. “Get some paper, Morris, and a pen, won’t you? I think either Dick or Lanny ought to head it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t give more than a dollar,” said Dick. “So perhaps someone else had better start it.”

“You do it, Louise,” suggested Gordon. “Five dollars will look pretty good at the top of it.”

“I thought of that,” said Louise, “but we were afraid it would look as if we expected everyone to give as much. And of course we don’t want anyone to give more than he feels he can afford.”

“It’s up to Lanny, then,” said Morris, returning with paper and pen. “Who’s going to write this, and what do you want to say?”

“You do it,” replied his sister. “Just write ‘The undersigned agree to subscribe the amounts set against their names for the purpose—the purpose——’”

“For the Twenty-fifth of October Fund,” suggested Dick. “Better not put it down on paper. And I’d add that the subscriber hereby promises to keep still about it.”

“Good idea,” commended Morris, writing under the lamp. “How’s this, then? ‘Subscription List. The undersigned agree to subscribe to the fund known as the Twenty-fifth of October Fund the sums set down against their names, and hereby promise not to divulge the purpose of said fund.’”

“A good many ‘funds’ in it,” objected Lanny.

“Let’s hope so,” replied May, with a laugh. “Don’t be critical. I think it’s lovely, Morris.”

“All right. Here’s the pen, Lanny. Put your ‘John Hancock’ on the first line.”

“Your slang pains me, Morris,” murmured Lanny. “It’s only going to be two dollars, folks.”

“Only two dollars!” said Gordon. “Gee, that’s a lot! Who’s next? You are, Dick.”

Dick signed and the list went to Louise and then to Morris, the latter duplicating his sister’s subscription.

“Seems to me,” said Morris, as he handed the pen to May Burnham, “May should have headed it. She started the trouble.”

“Of course!” agreed Louise. “Perhaps there’s room above Lanny’s name. Is there?”

“Yes, but I’d rather not,” replied May. “I’ll write here, and”—she looked around almost defiantly—“I believe I’ll say three instead of two!”

“Then I will!” exclaimed Nell. “We don’t have to pay for four weeks, do we?”

“We’d ought to pay when we sign, I think,” said Dick, “but I can’t, and so I don’t insist.”

“Neither can I,” said Lanny. “Who’s next? Has Gordon signed? Be a sport, Gordie, and put down a hundred!”

“I’m doing it,” answered Gordon, “only I’m putting a dot where it will do the most good.”

When the list was finally returned to Louise that young lady exclaimed delightedly, “Why, we’ve got twenty-one dollars already! Isn’t that fine?”

“Enough to get the easy-chair!” said Nell. “Why, at this rate it won’t take us any time to get it all!”

“Maybe the others won’t be enthusiastic, though,” replied Gordon. “By the way, were those prices you gave the prices we’ll have to pay for the things, Louise?”

“Why, no! We forgot that! We won’t have to pay nearly so much, will we? Thirty per cent. of one hundred and twenty-eight is—is——”

“Thirty-seven-forty,” said Morris.

“Thirty-eight dollars and forty cents,” corrected May. “Then we will have to pay only about—about ninety dollars! That’s lovely!”

“Say a hundred, to be on the safe side,” advised Dick. “I guess we can manage that. The question is now, how are we going at it? Wouldn’t it be well to have several lists and——”

“Have four,” said Lanny. “You take one and Gordon will take one——”

“Thank you!” muttered Gordon.

“And Louise and Nell can have the other two.”

And so it was arranged, in spite of Gordon’s lack of enthusiasm, and that necessitated the making of four new lists with two signatures on each.

“I want to see you destroy that first subscription of mine,” announced Lanny. “If I had to pay two dollars twice I’d be broke all the Fall!”

“Observe, then,” replied Morris. “Across and across! There! Now let’s have those eats, Sis.”

While they devoured the sandwiches and cake and lemonade that Louise brought in a minute later they elected that young lady Treasurer of the Fund, appointed her and Morris and May a Committee on Purchase and finally broke up, Dick declaring that since school began in the morning he believed it would be a good idea to glance at one or two books. After saying good night to the others, he and Grace took their departure, followed a few minutes later by Lanny, Gordon, May and Nell. Having escorted the girls to their homes, Lanny and Gordon walked back together to B Street. Quite naturally, their conversation had to do with football affairs, and Lanny confessed that he was getting pretty discouraged.

“Mr. Grayson says we ought to get along without a coach and use what money we’d pay one to repair the grandstand and the fence. There isn’t a bit of good spending money on that grandstand, Gordon. We need a new one. And I just wish Grayson had my job awhile! He’d find out what a lot of fun it is to turn out a football team without a coach. I put my name down for two dollars for a present to him, but I think I’d a heap rather kick him in the shins sometimes!”

Lanny’s laugh, however, threw doubt on his assertion.

“We play Highland Hall Saturday, don’t we?” asked Gordon.

“Yes. Highland doesn’t trouble me any, though. We could beat her with the Scrubs. But Locust Valley comes the Saturday after, and those fellows have a mighty good team as a usual thing. I don’t suppose it would hurt us to get beaten. Might be a good thing. Still, if you’re captain you sort of like to have a clean slate, if you can.”

“Have you heard from the man at Westport? Cotner said you were after someone there.”

“Not yet. I don’t even know that he’s still there. I don’t suppose he will want to come, anyhow. We can’t pay enough to make it worth his while. It’s a shame we can’t have a graduate coaching system, as Springdale has. She doesn’t seem to have much trouble getting coaches. That chap Newman who has been coaching her for three or four years is a dandy. I’ll bet she’ll beat us again this year; maybe worse than she did last!”

“Don’t you believe it, Lanny! Cheer up and hear the birdies sing! Things will turn out all right in a few days. You see if they don’t.”

“Hope so, I’m sure. I’m willing to do my level best, but I can’t be captain and coach and everything else. We’ve got a poor lot of new men this Fall, too. And then there’s Morris’s leg to worry about. The doctor says he can play and Morris says his leg’s all right, but if we go to work and build up the team around his kicking and then he has another injury to it or his father says he can’t play we’ll be in a nice fix! We’ve got to develop a couple of punters somehow, but I’m sure I don’t know where to look for them. Wayland isn’t so poor, but he doesn’t seem to get the hang of it. Well, good night, Gordon. Sorry I’ve bothered you.”

“That’s all right,” laughed the other. “It will do you good to get it off your chest. You’ll find, though, that the fellows will all work harder, Lanny, if they’ve got it to do. And—and I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

“Spring it!”

“I’ll bet you the sodas at Castle’s that we have a coach within a week.”

“Take you! I’d buy Castle’s whole soda fountain if I could get a coach that way. Good night!”

CHAPTER IV
LOUISE HAS AN IDEA

Clearfield played Highland Hall Military Academy four days later and it is safe to say that practically the entire juvenile population of the town turned out to see the first football game of the season. Perhaps the weather had something to do with the size of the audience that filled the grandstand and overflowed on the field, for there was a zest and a snap to the air that hinted overcoats, and the sun played hide-and-seek behind the scudding gray clouds. Brent Field, as the High School athletic grounds are called, is only a scant block and a half from the river and when the wind is from the northwest, as it was this afternoon, the few scattered buildings between field and river afford but little protection.

Highland Hall had brought along most of its Fourth Year Class—the Academy regulations forbade members of other classes accompanying the teams away from school—and the forty-odd boys looked very fine and manly in their cadet-blue cape-coats, below which tan-gaitered legs twinkled. They assembled at one end of the stand and gave their team a lusty welcome when it trotted on the gridiron, waving their blue-and-blue banners proudly. The dark blue and light blue of the flags was repeated in the costumes of the players, and their sweaters held the letters H. H. M. A. cunningly arranged, the first H taking the form of a football goal and the other letters appearing in the space under the cross-bar. But, in spite of the neat attire of players and supporters, Highland Hall was no dangerous adversary. The fellows, as Fudge explained to Gordon, were allowed only two hours a day for recreation and were coached by the Commandant, a grave martinet of a man who knew more of military tactics than football. Fudge and Gordon were seated on the bench, after a ten-minute workout, and Fudge, who had more flesh than he needed, was still breathing hard from his exertions.

“That’s the coach over there,” he said, nodding across the gridiron. “He’s a terror, they say.”

“You have a cousin at Highland, haven’t you?” asked Gordon. “Is he here to-day?”

“No, he’s only in the Second Year Class, and they don’t let any but the Fourth Year fellows go away from school. They’re strict as anything. I’m glad they didn’t send me there. Dad wanted to, but ma and I were dead against it.” Fudge grinned reminiscently. “I told ma I didn’t think I was strong enough for it.”

“Fudge, you’re a fakir,” said Gordon cheerfully. Fudge was starting to deny this indignantly when Lanny White, returning from the center of the field where he had won the toss-up, summoned the players.

“All right, fellows,” said Lanny. “They kick-off and we take the west goal. Get into it, now, and let’s get the drop on them!”

“Now let’s see who’s who,” murmured Gordon as the team trotted out and spread over the west end of the field. “Haley, center; Cable and Kent, guards; Horsford and— Hello, Will Scott’s playing right tackle! What’s the matter with Wayland?”

“Sick; has tonsilitis or something. Who’s that going to play left end, Gordie?”

“Jim Grover; and Toll is right end, Cottrell, quarter, Lanny and Rob Hansard, halves, and Felker, fullback. I guess that’s about the way we’ll line up in the Springdale game, barring accidents; only, of course, Way will get in, and Morris Brent.” Gordon leaned forward and spoke along the bench. “Aren’t you going to play, Morris?”

Morris shrugged the shoulders under the purple sweater he wore. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Maybe in the last quarter.”

Gordon nodded. “Hope so,” he said. And then, to Fudge: “Lanny’s not taking any chances with Morris, is he? There’s the whistle!”

Lanny got the kick-off and, unaided by interference, raced back nearly twenty yards before he was stopped. Clearfield set to work with the few plays she had ready, simple attacks from a tandem formation in which the runner relied more on speed and force than deception. Two first downs were gained and then a fumble necessitated a punt, and Felker, who was called on, booted the ball almost straight into the air and Clearfield not only lost possession of the pigskin but some eight yards besides.

Highland started in with a will. She used a wide open formation and on the first play attempted a double pass which, had it succeeded, would have netted much territory. But, perhaps more by good luck than good management, Jack Toll nailed the runner near the side line for a scant two-yard gain. A second attempt, a forward pass straight over the middle of the line, went better and Highland made her distance easily. An involved play in which quarter faked a kick and then passed to a halfback for a run around the short side, only resulted in the ball being taken in about where it had gone into play. A plunge at tackle on the left gained three yards and, with six to go on third down, Highland punted. The ball was well handled and well kicked and Cottrell got it behind his goal and touched it back. On her twenty yards Clearfield started her advance once more and carried almost to midfield before she was again forced to punt.

This time Felker did better, although the ball covered but a scant twenty-five yards. Highland, failing to gain at center, returned the kick and the ball was Clearfield’s on her forty-five yards. Rob Hansard got away around right end for a first down and on the next play repeated the performance for four more. Lanny made the distance off left tackle. The Blue-and-Blue was proving weak at her wings and Lanny wisely continued the assault at those positions. Both he and Hansard got around without much difficulty until the ball was on the opponent’s twenty-yard line. Then Lanny was nailed for a five-yard loss, and Cottrell, faking a forward pass, tossed the ball to Felker and that youth banged his way straight through the middle of the enemy’s line for twelve yards. From there, in three plays, Clearfield took the ball over, Hansard securing the touchdown. Cable missed the try-at-goal.

The first quarter ended after the kick-off, the score 6 to 0.

The second period saw one more score for the home team. Highland fumbled on her forty yards and Cottrell picked up the ball and tore off fifteen yards before he was stopped. A fake forward pass with the ball going to Lanny failed to gain, but Felker smashed through for four and Hansard barely gained first down by sliding off right tackle. Felker fumbled but Lanny recovered for a two-yard loss and then skirted the opponent’s left end for a touchdown in the corner of the field. The punt-out placed the ball directly in front of goal and just back of the fifteen-yard line, and this time Bert Cable had no difficulty in negotiating the extra point. For the rest of the period Clearfield played on the defensive and kicked frequently, and the half ended with the ball in Highland Hall’s possession on her own forty-three yards.

Dick watched the game from the grandstand in company with Louise Brent, who, like most of the High School girls, was an ardent football lover. Between the halves, however, Louise abandoned the game long enough to announce the progress of the Fund.

“It was forty-three dollars and sixty cents this noon, Dick,” she said. “That isn’t bad, but I thought we’d have lots more by this time. The girls have done heaps better than the boys. They’ve given almost two-thirds of the total. Do you think the boys really dislike Mr. Grayson; many of them, I mean?”

“No, but most of the younger fellows don’t have much spending money, Louise, and I suppose they think they need sodas and candy and such things more than Mr. Grayson needs a new desk!” Dick smiled at his companion’s expression of disapproval. “They’ll fall into line in the end, though, I guess. Gordon told me last night that most of the fellows he has been after have only given twenty-five or fifty cents.”

“Well, you’ve done beautifully,” said Louise.

“I’ve bullied the chaps,” laughed Dick. “Anyway, it’s easier to get money from the seniors. They’ve got more, in the first place, and then they’re more willing to give it up. Some of the younger boys have it in for Mr. Grayson for one reason or another, I suppose. We’ll get the full amount finally, I think. It would be a lot easier if we didn’t have to be so secret about it. We could call a meeting some day at recess and pretty nearly get the whole amount, I’ll bet. But it would surely get around if we did that and Mr. Grayson would hear of it.”

“Yes, and half the fun will be in surprising him,” said Louise. “We’re going to take Miss Turner into the secret and she will let us into Mr. Grayson’s office the night before his birthday. Won’t it be exciting?”

“Terribly,” agreed Dick. “Imagine us tiptoeing in there in the dark, you carrying the desk and May the revolving book-case and Nell the—the arm-chair——”

“No, don’t let her take the arm-chair,” begged Louise. “She’ll be sure to set it down and go to sleep in it. What are you going to carry?”

“I thought I’d take the small chair,” replied Dick gravely. “I’m very unselfish, you see. I leave the larger honors to the rest of you.”

“Yes, larger and heavier,” laughed the girl. “There they come again! Do you know, I sort of half wish Highland Hall would score, Dick? They’re such nice-looking boys, and their uniforms are so stunning!”

“They’ve certainly got us beaten on appearance,” said Dick. “Hello, Lanny’s sending the same fellows back.”

“Shouldn’t he?”

“There’s no law against it, only, with a lead of thirteen points, it seems to me it would be a good chance to let some of the subs smell gunpowder. I guess he knows what he’s doing, though.”

“I do hope he has a successful season,” said Louise. “I like Lanny, and he always works so hard at everything that he deserves to win.”

“He’s pretty well handicapped just now. The team really does need a coach, and the Athletic Committee didn’t make any kind of a popular hit with the school when it decided against paying for one the other night. The fellows blame Mr. Grayson for that, by the way, and I suppose that’s one reason why they don’t subscribe more liberally to the Fund. There’s a wretched kick-off for you!”

“Did Bert Cable do that, Dick? I thought he usually kicked splendidly.”

“He does the best he can considering that he doesn’t think it worth while to cock the ball any,” replied Dick dryly. “Bert evidently thinks that pile of sand out there is to look at. If he’d tee the ball up properly and— Good work, Clearfield!”

Kent, the purple-legged right guard had broken through and smeared Highland’s play behind her line, and an approving cheer arose from the stand. Highland tried an end run and made four yards and then attempted a forward pass which failed. With almost ten yards to go, she got a fine long punt away and her ends raced up the field under it and, undisturbed by the wretched attempt at interference put up by the Clearfield backs, nailed Cottrell in his tracks. For six of the ten minutes constituting the third period Highland, playing desperately, held her opponent away from her goal line. Then a fumble by Lanny worked to Clearfield’s advantage, for Chester Cottrell recovered the ball as it trickled back, dodged a plunging Highland forward, put an end out with a straight-arm and suddenly found himself clear. That run began on Clearfield’s thirty-seven yards and would certainly have resulted in a touchdown had not Cottrell, in evading a tackle by the opposing quarter, slipped one foot across the side line. Although Cottrell kept on and landed the ball under the cross-bar, and although Clearfield expressed its delight with much shouting, the referee called the ball back and put it in play on Highland’s twenty-three yards. The Blue-and-Blue won the admiration of friend and foe alike then, for she disputed every inch of the ground and Clearfield won her first down only after the hardest work and by a margin so slim that the linesmen had to trot in with the chain and measure the distance. Lanny’s attempt on the next play to circle the opponent’s left wing failed and Felker could make only three yards through the line. With seven to go on the third down, Lanny and Cottrell put their heads together and Lanny called in Morris Brent.

The ball was then almost opposite the center of the goal and on the ten-yard line. Morris dropped back to kicking position, swung one sturdy leg experimentally and held up his hands. Highland, shouting, “Block it! Block it!”, poised, ready to break through. Then back shot the ball. Morris barely caught it as it tried to pass over his head. Before he could get back into position the Blue-and-Blue was on him. Wisely, he made no effort to kick, for the ball would surely have been blocked, but instead ran back and desperately attempted a forward pass to Grover. The ball, however, grounded and there was a minute of time during which Highland tried to persuade the referee that the pass was illegal, that Morris had purposely grounded the ball to save a loss of territory. But the official decided that the play had been fair and the teams lined up on the twenty-one yards and again Morris walked back. The chance of scoring by drop-kick was pretty slim now, for the kicker was near the thirty-yard line and Highland had just demonstrated her ability to break through. But Morris did it. The pass was straight and breast-high and the ball left his toe quickly and surmounted the upstretched hands of the leaping enemy. There was an instant of doubt as the pigskin seemed to hesitate at the bar, but it went over, although by inches only, and Clearfield’s thirteen points became sixteen.

As the teams lined up again for the kick-off Morris retired once more, receiving an ovation as he walked to the bench. Nelson Beaton took his place for the few seconds remaining. Then the whistle blew and the third period was at an end.

When the teams faced each other again on Clearfield’s thirty yards substitutes were much in evidence. Jones was in place of Grover, Arthur Beaton for Haley, Tupper for Hansard and Kirke for Cottrell, and Felker was back at full. Highland Hall, too, had run new men on. Clearfield started rushing again and was soon past the center of the field. Kirke, the substitute quarter, got his signals mixed then and there was a ten-yard loss, and Clearfield kicked. Highland caught the ball on her twenty-five-yard line and came back twelve, the Purple’s ends showing up poorly. In the next scrimmage Beaton, Clearfield’s substitute center, received a blow on the head and retired in favor of Pete Robey. Pete had been trying for guard position and the duties of center rush were none too familiar to him, and, in spite of Lanny’s coaching, he was very weak on defense. Twice Highland made big gains through him before the secondary defense came to his assistance. Near the middle of the field Highland was forced to punt and Tupper fumbled on his twelve yards, recovered, tried to advance by a run across the field and was finally stopped for no gain. A fake-kick play with Felker taking the ball for a try around left end resulted in a loss and Felker kicked on second down. Highland signaled fair-catch and held the ball on Clearfield’s thirty-seven yards. A forward pass went diagonally to the right end and that youth plunged through half the Clearfield team before he was forced out near the twenty-yard line. The blue-coated adherents of the visiting team cheered lustily and implored a touchdown.

A wide end run gained a scant three yards and took the ball well over to the Clearfield side of the gridiron. Another forward pass was tried but was incompleted, and, with seven to go on third down, the Highland right tackle fell out of the line and walked back to about the thirty yards, while the quarterback knelt in front of him and patted the turf.

“I hope he makes a goal,” declared Louise Brent, in the grandstand.

“He won’t this time,” answered Dick, as Highland arranged her men to protect the kicker. Louise looked a question. “Highland has two downs yet,” he continued, “and that angle is almost impossible for anyone but a Brickley. They’ve made our fellows spread out and open their line and they’ll either snap the ball to that fellow who pretends he is going to place-kick and he will try a forward or the ball will go to one of those backs for a run straight through the middle. At least, that’s the way I size it up. We’ll see now.”

As Dick ended the ball shot back from center into the hands of the second back from the line and that youth put down his head and sprang straight ahead and went through for all of five yards before the secondary defense stopped him. Once more Highland Hall cheered loudly, and, almost before they had ceased, the Blue-and-Blue had added another three yards by an attack on right tackle and had gained her first down and shifted the ball a good twelve feet nearer the center of the field. The play was just inside the home team’s ten-yard line now and Clearfield supporters were hoarsely commanding the defenders of the east goal to “Hold ’em!” The time-keeper trotted on to announce two minutes left as the Highland quarterback piped his signals again. A half was sent hurtling against the left of Clearfield’s line for a scant yard, and a plunge at center, with quarterback carrying the ball, netted but two more. Again the tackle stepped back, this time apparently for a drop-kick, since the quarter did not accompany him, and again the defenders spread their line. The angle to the goal was by no means impossible now and the watchers held their breaths as the teams crouched.

“Block this!” implored Lanny. “Block this kick!”

“Watch for a fake!” counseled Kirke shrilly from between his goal-posts. Then came the signals, a halfback moved slightly forward, the ball shot back to the outstretched hands of the waiting tackle and the teams sprang together. The tackle’s long leg swung, and a few of the opponents who were cut off from sight of the ball, leaped into the air, but there was no thud of ball against shoe, for the tackle stepped nimbly to the right, poised the pigskin and hurled it straight and hard across the battling lines to where an undetected back had stolen around and behind the goal line. Though frenzied hands strove to intercept the ball, it settled into the catcher’s hands and stayed there while he was hurled to the ground two yards back of goal.

Perhaps the blue flags weren’t waved then as the cape-coated squad sprang to their feet and hurled joyous shrieks to the sky! And perhaps that crafty back wasn’t thumped and hugged when he was at last pulled to his feet! For Highland had done what she had never done before in ten years of Clearfield contests; she had crossed the Purple’s goal-line!

Disgustedly, Clearfield lined up under her goal as the ball was taken out for the try, and still more disgustedly she saw it pass a minute later straight over the bar, while Highland Hall shouted and waved riotously. Over at the score-board the small sophomore who officiated there smeared out the figure 6 after “Highland Hall” and, protest in every movement, chalked up a big white 7.

Clearfield tried to take revenge in the remaining sixty-odd seconds and fought desperately, but the time was too short and the last whistle blew with the ball in Highland’s possession near her thirty yards.

“I’m glad they scored,” said Louise a trifle defiantly as Dick put his crutches under his arms preparatory to descending the stand. “They deserved to, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Dick agreed doubtfully. Then he repeated the word ungrudgingly. “Yes, they did deserve to, Louise. Any team deserves to win who is smart enough to take advantage of its opponents’ mistakes. And that is what Highland Hall did.”

“That,” responded Louise, as they waited for the aisle to clear, “sounds as if you thought the others didn’t really earn that score, Dick.”

“I didn’t mean it to. Highland earned her touchdown, all right. Profiting by the other fellow’s mistakes is more than half the game.”

“But I thought our boys played a very good game,” objected Louise loyally.

“Far be it from me to dispute you,” replied Dick, with a smile.

“But didn’t they?” she insisted. “Of course, Dick, I don’t know very much about such things, but I want to learn. Didn’t they play well?”

“Clearfield,” answered Dick, “was at least twenty-four points better than Highland Hall, Louise. She won by the score of sixteen to seven. As Mr. Grayson says, I invite your consideration.”

“Oh!” said Louise. “What was the matter, Dick?”

“Well,” replied the other, as he stumped cautiously down the steps, “it’s the general who watches the battle through a pair of field glasses who sees best what’s going on. Clearfield needed a general. It was a good fight on Clearfield’s part, but there was an unnecessary loss of lives!”

“Oh, you mean we needed a coach!”

“Badly,” said Dick.

“Then—then why don’t you do it?” exclaimed Louise. “Dick! Why don’t you?”

“Oh, you mustn’t think that just because I can criticize I could have managed that game any better,” laughed Dick. “Almost anyone can be a critic, but football coaches are a scarce article, Louise.”

“Just the same, I believe you could, Dick! And I think it’s funny Lanny hasn’t thought of it!”

“I don’t,” Dick replied. “I’d think it funny if he did, considering that I’ve never played it and have to toddle around on a pair of sticks!”

“That has nothing to do with it,” replied Louise convincedly. “I shall speak to him about it right away. Isn’t it perfectly fine that I thought of it?”

CHAPTER V
DICK CONSENTS

Something very much in the nature of an indignation meeting was held on the High School steps on Monday at recess. There were no prepared addresses, nor did parliamentary rules govern the meeting, but free speech was in order and liberally indulged in. Lanny was not present, but the football element was well represented, and it was Morris Brent, for once holding views coincident with popular sentiment, who most heartily condemned the Athletic Committee for their decision regarding the employment of a salaried football coach. Morris, munching an apple on the top step, proclaimed indignantly that the Athletic Committee of the Clearfield High School didn’t care a bone button whether the team got beaten or not.

“What kind of a team do they think we can turn out without a coach?” he demanded, addressing the throng in general but frowningly regarding Toby Sears, Senior Class President. “Who’s going to look after the physical condition of the fellows? Why, along about the middle of the season we’ll have a hospital list as long as my arm! The trouble with that Committee is that they’re a lot of old grannies!”

Sears shrugged his shoulders and replied a bit resentfully: “Well, you needn’t blame me for it! I’m not on the Committee. Tell it to Wayland and Scott and those who are.”

“You can’t blame them for it, either,” said Pete Farrar. “They were outvoted. Will Scott told me so. Wayland couldn’t go to the meeting because he was sick. And, anyhow, with only three undergraduates against four grads and faculties, what can you do?”

“That’s so,” said someone else. “We ought to be better represented. It would be fairer to have as many undergrads as grads.”

“Don’t see as it makes much difference, anyhow,” observed Sears. “Lanny White told me Saturday that some man he was after had turned us down and that he didn’t know where to look next. So, even if the Committee hadn’t decided against a coach, it wouldn’t have made any difference. There isn’t anyone to get.”

“Well, we’ve got to have someone,” insisted Morris, aiming his apple-core at the rubbish barrel and missing it badly, “even if he’s not much of a coach. Lanny can’t run the First Team and the Scrub and look after the new fellows too. No one could. Besides, who ever heard of a football team without a coach?”

“It seems to me,” said Pete Robey, “that there ought to be some grad who could do it.”

“That’s what I say,” agreed Sears. “There must be, too, if we’d look for him. Of course he might not know a lot of football, but he’d be better than nothing, I dare say.”

“It’s Grayson’s fault,” said Bingham, a tall, bespectacled sophomore. And Bingham, as unpopular a boy as there was in school, for once found support.

“I’ll bet it is,” muttered another, between mouthfuls of sandwich. “He’s always been down on football.”

“And everything else we’ve ever tried to do,” supplemented Bingham with a vindictive glare through his thick lenses. “And here we are asked to subscribe——”

“Shut up!” growled Pete Robey. “Can’t you keep your silly mouth shut when you’re told to?”

Bingham subsided, muttering peevishly, and George Cotner arrived at the foot of the steps just as Morris began again: “I say what we ought to do is stand up for our rights,” he declared with dignity. “If we just told the Committee that we had to have a football coach and meant to have one they’d come off their high horse. After all, whose money is it they’re so careful of? Isn’t it as much ours as theirs?”

“Of course it is,” said Pete Farrar. “We earned it!”

“How much did you earn?” asked Manager Cotner sarcastically as he approached the storm center.

“Well, that doesn’t matter,” replied Farrar. “I mean that we fellows earned the money at baseball and football and things. And I dare say I earned as much of it as you did, Cotner.”

“Which is none at all,” answered George calmly. “You fellows are making a heap of noise about nothing, if you only knew it.”

“How is that?” asked Sears.

“We’ve found a coach,” replied the manager coolly.

Exclamations of surprise and curiosity came from the gathering. “Who is he?” “Where’d we get him?” “Who said so?” “Bet you’re fooling, George!”

“Not at liberty to tell you just yet,” replied Cotner, enjoying the sensation. “In fact, the matter is not absolutely settled——”

“Thought so! Knew you were lying!”

“—But it will be this afternoon. Then you’ll hear all about it.”

“Where’s he come from?” demanded Morris.

George hesitated, and then, “Right here,” he answered.

“Clearfield? Do we know him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a graduate?”

“No.”

“Then it’s Mr. Cochran, of the Y.M.C.A.”

“Get out!” said Morris. “He wouldn’t leave a job like the one he’s got to coach us.”

“He could do it without giving up his job, couldn’t he? Isn’t it Cochran, George?”

“It is—not.”

“Then who——”

“I told you I couldn’t tell you, didn’t I? So don’t ask. You’ll know this afternoon—or to-morrow.”

“I’ll bet he’s a frost, whoever he is,” Morris Brent grumbled.

“Who found him? Lanny?”

“Er—no, not exactly.” George Cotner smiled. “I don’t know who found him, exactly, although I think I was the first one to suggest him. Oh, you’ll be surprised all right, fellows!” He chuckled at the bewildered expressions on the faces of the others. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, just to keep you interested; he’s never played a game of football in his life!”

A howl of derision went up. “Now we know you’re lying, George!” declared Sears.

“Maybe it’s Mr. Grayson,” sneered Bingham, and a laugh went up at that and the gathering broke up in better humor as the gong summoned them back to work.

As a matter of fact, the school at large did not learn the identity of the new coach that afternoon, for at nine o’clock that evening the candidate for the honor was still holding off. He sat in the little parlor of his home on E Street, a pair of crutches beside him, and listened doubtfully to the insistence of Lanny White, George Cotner and Gordon Merrick.

“There’s no use in your saying you can’t do it, Dick,” declared Lanny, “because you can. We understand that you don’t know football as well as Joe Farrell does, and of course you’ve never played it, but you do know a lot about it theoretically and you’ve followed the game for years. What we want is someone in authority, even if he doesn’t know everything and can’t get into togs himself, and you’re just the fellow, Dick. Every chap on the team would be tickled to death to take orders from you. Look at the way you had us crawling around on our tummies last summer when you managed the nine! Hang it, Dick, you’ve just got to do it! There’s no one else, I tell you!”

“Lanny’s right,” said George earnestly. “What we need is a fellow who can sort of sit up aloft, as it were, and see how things are going and tell us when we’re making mistakes. And we need to get up a plan of battle, too, work out a campaign. Why, as it is now, we’re just going along from game to game and trusting to luck. Lanny can’t play football and coach too.”

“Be a good fellow, Dick,” urged Gordon.

“I won’t deny,” replied Dick, “that I’d like to try it. As you say, I’ve never played the game, but I have watched it and I do know the rules and I have got theories. And—and maybe I could get the fellows to do what I say. But—well, look here, now; suppose I did take hold and my ideas of coaching a team proved all wrong and we came an awful cropper at the end of the season? After all, I’ve never done it and it would be a risky sort of an experiment, Lanny. My football may not be the sort that succeeds, you see.”

“We’ll risk it, Dick. And we’ll promise that whether we lick Springdale or get beaten we’ll never make a whimper.”

“But what about the other fellows?” asked Dick, with a smile.

“The other fellows?”

“Yes. They’d want to mob me.”

“Nonsense! Why, look here, even Farrell can’t turn out a winning team for us every year, Dick. I’m not saying you’re the finest football coach in the country, but, by George, you’re the only chap I know of to-day I’d be satisfied to work under! Now what do you say, Dick?”

“And, look here, Dickums,” said Gordon, “you want to remember that we can’t hire a coach if we can find one. It’s up to you!”

“Where would I find time to study or do any work?” asked Dick irresolutely. “If I went into this I’d want to go in with both feet.”

“Of course you would!” responded George encouragingly. “But a couple of hours in the afternoons from now to the eighteenth of November wouldn’t matter.”

“Do you think two hours a day was all that Joe Farrell gave to football?” asked Dick grimly.

“Well——”

“Say, Lanny, who put this into your head?”

Lanny grinned sheepishly. “Louise Brent,” he answered. “But she said she was surprised I hadn’t thought of it myself, and, by Jove, Dick, so I am!”

“I thought of it a week ago, didn’t I, Dick?” asked George eagerly. “Remember that first afternoon of practice? I asked you then——”

“No post-mortems, George,” said Lanny. “That’s settled then, eh, Dick?”

Dick smiled ruefully and gazed a moment at his crutches. “How would I look,” he asked, “driving a team on those things?”

“You’d look fine!” declared Lanny. “And you could do it!”

“Perhaps,” laughed Gordon, “you could follow the team in Eli!”

Dick smiled, and then asked: “There’s no money in this, is there?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied Lanny. “The Committee——”

“That’s the way I’d want it. I wouldn’t dare take any money for doing it, fellows. If I made a mess of it I’d feel bad enough if I was doing it for nothing, but if I was getting paid for it I’d feel as if I’d cheated you. Now, one more thing, Lanny. If I do—er—coach, it’s got to be understood that I am coach.”

“You mean that——”

“That I’m in authority. That what I say goes. It may sound cheeky, considering that I’m a greenhorn, but it’s the only way for me to have any show at making good.”

“That’s all right, Dick. You say the word and you’re It from this moment. And if the way I play doesn’t suit you you can put me on the bench to-morrow. Is it a bargain?”

“Fellows, I’m an awful fool, I suppose, but—” he paused again.

“Say it, Dick!” exclaimed George, with a grin.

“I want you to know that—that I appreciate your confidence in me,” went on Dick, “and I’ll do the best I know how.”

“Good boy!” cried Lanny, seizing Dick’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Now I feel as if I could play some football! Honest, Dick, I’ve been too worried to even try!”

“Do I—do I begin my duties now?” asked Dick soberly.

“Of course! I suppose the Committee will have to approve, but they’ll do that, all right.”

“Then,” said Dick, “I’ll issue my first order.”

“Shoot!” laughed Lanny.

“Very well. The First Squad is disbanded.”

“Eh?” gasped Lanny.

“What?” exclaimed George.

“Also the Sub Team and the Third Squad,” continued Dick calmly. “To-morrow at three o’clock all candidates will report to me on the field dressed to play.”

“What—what’s the idea?” asked Gordon.

“We’re going to start over,” returned Dick quietly, “and any fellow who wants a place on the team has got to work for it!”

CHAPTER VI
THE NEW COACH TAKES HOLD

Dick Lovering’s selection to mold the destinies of the Clearfield High School Football Team did not meet with universal approbation. It would have been strange if it had. Dick, handicapped as he was by his physical disability and far too busy a youth to mix in many of the school interests, had, after all, but a limited circle of personal acquaintances, and those who knew him only by sight and reputation were inclined to be dissatisfied. There was no animosity toward Dick, but it was felt that to put a boy who had never played the game and had had no practical experience at the head of football affairs was, to say the least, a hazardous experiment. Some fellows went farther and declared that it was idiotic.

“Dick Lovering’s all right,” they said, “but he’s a cripple, and even if he knew how to coach the team, he couldn’t do it on crutches! Wait till you hear Springdale laugh at us when they hear it!”

Those who really knew Dick, on the other hand, hailed his choice with satisfaction. Perhaps Tom Haley voiced the general sentiment of this faction as well as anyone. “I don’t care a bit,” he said, “whether Dick knows a football from a baked potato. If Dick undertakes to coach the team he’ll do it and do it well. I never saw the thing yet that Dick couldn’t do when he made up his mind to it. And there isn’t a fellow in school who can make what he says go as Dick can. We may not beat Springdale this year, but if we don’t it won’t be Dick’s fault!”

But whether the school in general approved or disapproved, the matter was already beyond them by the time they heard of it officially, which was the noon following George Cotner’s announcement on the steps. For Lanny had begged speedy action by the Athletic Committee and a hurried meeting had been held in Mr. Grayson’s office at eleven o’clock. Curtis Wayland, who at Lanny’s solicitation had risked the doctor’s displeasure and attended as one of the three undergraduate members, informed Lanny afterwards that there had not been a dissenting voice and that Mr. Grayson had been highly pleased. “The selection of one of your own kind, an undergraduate, a—a fellow with no taint of professionalism,” he declared, “is right in line with my theory that schoolboy sports and athletics should be conducted by schoolboys and not by hired mentors. I approve heartily, and I congratulate White and the others on the good sense they have displayed. And I wish Richard Lovering and the team all success.”

The news was received with incredulous surprise and at first the authenticity of it was doubted by those not in the secret. Succeeding surprise, came amusement, approbation or disapproval according to the conviction of the person. At all events, the matter created an excited interest that drove practically the whole student body to the field that Tuesday afternoon. Those who went to scoff, however, found little opportunity. They saw Dick’s blue auto standing at the end of the grandstand near the big gate and discovered Dick himself, wearing his honors very modestly, swinging about on his crutches in a quiet and businesslike way, for all the world as if he had been coaching football teams all his short life.

But there was plenty of matter for surprise, however. Instead of the usual spectacle of three squads practicing independently of each other, they found all the candidates, new and old, experienced and inexperienced, democratically jumbled together and performing the most elementary tasks!

Clearfield on the side lines was amused, to say the least, at the spectacle of fellows like Haley, Cottrell, Cable and even Lanny White himself, fellows who had played for one, two and even three years on the First Team as regulars or substitutes, passing the ball to each other, falling on it, and practicing starts and performing similar kindergarten feats! Had it not been for this humorous aspect, the spectators would have found practice that afternoon distinctly uninteresting. There was no punting, no line work, not even dummy practice. For a solid hour and a half Clearfield’s football heroes, proved and incipient, went through the veriest drudgery and, on the whole, did it cheerfully. Those of the audience who most disapproved of the new coach had to acknowledge grudgingly that, at least, Lovering had the courage of his convictions. And many marveled that the regulars accepted the afternoon’s duties so uncomplainingly. But those who marveled had not, of course, been present in the dressing-room when Dick had made his short speech to the assembled players.

His appearance had been greeted with a welcome that must have pleased him, although if it did he failed to show it. He was very quiet, very businesslike, very terse. “First of all, fellows,” he announced without preliminary rhetoric, “it must be understood that you and I are here for just one thing. That’s to get together a team that will beat Springdale. If we can win other battles, well and good. If we can’t, well and good. In order to beat Springdale we’ve got to play regular football, fellows, and in order to do that we’ve got to learn how. Some of you know more football than others, but I’m not going to take your words for it. To-day you are all on the same level and we are going to start all over, just as if this was the first day of practice and you hadn’t already played one contest. There’s no First Squad, no Scrub Team, no Third Squad yet. Every fellow has got to show me what he can do and for the next two or three days you will all have to go back to elementary work. Those of you who aren’t willing to do that had better tell me now and empty your lockers. There’s going to be plenty of hard work for some time, perhaps all the season; drudging work that isn’t exciting or spectacular but that you’ve got to go through with if you expect to face Springdale. I’d like every one of you who goes on the field presently to do it with your mind made up to do what you’re told without question and to do it cheerfully. That’s the only way you and I can work together to any sort of success.”

Dick nodded to Lanny and swung himself toward the door, but paused there, for Lanny was talking.

“That’s good straight talk, fellows,” Lanny was saying earnestly, “and I second it. But Coach Lovering mustn’t think he can frighten us by talking hard work to us, for he can’t. We expect to work hard and we want to work hard. We want to get back at Springdale this year and wipe out what happened last, fellows, and we aren’t going to mind anything that happens so long as we can face Springdale in November with an even chance to win!”

The applause greeting that sentiment was spontaneous and hearty.

“There’s just one other thing, fellows,” Lanny continued. “You all know the fellow who has just spoken to you, and those of you who know him as well as I do—or half as well—know that he will do the very best he knows how for us. But it’s new stuff to Dick and it’s not going to be any cinch for him. So let’s help him all we can, remembering that by helping him we’re helping ourselves and the School. Let’s put our confidence in him, fellows, let’s do what he tells us cheerfully and let’s make up our minds that, no matter what—what discouragements or failures may come, in the end we’re going to be right there with the goods! Lovering isn’t doing this for money, as most of you know, for the Committee has seen to that. He’s doing it because—well, because some of us pestered the life out of him until he consented, and because he’s patriotic enough to take over a mighty difficult and thankless job when he can’t really afford the time it will take. Now, fellows, let’s have a cheer for Coach Lovering, and make it good!”

And it was good! And Dick, who had waited at the door for Lanny to conclude, slipped out and, with the whole-hearted acclaim from some forty lusty throats following him, gazed thoughtfully across the fading green of the field and silently resolved to make good in this new and strange role he had assumed.

That evening, after supper, Dick, Lanny, George Cotner and Chester Cottrell met at Lanny’s house. Cotner had prepared a list of candidates arranged alphabetically at Dick’s request. When he received the list Dick asked but one question: “Are all those fellows eligible to play, George?”

“Yes, as far as I know. I have to take their words for it, of course.”

“We won’t do that. I’ll hand this list to Mr. Murray to-morrow and ask him to check it up. Some of them may not have passed the examination and we don’t want to waste time on any fellow who may be taken away from us later on.”

Lanny looked doubtful. “We haven’t paid much attention to physical examinations lately, Dick,” he said. “I guess I could name half a dozen fellows who haven’t been near Mr. Murray this Fall.”

“The rule is still in force, isn’t it?” asked Dick in surprise.

“Yes, I suppose so, but it’s a sort of dead letter now.”

“It shouldn’t be, Lanny. We don’t want fellows who are not sound and fit. We don’t want accidents and we don’t want fellows petering out in mid-season. So I guess we’ll have all those who haven’t taken their exams do it to-morrow. Suppose you write a notice to that effect, George, and post it on the bulletin board. And write a call for candidates, too, please. Say we want twenty more fellows, must have them right away and don’t care whether they’ve played football before or not.”

“You’ll get a lot of dubs if you say that,” volunteered Cottrell dubiously.

“I don’t want dubs,” smiled Dick, “but I do want to get hold of fellows who have strong bodies and good lungs and plenty of brains. I’d rather make a team out of eleven chaps with intelligence who never saw a football than out of that many football players without intelligence, Chester. Even if we find only one out of the twenty who makes good it’ll be worth the trouble.”

“Right-o,” said George. “Shove me some of that pad over here, Lanny.”

“Now,” said Dick, “tell me what you know of Springdale this year, fellows. I know what she did to us last Fall and how she did it, but I want to know what they are planning for this year and what sort of material they have. Anybody know?”

Lanny and Cottrell each shook his head. George Cotner’s uninterrupted scratching with his pen signified an equal ignorance.

“About all I know,” said Lanny finally, “is that they’ve got six of last year’s team back and a number of good subs.”

“Have they got the same backfield?”

“Pretty near. They lost Morgan.”

“Morgan was left half, wasn’t he?”

“Right half.”

“And the chap who out-punted us about ten yards every time. Well, have they got another punter in sight? Have they got anyone who is clever at field-goals?”

“Search me,” responded Lanny. “We can find out, I suppose.”

“We must, Lanny. We’ve got to know pretty near what their line of attack is to be in order to work up our defense. If they are going to form their team around a clever drop-kicker we want to know it. If they’re going to depend on the rushing game entirely we want to know that. If they’re going in strong for passing we want to know that.”

“I suppose,” said Cottrell, “the best thing to do is to send a scout to see them play next Saturday.”

Dick agreed. “But,” he added, “we won’t learn much from such an early game, I think we’d better subscribe to the Springdale papers and follow what we see there. Until we can get a fair idea of what Springdale’s line of attack is going to be we can’t do much about our own defense. But there’s plenty of time for that, fellows. I want to put in a good three weeks of the old-fashioned football. We don’t want to lose the game by a wretched fumble or through lack of ordinary football sense. And that’s about the way we lost last Fall.”

“That’s so, I guess,” agreed Cottrell. “You all know I did all I could to lose that game!”

“You made mistakes, Chester,” said Dick, “and so did most of the others. I’m not trying to place the blame anywhere except on the team as a whole. That’s where it belongs. But I don’t want to see the same mistakes repeated this year. And that’s why I want the fellows to learn football from the ground up. And there are plenty of them who began at the second story,” he added dryly.

Lanny laughed. “That’s true, Dick. I felt myself last Fall that Farrell wasn’t paying enough attention to essentials. And we all know that he paid so little heed to the subs that when we wanted them we didn’t have second or third string players who could do anything at all. I’m not trying to put the loss of the game on Farrell, of course, but—well, he did make mistakes. I suppose we all do.”

“Of course we do,” responded Dick cheerfully. “Only let’s try and make as few as possible, and by all means let’s make fewer than the other fellow. Will you look after posting those notices, George, the first thing in the morning?”

“So will do,” answered the manager. “Want to see ’em?”

Dick read them over and approved. “Then that’s all for this time, I guess,” he said, reaching for his crutches. “I’ll be going on. Want a lift, Chester?”

“No, thanks, I’ll stay a while longer. Good night, Dick. Here’s hoping!”

Dick smiled in the doorway.

“Here’s trying,” he corrected.

CHAPTER VII
CLEARFIELD MEETS DEFEAT

Locust Valley High School descended on Clearfield the following Saturday, as Chester Cottrell phrased it, “loaded for b’ar!” She came with some two dozen capable-looking red-stockinged youths, a head coach who had red hair—Dick said that was a dangerous sign!—and a manager who brought joy to the Clearfield supporters by sporting a green alpine hat of the fuzzy variety. Clearfield cheered delightedly when she first laid eyes on that hat, and cheered at intervals throughout the afternoon, whenever the wearer of the hat showed activity.

Locust Valley found Clearfield unprepared. The line-up that started the first period for the Purple amazed most of the fellows and displeased those who pretended to be football authorities. Why, in the name of all that was sensible, should Egbert Peyton be playing right tackle? Equally incongruous to them was the presence of George Tupper at right half, of Pete Robey at left guard and of Ambrose Smith at right end. “It’s a wonder,” some critics grumbled, “he’s let Lanny White play!”

Defeat for Clearfield was a foregone conclusion after the first five minutes of play. Clearfield got her signals mixed, utterly failed to follow the ball closely, was fooled on the simplest plays and, on the whole, put up as wretched an exhibition of football as one can imagine. Locust Valley was well advanced for so early in the season, her warriors had a diversified attack that was hard to meet and her coach was a tactician of merit. At the end of the first period Locust Valley had scored a touchdown by a mixture of old-fashioned line-plunging and new-fashioned cross-passing and had kicked a goal. Clearfield had not succeeded in even threatening the opponent’s citadel.

Dick imperturbably put Harry Bryan in at left end and Thad Brimmer at center and the game went on. Clearfield showed occasional flashes of real football, as when, half-way through the second period, Lanny, with Cottrell interfering, ran some thirty yards straight through the opponents and placed the pigskin on Locust Valley’s twenty-three yards. But after that the Purple’s offense was too weak to make much impression on the enemy and the ball was soon being punted back up the field. Clearfield showed almost no team-play. It was every man for himself, and some of the individual efforts were extremely crude. The team’s supporters hoped against hope well into that second period and then began to grumble. Some of the things that were said about the team and about the coach were uncomplimentary in the extreme. The kindest thing that was muttered of Dick by these malcontents was that he didn’t know enough football to coach a girl’s school! The first half ended with the score 11 to 0, Locust Valley having failed to kick a goal from a difficult angle.

To make a long story short, the enemy departed later in the afternoon with the ball and a 26 to 3 victory. That three points Clearfield managed to secure in the last five minutes of the battle by the timely introduction of Morris Brent. Coach Lovering used practically three elevens that day, and, considering the sort of game put up by some of the players, it was a wonder that Locust Valley didn’t double her score! Clearfield retired from the field in a mutinous mood. There was even talk of a mass meeting to protest against the further retention of Dick as coach. Clearfield, they said bitterly, had never been beaten as badly as that in the memory of any student, and only once before had she failed to win from Locust Valley. It was all very well to make the Springdale game the goal of the season’s work, but there was no sense in being licked by every little whipper-snapper of an opponent meanwhile. Why hadn’t Lovering used the team that had beaten Highland Hall last Saturday instead of experimenting with every kid who had the price of a pair of canvas trousers?

Dick had his defenders, of course, but they were in the minority. As for Dick himself, he showed no concern over the outcome of that contest. George Cotner, whose confidence in Dick had been somewhat shaken that afternoon, ventured to offer condolences after the game.

[“Too bad, Dick,” he said. “Still, we did score on ’em.] I suppose, considering everything, we couldn’t have expected to win.”

[“‘Too bad, Dick,’ he said. ‘Still, we did score on ’em.’”]

“Probably not,” replied Dick calmly. “Let me have your memorandum, please. I want to go over it to-night. By the way, can you find a fellow to help with the dummy on Monday?”

“Yes, I’ll get one of the kids. We’ll have to buy some more balls in a day or two, Dick. We lost one to-day, you know.”

“Yes, and we may lose more. You’d better order a half-dozen on Monday.”

George confided that evening to Cottrell that Dick didn’t seem much worried by the day’s fiasco.

“Why should he?” asked Chester loyally, observing the manager with a disapproving scowl. “Who cares what Locust Valley does if we can get a team that will beat Springdale?”

“I know,” George hastened to say, “but seems to me it’s a bad idea to let any team walk over us the way Locust Valley did. It—it sort of destroys confidence. Besides, just between you and me, Chester, the fellows don’t like it much. I’ve heard talk of a meeting to protest.”

Chester shrugged his square shoulders and grinned. “Let ’em,” he said shortly. “Much good it’ll do ’em. Dick Lovering’s coach and he’s going to be coach. We all agreed to give him a free rein and he’s going to have it. It seems to me the best thing you can do is to stand up for him, George.”

“I am!” declared the other, scandalized by the insinuation. “I do! I’ve been telling fellows all the afternoon that Dick knows what he’s doing and that if he wants to lose every game but the Springdale game he has a perfect right to do it!”

“All right. Then don’t talk as if you thought he didn’t have any sense.” And Chester turned away with a scowl that, because of a strip of dirty white plaster on his cheek-bone, made him look quite ferocious.

Dick’s request for twenty more candidates resulted in the appearance of some eight or ten youths, mostly of tender years and all without football experience. Cotner and Lanny viewed the volunteers pessimistically, but Dick failed to exhibit any disappointment at the result of his summons. He added the new fellows to the rest and went diligently on. On Monday there was a full hour of dummy-tackling, and fellows who had prided themselves on their ability in that line had much of the conceit taken out of them. Dick’s knowledge of tackling surprised even Lanny and Gordon and others who believed the most firmly in his ability to lead Clearfield to victory. For a fellow who had never handled a pigskin, he certainly had a whole lot of knowledge stowed away in that head of his! He fell foul of Tom Haley early in the proceedings and the fact that Tom was a very good friend of his made no difference in his speech.

“How long have you been playing, Tom?” asked Dick coldly as the last year’s center picked himself up from the dirt.

“Three or four years,” answered Tom in some surprise, pausing in the act of rubbing the soil from his face.

“Then you ought to be ashamed to tackle like that,” said Dick severely. “Try it again, please. And remember that the idea is to stop the man and not tickle him under the knees!”

Tom flushed, choked down a retort that his companions in the line surmised was none too patient and poised himself again while the swaying dummy once more crossed the pit.

“Now get into it!” urged Dick. “Stop him! Put him back!”

Perhaps chagrin was responsible for what ensued. Tom made a hard dive and whipped his arms out for the canvas body, but in some way the dummy eluded him and Tom rolled over sprawling on his back, while the stuffed figure, with its faded C, went dancing crazily on its way. Tom picked himself up, angrily aware of the amused expressions on the faces of the others, and, brushing his hands absorbedly, took up his position again at the end of the line. Dick said nothing. Another candidate hurled himself at the dummy, with a rattle and bang of chain and pulley, and then another and another. Dick awarded each one a word of criticism, approving or disparaging. “Better, Way.” “All right, Jack.” “Rotten, Bert. Get in front and not behind.” “Brimmer, you act as if you were afraid of it! Try it again.” Ultimately it was once more Tom Haley’s turn, and Tom had a little disk of white on each cheek as he watched Manager Cotner pull the dummy back and lay hold of the other rope. An expectant silence fell. Dick nodded and the figure started across the pit on its iron trolley. Tom, hands clenched, ran forward a few steps and launched himself. His arms enwrapped the dummy’s thighs, there was a mighty grunt from Tom and the sound of ripping canvas, and tackler and dummy reposed in the dirt while the chain and ring sped jangling around the block toward the further end. A burst of hilarity greeted the performance. Dick smiled.

“That’s the way to do it, Tom,” he approved heartily as Tom tossed the dummy from his prostrate form and arose, “and I’d like to see every one of you tear it off the ring every time! Get a new strap made for that by to-morrow, George, please. That’s all for to-day, fellows. On the trot now. Two laps around the field before you go in.”

The mass meeting didn’t materialize. No one had really expected it to. What had seemed a catastrophe on Saturday had become merely an unfortunate incident by Monday. No one, you may be sure, had mentioned the matter to Dick, but he was not in ignorance of the sentiment of the school in general. But if it bothered him he made no sign. He went on his way smiling. Even when on the next Wednesday it became known that Will Horsford had been forbidden further participation in football by reason of a weak heart discovered in the course of a physical examination by Mr. Murray, and the fellows learned that Dick had insisted on a revival of a regulation that had become virtually a dead letter and criticism was rampant, Dick appeared to be quite unaware of it. Horsford was a good player, a lineman who had performed creditably at guard and tackle for two seasons, and there was no contradicting the assertion so loudly made that the team had lost one of its best men. Dick’s course in insisting on physical examinations for the candidates was labeled absurd.

“What’s the good,” fellows asked, “of reviving that rot? If Faculty is satisfied why do we need to complain? And look what the result is! One of the best players we had lost to us!”

Nor was the explanation of Dick’s friends that it was good policy to take no chances with fellows physically weak and so liable to injury accepted as sufficient. “Lovering’s too much of a granny for this job,” was the answer. “He ought to be coaching the grammar school team!”

On Thursday Dick began the formation of a First Squad—Squad A he called it—and to it he gathered an even two dozen. The balance he formed into Squad B. There were some surprises in that partitioning. Page Kent, right guard in the Highland Hall game, was relegated to Squad B, as was Jack Toll, right end. Guy Felker, who had always played half or fullback, was tried out as end, and Fudge Shaw was made unintelligible for days by being placed on Squad A amongst the candidates for the position of guard. Harry Partridge, who had started the season as captain of the Scrub, found himself elevated to the upper squad, and it was Tom Nostrand who fell heir to his honor. That alone was sufficient to excite comment, for Nostrand had never shown any particular ability as a player. He had, however, a full set of brains, as Dick pointed out to Lanny when the latter showed surprise at the selection.

“Nostrand won’t make a first-class player in a hundred years,” said Dick with conviction, “but, unless I’m away off my track, he’s just the fellow to run the Scrubs. He’s smart, thinks like lightning, can handle fellows and knows the way things ought to be done even if he can’t do them. I expect him to work out a mighty good team of what he’s got to work on.”

Dick’s prediction proved correct, although the fact didn’t appear just yet. On Saturday the eleven journeyed to Norrisville and played the Norrisville Academy team. The forty or fifty supporters who made the trip with the team scarcely looked for a victory for the Purple, for rumor credited the Academy with being unusually strong this Fall, while it wasn’t apparent to the Clearfield rooters that Dick’s aggregation was one whit better than a week before. But their expressions of resigned gloom were speedily turned to looks of surprised delight, for Clearfield set about things in a hearty, not-to-be-denied manner that amazed Norrisville as much as it did the Clearfield supporters.

The Purple started with Bryan, left end, Partridge, left tackle, Cable, left guard, Haley, center, A. Beaton, right guard, Scott, right tackle, Felker, right end, Cottrell, quarter, White, left half, Tupper, right half and N. Beaton, fullback. There was much more coherence apparent than there had been a week ago, although real team-play was yet to be discovered. Cottrell ran the eleven in excellent shape and chose his plays better than he ever had. The attack, while restricted to only a half-dozen plays, had power and the defense really deserved the name.

Nelson Beaton, at full, was the man of the day, for he showed a quite unsuspected ability to gain through the line and his plunges were hard to stop until he was well into the secondary defense. At end, Felker showed promise but was still too unaccustomed to the duties of the position to be entirely satisfactory. Scott was weak at right tackle. Partridge did well at left tackle and Bryan, on the wing at that end, was almost spectacular. Just to prove that they knew something besides hitting the line, Cottrell got three forward passes away for good gains in the first half. Thereafter the Purple stuck to old-style football, playing on the defensive for most of the time. For, with 17 points to their credit against the opponent’s 6, why worry, as Chester Cottrell put it?

Norrisville earned her one touchdown, which came to her in the second period, by taking advantage of a fumble by Tupper of a punt which nearly went over his head. Norrisville fell on the rolling ball on Clearfield’s twenty-two yards and, using a shift which completely fooled her opponent, smashed straight through Scott for a score. Of Clearfield’s two touchdowns, Lanny made one and Nelson Beaton the other, and in each case a goal was secured. The remaining three points were secured by an easy drop-kick from the twenty-three yards which went neatly across the bar. That was Morris Brent’s usual contribution and he was taken out again soon after.

Perhaps the most encouraging feature of that game was the showing of Partridge at left tackle. To immediately discover a player capable of stepping into the shoes of the disbarred Horsford was a fine piece of luck and did much toward reconciling the fellows to the loss of the former tackle and exonerating Dick of the blame. It was generally conceded after the Norrisville High game that Coach Lovering had really done very well with the team in the scant ten days he had been at the helm. And doubtless he had, although it must be taken into consideration that Norrisville had not presented a very strong team.

Dick took eighteen players with him that afternoon and gave each of them a chance at some time during the game. Gordon Merrick, whom he had placed on Squad A, went in for the whole fourth period. Gordon was Dick’s closest friend and it may be that he had allowed his friendship to somewhat sway his judgment, for Dick was only human. In any case, the result had been disappointing, and Dick intimated as much that evening when the two boys were walking downtown to the Auditorium to see the moving pictures.

“I think,” said Dick, “you can play a better game than you did to-day, Gordie. What was the trouble?”

“I don’t know,” answered Gordon ruefully. “I guess I was pretty poor, though. I don’t believe there’s much use wasting time on me, Dick. I’d never play half as well as George Tupper.”

“I’d like to have you on the team,” said Dick thoughtfully.

“I’d like to make it, too, but—well, I guess I’m no born football player, Dickums.”

“There isn’t such a thing as a born football player, Gordie. You see what you can do this week, will you? You know I want to give you every chance, but I can’t afford to play any favorites. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t want you to, Dickums. I’ll do my level best and if I don’t make a heap better showing you drop me. Don’t think I’m going to be peevish about it. I know perfectly well I haven’t any business on the First. So do you.”

Dick laughed. “Well, we’ll see. To be frank, Gordie, you haven’t shown up as well as Tupper or Hansard, and I can’t very well keep more than two substitute halves. In fact, to stay with Squad A you’ll have to beat out either Hansard or McCoy. Unless—” Dick hesitated and it was not until they had crossed Main Street that he continued. Then, “I wonder how you’d shape up at end, Gordie.”

“Try me,” said Gordon. “I’ve never played end. But, say, you’ve got all kinds of good ends, Dick! Bryan was a wonder to-day, and then there’s Felker and Toll and Grover. Still, I’d like to try. I’m a pretty rotten halfback, that’s certain!”

“All right. I’ll try you to-morrow. We must be late. Look at the mob at the door!”

“There’s Fudge and Harry. I’ll ask them to get our tickets.” And Gordon, whose turn it was to treat, slipped his two dimes into Fudge’s hand just as that youth reached the window where sat the resplendent ticket seller.

“Hello, Gordon! Two? Sure! Four of your best tickets, please!” The latter remark was addressed to the ticket seller and elicited only a haughty stare and four little blue tickets torn from a seemingly endless strip. But Fudge chuckled at his own joke, quite unaffected by the man’s hauteur, and the four boys crowded through the door and sought seats together in the darkened house.

The Auditorium prided itself on being very high-class and Fudge was soon grumbling about the sort of photo-plays being presented. “Gee,” he confided to Dick, “these pictures make me tired! They never have anything exciting any more. Say, know what I’m going to do? Well, I’m going to make that story I’m writing into a ‘movie’ play. How’s that?”

“Great!” said Dick. “How are you getting on with it?”

“Pretty well,” answered the other with a sudden lapse of enthusiasm. “The trouble is I don’t seem able to work it out. You see, the fellow who murdered the old codger, Middleton, had to get into that room somehow, didn’t he?”

“I suppose he did,” agreed Dick.

“Well, but how could he? There were bars at the window and the door was locked inside.”

“I guess he committed suicide, Fudge.”

“Couldn’t have,” responded Fudge decidedly. “The wound was on the back of his head.”

“You could change that, couldn’t you?”

“Y-yes, but that wouldn’t do. He had to be murdered so that Young Sleuth could unravel the mystery, don’t you see? I thought maybe I’d have it that the murderer was hidden somewhere in the room and escaped afterwards, but Young Sleuth looked everywhere. There’s six pages about his examination of the room and his finding a clew.”

“What sort of a clew did he find?” asked Dick, trying to seem interested in Fudge’s conversation and at the same time follow the story being thrown on the screen.

“Finger-prints,” confided Fudge, “and a piece of torn paper with three words on it.”

“Fine! What were the words?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t got to that. Young Sleuth found the paper and didn’t let on he had it. Detective stories are awfully hard to write. But it would make a dandy ‘movie’!”

By that time the patience of those sitting in the neighborhood was exhausted and Fudge was requested to stop talking. He subsided with a grin, but a close observer would have seen that he was not paying much heed to the polite adventures of the beautiful heroine of the photo-play. Instead of looking toward the stage he fixed his gaze on the bald head of the man in front of him and surreptitiously munched chestnuts. When, finally, the play ended with a moonlight scene in which virtue was brilliantly triumphant, Fudge grunted his disapproval and once more turned to Dick.

“I’ve got it!” he whispered hoarsely.

“Got what?” asked Dick.

“The solution! Old Middleton was attacked outside the room and went in there and locked the door himself! How’s that?”

“That might do,” conceded Dick, “but how about the clews?”

Fudge’s face fell. “That’s so. I guess I could change that about the clews, though. What’s this fellow going to do? Play a banjo? Gee, this is a bum show!”

CHAPTER VIII
THE COMMITTEE IN SESSION

“Sixty-two dollars and sixty-five cents,” announced Louise Brent disconsolately. “I don’t believe we’ll ever get enough!”

“I wonder who gave the five cents,” murmured Lanny.

The Twenty-fifth of October Fund Committee was assembled on the side porch at Brentwood, facing a problem.

“We need about twenty-eight dollars more, don’t we?” asked Gordon. Louise nodded.

“Unless we left off the filing-cabinet,” she said.

“How much less would that make it?”

“We figured the cabinet at eighteen dollars. Maybe it would be less, though.”

“Eighteen,” reminded Morris, “was before we took off thirty per cent. So it would only make it about twelve dollars.”

“Yes, and I so hoped we could get the cabinet too,” said Louise.

“Well, we’ve tackled about everyone in school,” said Gordon. “I can give another dollar, I guess, but that doesn’t help much.”

“The trouble is,” said Morris, “that most of the fellows are down on Mr. Grayson about the coaching business.”

“Don’t see why they should be,” said Lanny, “after Saturday’s game. Seems to me that ought to prove that we can win without paying money for a professional coach.”

“Of course,” agreed Morris hurriedly, darting an anxious glance at Dick, fearing he had said something to hurt him. “Maybe they think differently about it now. How would it do to ask fellows again?”

Gordon groaned. “I absolutely refuse,” he asserted. “If we have got to do that someone will have to take my list.”

“How many are there who haven’t been asked?” inquired May Burnham.

“Only about twenty,” replied Louise, “and most of them are the younger boys.”

“And they don’t give much, anyway,” said Gordon. “We may be able to make up another five dollars, but I guess that’s about all. There’s only two weeks more, about.”

“Well, supposing we got seventy dollars altogether,” asked Dick. “Is there anything we could do without, so as to bring the whole bill to seventy?”

Louise referred to her list. “The easy-chair would be about fourteen,” she replied. “But we simply couldn’t do without that, Dick.”

“No, the easy-chair seems rather necessary. By the way, how much of the sixty-two is actually paid?”

“Thirty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents. I don’t suppose we’ll get it all, either, by the time we need it.”

“I’ll borrow the difference from father,” said Morris. “He will let us have it, I guess. I dare say I could afford to contribute another dollar or two.”

“There’s no reason why you should,” declared Nell Sawin. “I think it’s a shame that we can’t make up a small amount like that. The girls have given almost half again as much as the boys. They ought to be ashamed of themselves!” This was quite severe for Nell, who was normally incapable of censure, and Lanny was moved to a defense of his sex.

“We have more things to spend our money on than you girls,” he said. “Besides, there are more girls than boys in school, Nell.”

“Only about ten,” said Louise severely, tapping her teeth with the tip of her brother’s fountain pen. “We’ve just got to get some more money.”

“Let’s have a fair,” suggested May, and Grace Lovering, who had not contributed to the discussion, clapped her hands.

“Let’s!” she said. “We could easily make twenty dollars, Louise!”

“Fairs are no earthly use,” was the reply. “Not when you really want to make anything. It always costs nearly as much as you take in to get ready. We’d have to make things or get folks to give us things to sell, and there isn’t time. We might—might have an entertainment, though.”

“There isn’t time for that, either,” said Morris. “Besides, no one would come.”

At that moment Lanny, who had been thoughtfully silent for a minute, said: “I think I’ve got it, folks, but you’ll have to give me a day or two to mull it over. No questions, please!”

“Oh, Lanny, have you really?” demanded Nell eagerly. “What is it? A show?”

“No questions, I said,” laughed Lanny. “I’ll tell you on—let me see; this is Monday—on Wednesday evening. We’ll have another meeting then, if you like. Meanwhile you folks get busy with those who haven’t been asked yet and see what can be done. I’d like to know how much we have to make before I—spring my scheme on you.”

“I’m so glad someone’s thought of something,” declared Louise, with a sigh of relief. “We’ll meet again Wednesday, then. Did—did anyone say he wanted to subscribe some more?” And Louise held her list out invitingly. Lanny took it and added his name for another dollar. Dick shook his head with a smile.

“I’d like to, but I’m afraid I can’t, Louise.”

“Never mind. Gordon, you said you would, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I believe I did,” sighed Gordon, accepting the paper and taking the pen from Lanny. “And just to prove that a Merrick is as good as his word and a little better I’ll put my name down here for—for a dollar and—let me see; if one ice-cream soda costs ten cents, two ice-cream sodas would cost twenty cents. Wouldn’t they, Lanny?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Louise.

“There; one dollar and twenty cents,” said Gordon, writing. “I’ll take cash for those sodas, Lanny.”

“What sodas? Somebody feel his head, please!”

“Don’t you worry about my head, old chap. All you have to do is fork over twenty cents.”

“What’s it for? Do I owe you twenty cents?”

“You owe me two sodas, Lanny, or, to be exact, you owe me one soda and yourself one soda. Being a philanthropist I donate the price of the sodas to this worthy cause.”

“Do you mean that I bet the sodas with you?”

“Ex-act-ly! You bet me we wouldn’t have a football coach within a week and I bet you we would. And we did. Twenty cents, please!”

“Thunder! So I did!” laughed Lanny, fumbling in his pocket. “But, hold on! Are you sure we got him within the week?”

“Positive,” declared Gordon with conviction. “We made the wager the night of the last meeting of this committee, which was a Tuesday. We secured our present capable coach at about nine-forty-five the following Monday evening. Anything more to say?”

“No, here’s your old twenty cents. Only it’s a quarter. Got a nickel?”

“I may have,” replied Gordon untroubledly, “but I don’t intend to look. I’ll just change that twenty cents to twenty-five and so save trouble. There we are! And here’s the cash, Louise. Put your little cross opposite my name, please.”

After that Morris insisted on giving another dollar and Nell fifty cents. “I haven’t the slightest idea where I’ll get it,” declared the latter tragically. “I’ll just have to do something and make some money. Perhaps I’ll sell matches on the street corner! Or—or have a lemonade stand in the front yard!”

“If you do please see that the lemonade is hot,” said Lanny. “Cold lemonade in this weather wouldn’t go very fast.”

“Then,” said Louise, rising, “I suppose you don’t want any, Lanny. Never mind, I dare say the rest of us can drink it.”

“Oh, well,” replied Lanny carelessly, “if you have it all made— Rather than seem unappreciative, you know——”

CHAPTER IX
LANNY EXPLAINS

Dick was a very busy person those days. He had not deceived himself into thinking that coaching the High School Football Team would entail but little time and effort. His mistake had been in underestimating the amount of labor and time involved. Actual outdoor work took up a good two hours and a half every day save Sunday. Then at least five evenings a week Lanny and George Cotner, and often one or other of the players besides, met at his house and discussed progress, made plans, corrected mistakes, worked out formations and plays and conducted a sort of general football conference. This lasted anywhere from one to two hours, and after the others had gone Dick had to settle down at his books. Fortunately the senior year at high school was, in comparison with the years gone before, fairly easy, and Dick usually managed to do a good part of his preparation during the day, between classes. If he had not he would have been forced to yield either his position as football coach or his attendance at the High School!

But even the period in the afternoon and the one or two hours in the evening did not comprise all the time given to football, for Dick found that it was impossible to clear his mind of gridiron affairs at other moments. They obtruded when he tried to study, even when he was at his meals and often kept him awake at night when he should have been asleep. He was forever pulling out the little black note-book he carried in a vest pocket and jotting down a memorandum in it, and he got so he even went off into thought-trances when folks were talking to him! As when one evening at supper his sister Grace consulted him with regard to some problem connected with the new heating system which he was having installed in the cottage. Dick listened with apparent attention, his eyes on his plate, until Grace had finished. Then he surprised that young lady by looking up and remarking thoughtfully: “That end-around play won’t go unless we can keep the ball out of sight until the runner reaches the line.”

Grace declared that he was losing his mind.

One of Dick’s duties was to follow the progress of the Springdale High School Team as reflected in the columns of the Springdale Morning Recorder. The accounts of the team’s practice sessions were not very voluminous, but they appeared to be reported by a high school boy and were doubtless, as far as they went, authentic. Dick usually clipped the articles from the paper and they were discussed at the meetings. It was on the Tuesday evening following the Norrisville game that Lanny again broached the subject of sending someone to see Springdale play. “We can’t tell much by this newspaper stuff,” he said. “We’ve found out who they’ll probably use against us, but we don’t know what sort of a game they’re planning. I think we ought to see them play Benton next Saturday and get a line on them. Could you go over, Dick?”

“Why don’t you go?” asked Dick.

“Why, I suppose I could,” replied Lanny doubtfully. “Only—well, we play Logan, and Logan has a pretty fair team, I guess.”

“What of it? McCoy will do well enough. I’d go along, but I guess one of us had better stay here. You take Chester with you, Lanny. He’s good at sizing things up. Besides, that would give you a chance to watch the backfield and let him watch the linemen. Kirke can play quarter for us Saturday.”

“But I’d hate to have Logan beat us,” Lanny objected. “Suppose you and Chester go, Dick.”

Dick smiled and George Cotner chuckled audibly. Lanny flushed.

“Oh, I don’t think that we are going to lose the game just because I’m not here,” he said. “Only—oh, I don’t know! I’ll do just as you say, Dick.”

“Then you’ll go; you and Chester,” replied Dick. “Later on I’ll see them in action myself, but I’d rather wait until about a week before we play them. Let me see; who do they meet the Saturday before they play us?” Dick turned the pages of a scrapbook and found the Springdale schedule. “Weston Academy, eh? Where’s that?”

“Up-state,” replied George. “A small school. Springdale’s evidently looking for an easy game that day.”

“Then she won’t show much,” mused Dick. “Still, I could get away that afternoon very nicely, for we play the grads.”

“I don’t believe they’ll ever get together to play us,” said George. “Fosdick told me Saturday that he was having a hard time getting the fellows to promise. If they don’t we’ll be in a hole. I told Means last Winter that he couldn’t depend on the grads for a game.”

“Well, we won’t cross that bridge until we come to it,” said Dick. “Maybe if the grads don’t turn up we can find another team to play us. If we can’t we can have a pretty good afternoon of practice, and I dare say that will be quite as much good to us.”

“Then you think Chester and I had better go to Springdale Saturday?” asked Lanny not over-enthusiastically. Dick nodded.

“Yes, I do, Lanny. See what they look like and how their backfield shapes up. And above all watch their formations. If they show anything new don’t miss it. Better jot it down at the time. And find out if you can whether they’ve got a man who can kick goals from the field. A good deal will depend on that. Bring back everything you can, Lanny. Every little bit helps.”

“All right. You won’t take any chances with that Logan game, though, will you, Dick?” he pleaded. “You know they tied us last year.”

“Bother your old Logan game!” laughed Dick. “If you say much more about it I’ll forfeit it to them! Seriously, though, Lanny, that game doesn’t mean much to us, and if I can scrape through without being absolutely beaten I’ll be satisfied. Just keep your eyes on the eighteenth of November, Lanny, and forget about what goes on before.”

“I suppose so,” Lanny agreed, “only—when you’re captain you sort of like to do the best you can; make a good showing for the season, you know.”

“A good showing isn’t possible unless we beat Springdale,” replied Dick emphatically, “and that’s what we’re working for. I don’t much care if we lose every game from now till then, if we win that one. Now let’s get at those plays. This No. 3 won’t work out, I guess. We’re taking too many men from the right of the line and we’re giving the play away from the start. There’s one thing we’ve got to keep in mind, fellows, and that is that the simpler our plays are the better they’ll work. If we decide on that formation we’ve talked of our plays have got to be simple. I don’t mind trying this No. 6 out in practice if you like, but I don’t cheer for it much.”

“Just the same, if it did fool them,” suggested George, “it would fool them badly and we’d make yards on it.”

“But I don’t think it would fool them,” said Dick. “Not more than once, anyhow. And there’s no use learning a play that can be used no more than once in a game. Frankly, fellows, I don’t set much score on fancy formations and funny shifts and trick plays. They don’t pan out well. Of course, if your opponent is weak you can make anything go, but we’re planning for Springdale, and Springdale isn’t weak. She knows a lot of football. Why, that No. 6 would be smeared to the hilt the second time we tried it, if not the first. With all due regard to you, Lanny, I’m going to forget that play.”

And Dick rolled the sheet of paper up and tossed it into the waste-basket.

“Alas, poor child of my brain!” murmured George.

“Was that yours?” asked Dick. “I thought Lanny did that.”

“No, mine was that quarterback-run play,” said Lanny.

“Oh! Well, I’m sorry, George. If you want me to I’ll try it out.”

“No, don’t bother. I dare say you’re quite right about it. It is a bit involved.”

“All right. Try again, George. Only keep them simple. Plays that use only two men are a heap better than those requiring half a dozen to mess around and get in each other’s way. Now, here’s this No. 8. I like that, Lanny. Was that yours?”

Lanny shook his head regretfully. “No, that’s one that Corwin sprang on us last Fall. I changed it a bit, that’s all. They pulled it off from a forward-pass formation, but that seemed to me to limit it a good deal. I thought it would be a good play to work from regular formation.”

“I think it would. And if we can get that formation of ours to working right it would be a good play to add to that 4 and 5 sequence. We’ll lay it aside for now, though. What we want for the next fortnight is about three more plays outside of tackle. Now let’s get busy.”

The Twenty-fifth of October Fund Committee met as arranged on Wednesday night, all members present save Grace Lovering, whose regrets were formally expressed by Dick.

“She isn’t sick, is she?” asked Louise concernedly.

“Not at all,” replied Dick gravely. “She is in most robust health. To relieve your kind anxiety, Louise, I’ll state that to-night is bread-making night at our house.”

“Oh!” laughed Louise. “That’s it! Can Grace really make bread, Dick?”

“None better. When last seen she was up to her elbows in dough.”

“I think that’s awfully clever of her,” said Nell Sawin. “I wish I could do it. Don’t you, May?”

May Burnham, who had received Dick’s announcement with surprise, agreed somewhat doubtfully. May had always considered household duties rather below the dignity of one who was so closely related to the wealthy and influential Brents, but, observing that Louise seemed to think Grace Lovering’s accomplishment something to be proud of instead of ashamed of, she added, with more enthusiasm: “I think it must be very nice to be able to do things like that”; and secretly wondered whether her own views were mistaken. Certainly, she reflected, none of the others seemed at all shocked by Dick’s confession.

Presently they got down to business and Louise, as treasurer, announced the fund now totaled sixty-eight dollars and eighty cents. “And,” she added, “I think that’s all we can get from the students. We’ve seen all the girls except one, who is ill, and Dick and Gordon have seen most of the boys.”

“All but three,” replied Dick, “and they won’t subscribe more than a quarter apiece, I guess.”

“All right,” said Lanny. “That leaves us about twenty-one dollars behind then. To-day’s the eleventh, isn’t it? And Mr. Grayson’s birthday is the twenty-fifth, and that’s just two weeks from to-day. When are you planning to buy the things?”

“I suppose we ought to do it a week ahead,” said Morris. “It may take three or four days for them to get here by freight.”

“Maybe longer,” said Dick. “I wouldn’t leave it much after the fifteenth.”

“The fifteenth is Sunday,” Morris reminded. “We might go to New York the next day, though.”

“Who’s going?” asked Gordon.

“Louise and May and I, unless some of you fellows want to go along.”

“I guess none of us could get away,” responded Dick. “You’ll have to cut recitations, won’t you, though?”

“Only one. We’ll take the two-twelve train and that’ll give us nearly three hours before the stores close. We can get back by eight. If we can get everything at Marsden’s it won’t take more than an hour or so. Father agreed last night to advance what money we need and we’re to pay him back as fast as we collect from the students.”

“We have almost fifty dollars paid in now,” said Louise. “So we won’t have to borrow more than forty from father.”

“How about the expenses of your trip?” Lanny asked.

“We’ll each pay our own,” replied Louise. “It’s only fair, because it’s going to be rather fun. I wish we might all go.”

“It will be all right if I cut practice that day, won’t it?” asked Morris.

Dick nodded. “For that matter,” he said, “Lanny and Gordon may go as far as practice is concerned. There won’t be much hard work on Monday, anyway.”

“Couldn’t you go, Dick?” Louise asked.

“I’m afraid not. I’d have to cut two classes. Besides, I’m not much good at getting around in the crowds.”

“I don’t think I’ll go, either,” said Lanny.

“Same here,” said Gordon. “You three will be enough. The more there are the harder it will be to agree on things.”

“Now please tell us about your plan, Lanny,” said Nell eagerly.

“I don’t know whether my plan is good for as much as twenty-one dollars,” responded Lanny dubiously. “I think we may be able to get, say, fifteen, though. The reason I wouldn’t say what it was the other night was that I had to consult others about it first; our Head Coach, for one.”

“Cut out the prologue, Lanny,” advised Gordon. “What’s the scheme?”

“Well, they’ve got a sort of football team across the river called the North Side Athletics. The fellows are mill operatives and that chap Danny Shores, who played ball with us last Summer the time Jack Tappen was suspended, is captain. I met him a week or so ago at the post office and he told me about it. Said they’d like to play us some time. I told him I was sorry, but that our dates were all filled. But it occurred to me the other night that the fellows over there would pay ten or fifteen cents willingly to see their team play the High School, and there are a lot of them, you know. So I thought it would be a good scheme to arrange a game with them a week from Saturday. We go away that day to play Corwin, you know. Saturday’s the only day they have to play. I saw Danny Shores yesterday and he’s tickled to death about it. I had to tell him why we wanted to charge admission, but he promised not to say anything about it. They’re so crazy to play that they don’t want any part of the gate receipts, and Danny says we can get three or four hundred people. What do you think of it?”

Morris and Gordon looked puzzled, and the latter asked: “But how the dickens can we play Danny’s team here if we’re going away to play Corwin the same afternoon?”

“Oh, I meant to explain that we’d play the Scrubs against them; call them the High School Second Team, you know.”

“I think it will be perfectly dandy!” exclaimed Louise.

“I shall go and see it,” declared Nell firmly.

“Don’t see,” said Morris, “why you can’t get a pretty good crowd to it. Not many of the fellows will go with the team to Corwin, I guess, and they’ll be glad of a chance to see a game. How much are you going to charge, Lanny?”

“Dick and I thought ten cents apiece would be enough. If we got two hundred we’d make twenty dollars. But I don’t believe we’d get more than a hundred and fifty. Still, that would mean fifteen dollars, and maybe we’ll find a way of making up the other five.”

“Pshaw,” said Gordon, “there’ll be easily two hundred there! And I think they’ll pay fifteen cents as quick as ten.”

“They might,” said Dick, “but it’s best not to take chances. Two hundred at ten cents will be better than a hundred at fifteen, Gordie.”

“Bet you the North Siders will lick us,” chuckled Gordon. “The Scrubs haven’t found themselves yet.”

“They will have by a week from Saturday,” replied Lanny. “We’re beginning scrimmaging to-morrow with them.”

“I shall begin to save up my money,” said Nell gravely. “I’ve just got to see it! Will anyone contribute a penny, please?”

All the boys donated, and Nell, jingling four pennies in her hands, pretended to be overcome with delight.

“There’s a fellow named Tanner,” said Lanny, “who has a printing press and does pretty good work with it. I’ll see him and ask him to do some notices for us that we can put around in the store windows. I guess he will be willing to do them for nothing under the circumstances.”

“I know him,” said Gordon. “He’s a particular crony of Fudge’s. Take Fudge along with you.”

“Then I don’t see but that we’re all right,” said Louise. “And we needn’t meet again until after we’ve been to New York. I do hope you will like what we pick out.”

“We’re sure to,” replied Dick. “The main thing, though, is for Mr. Grayson to like them!”

“That reminds me,” announced Morris, “that there will be a charge for carting the stuff from the freight-house to the school. I dare say Stewart will do it for a dollar and a half.”

“You don’t want to forget,” reminded Nell, “that you may get the things cheaper than we estimated them. I dare say we’ll have quite all the money we need. Wouldn’t it be splendid if we did and I hadn’t to pay my three dollars and a half after all?”

The others howled at that and Dick demanded his penny back. Gordon asked where the furniture was to be kept until they could smuggle it into the office, and Morris explained that they were going to have it taken to the school late in the afternoon, after Mr. Grayson had gone, and stored in a room in the basement. He had arranged with the janitor for that. “And then, the night before, Louise is going to get the key to Mr. Grayson’s room and we’re going to move the old furniture out into the hall and put the new things in.”

“I shall be very busy at home that evening,” murmured Gordon.

Louise regarded him indignantly. “Indeed you’ll not, Gordon Merrick! Every one has got to help. Some of the things will be frightfully heavy.”

“The janitor is going to help us,” said Morris.

“As near as I can make out,” remarked Dick, with a smile, “almost every one in town has been taken into the secret except Mr. Grayson. If he doesn’t know of it already it’s a miracle!”

“We had to tell the janitor,” said Morris. “And Miss Turner. She’s going to borrow his key for us.”

“Oh, I’m not objecting,” replied Dick. “But you’ll have to acknowledge that the chances of keeping it from Mr. Grayson until the twenty-fifth are mighty slim.”

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t heard anything yet,” said Louise. “And—and I don’t believe he will. It would be too frightfully mean if anyone told him!”

“Isn’t it—isn’t it getting rather late?” asked Lanny blandly.

“He’s hinting for refreshments,” said Louise scornfully. “I believe he only comes to the meetings for that. Anyway, he won’t like the lemonade because it isn’t hot.”

“The weather has moderated so much since I made that unlucky remark that cold lemonade is quite satisfactory,” answered Lanny. “And I do hope you have some more of that cake with the underdone frosting. It lasted me all the way home Monday night, Louise. I even found some on my shoes in the morning!”

“You’re horribly insulting,” his hostess laughed. “I made that cake myself, Lanny, and you ought to have raved about it!”

“I did—when I found it on my shoes,” drawled Lanny.

CHAPTER X
FOOTBALL PROBLEMS

The next day Dick appointed three assistant coaches. Bert Cable was to coach the linemen, Lanny the backs and Morris the kickers. Dick took the ends under his immediate charge. There were now five candidates for the end positions: Harry Bryan, Guy Felker, Jack Toll, Jim Grover and Gordon Merrick. Dick had very distinct ideas on the subject of end play and was fortunately able to convey them understandingly to the candidates. Gordon did not at once take kindly to the new position nor show any great aptitude for the duties involved. Except that he was quick and fast on his feet, was physically well built for an end and had a lot of sound sense, he was doubtless no more promising than half a dozen others whom Dick might have selected for the training. But Dick’s theory that it was easier to make an intelligent fellow into a football player than to make a football player intelligent continued to guide his plans, and already he was succeeding in vindicating that theory.

Among the boys who had responded to the later call for candidates was a fifteen-year-old sophomore named Perry Hull. Perry had never tried for the team before and knew about as little football as it was possible to know and live in a community where it was played every Fall. But he was a bright-looking, quick-acting chap, with steady dark eyes and a firm mouth and chin, and he wasn’t afraid of either hard knocks or hard work. When he reported he expressed complete indifference as to where he played, therein being much unlike the general run of candidates, most of whom demanded to be made into backs or ends. They told a story on Fudge Shaw which may not have been quite truthful, but in any case illustrates the point. Fudge, so the story went, reported for football in his sophomore year and, on being asked by Coach Farrell what position he was after, replied, “Oh, captain or quarterback, I guess!”

Dick liked Perry Hull’s looks at once and watched him carefully for a week. His lack of size was against him as a lineman and, in fact, left few positions open to him. He might have developed into a satisfactory substitute end had not Dick been quietly looking for a quarterback with more powers of initiative than Orson Kirke showed. Kirke was a good handler of the ball, was rather clever at gaining in a broken field and could follow directions implicitly. But, left to himself, he never knew what to do and was liable to make the most stupid blunders in the matter of choosing plays. He had been third-string quarter the year before and had been used only when both Putnam, the regular quarter, and Cottrell, the first substitute, were unable to play. Dick didn’t fancy Kirke as the sole proxy in the Springdale game and seized on Perry Hull eagerly as soon as he had sized up that youth. Hull was placed in the hands of Chester Cottrell for development and inside of a few days had proved Dick’s acumen. Already, on the eve of the Logan contest, Hull was the logical candidate for first substitute quarterback, and Orson Kirke, who had theretofore looked on himself as certain incumbent of that position, was ruefully doing his best to outpace the usurper. Just now Kirke might be said to be still a full lap behind.

Dick’s ability to connect player and position was in a way remarkable. His sleight-of-hand trick in making Guy Felker, who had been playing fullback for two years, into a competent end was still marveled at, and his elevation of Partridge from the Scrub to the First Squad had been equally successful. And now the school was watching with almost breathless interest his experiment of molding a finished quarterback from the raw material. In fact, the school found a good deal to wonder at that Fall with regard to Dick. The Norrisville game had proved pretty conclusively, fellows considered, that they had made no mistake in their choice of a coach. Those who had openly scoffed were now either silent or frankly admiring, while those who had hailed Dick’s advent from the first were now noisily triumphant. The question one heard on every hand was “How does Lovering know so much football when he has never played it and never had anything to do with it?”

Dick could have told them had he chosen to. All his life he had been forced to sit by and watch other boys do things; play baseball and football and tennis, run races, leap hurdles, skate and enjoy all the other sports from which he was debarred by reason of a weak spine. But Dick had not been content to merely look on and envy. He had studied while he watched, often, for his own amusement, imagining himself in the place of some more fortunate youth and telling himself just what he would do in such a case. To that end Dick read up on all the sports until, theoretically at least, he knew more about them by half than most of the fellows who participated. No one followed the baseball and football and track teams more closely than Dick. He seldom missed a contest. And, while others were content to observe results, Dick had to know the reasons for them. Many were the football problems he had worked out at home with a checkerboard and checkers, or with matches on a table-top, and many the imaginary games he had captained. Dick, in short, was a self-taught athlete, a book-learning one. But that book-learning and self-instruction may produce results had already been proved in the Summer, when he had piloted the baseball nine to many victories, and was now in a fair way to being proved again.

Dick didn’t know it all, however. No fellow who has never actually played as well as studied can possess an all-around knowledge of the game. Dick was ignorant, for instance, of certain niceties of line-play, tricks that are second nature to a seasoned guard or tackle or center, but, realizing his ignorance, he didn’t pretend knowledge. Quite frankly he asked information, solicited advice, even from the boys he was coaching. When he made a mistake he acknowledged the fact. One day when he was watching Squad A practice against Squad B, and Chester Cottrell had sent a split-tandem play at the opposing line for a loss of several yards, Dick found fault.

“You were wrong, Tupper,” he said. “You should have put out your man and let Captain White clear up the hole. Try that again, Cottrell.”

Cottrell, on the impulse, started to answer sharply. “No, he shouldn’t, Coach! That play—” Then he stopped as quickly, clapped his hands and cried, “A Formation! Signals!” The others, returning to their places, were silent, Lanny casting a doubtful look at Dick as he fell in behind George Tupper again. Dick, however, had read the signs.

“One moment,” he said. “Am I wrong, Captain White?”

“I think you are,” replied Lanny frankly. “That play sends fullback against tackle, with the ball. Tupper’s play is to engage the center and fake an attack on that position. If he goes in too hard and puts his man out too quick he doesn’t give Beaton time to get through tackle. Same way with me, Coach. I’m supposed to draw guard in away from the play. If I smash in too hard and fast——”

“You’re right,” agreed Dick. “That was my mistake. We’ll try that again later when they’re not looking for it and see why it doesn’t go. All right, Cottrell!”

One or two of the linemen started to grin, but almost instantly changed their minds. A coach who could make a mistake and own up to it as frankly as that wasn’t a subject for ridicule! Farrell wouldn’t have done it, they reflected. When Farrell made an error, and he sometimes did, for all his experience, he bullied them into a sort of half-belief that he had been right!

On Thursday Squad B became officially the Scrub Team and lined up against the First, or Varsity, as the fellows liked to call it, for the first real scrimmage. Tom Nostrand was captain and the roster consisted of Jones, left end, Mander, left tackle, Gage, left guard, Shaw, center, Nostrand, right guard, Peyton, right tackle, Smith, right end, Farrar, quarterback, Burns, left halfback, Sawin, right halfback, and Brimmer, fullback. Six other youths were retained as substitutes and the balance of the candidates, eight in number, were dropped. Fudge Shaw had not shown enough promise to warrant his retention on the Varsity and had been released to Nostrand and tried as center, in which position he was doing very well. For his part, Fudge was quite satisfied, for his ambition had never really gone beyond a place on the Scrub Team. It is doubtful, though, if Gage and Brimmer, both of whom had played with the First Team prior to Dick’s advent, were as well pleased! However, it was well understood that changes were still likely to occur and that any fellow who proved his right to a place on the Varsity would get it, a knowledge which served to cause the Scrub Team players to do their best.

Tom Nostrand’s warriors showed up remarkably well that afternoon and gave the Varsity a first-class argument. The best the latter could do was make a touchdown in each half of twenty minutes and hold the enemy scoreless. The Scrubs trotted from the field not a little proud of themselves and with Dick’s commendation, “Good work, Scrub!” ringing in their ears. Tom Nostrand had already announced to them that they were to play the North Side team on the twenty-first, and they were more than pleased.

On Friday the Varsity, contrary to custom, was put through as hard if not harder practice than usual, and a full hour was spent in going over the few plays to be used against Logan the next day. Also, there was an extremely strenuous session with the dummy, and, after scrimmage was over, the backs and centers were kept until it was too dark to see, the centers passing to punters and the other backs running down under kicks. Morris Brent practiced goals from the field and managed to score about six out of ten, which, as some of the angles were extreme, was a creditable performance.

Morris was something of a problem to Dick and Lanny. In spite of the doctor’s permission, Dick had a feeling that Morris, if allowed to play as much as he wanted to, was likely to peg out before the big game. Lanny, too, shared this belief, and, while neither of them could have given satisfactory reasons for it, they were agreed that the wise course was to nurse Morris along, giving him only enough work to keep him in condition, and bank all on his ability to reach the Springdale contest in top-form. Meanwhile Lanny himself was doing most of the punting, Chester Cottrell supplying short kicks from regular formation. So far Morris Brent had been brought into the game whenever a goal from field was necessary, but Dick was anxious to find another player who could also be relied on to add an occasional three points in that manner. So far, though, no one had shown much promise. Tupper and Nelson Beaton were doing their best under Morris’s tuition, but they didn’t seem to get on very fast. Dick heartily wished that he knew more about drop-kicking himself, or, better still, that there was somebody he could call on to come out and coach in that department of the game.

And in the meantime came the game with Logan, which, since it must be played without Lanny and Cottrell, presented another problem!

CHAPTER XI
“SPY!”

Springdale lies nestled amongst the hills six miles inland from Clearfield, and one may make the journey speedily enough by either steam railroad or trolley line. Lanny and Chester chose the latter route, and after an early dinner on Saturday, climbed into a front seat of one of the big, lumbersome cars and settled themselves for the forty-minute trip. Chester—he was a sturdily-built chap of seventeen with a pleasant countenance and a singularly attractive voice—was supplementing his hasty meal with peanuts. Lanny declined the delicacy and intimated that the quarterback would be a whole lot better off if he didn’t eat such “truck” between meals. Lanny was inclined to be irritable to-day, recognizing which fact, Chester diplomatically confined his entire attention to the contents of his paper bag while the car rumbled over the B Street Bridge after slowly and noisily trundling its way through most of the business portion of the town. By the time it had left the mills behind and had plunged into the country—it sped across fields and through woods with no heed to the highways—Lanny was ready to talk. Perhaps the crisp October breeze had blown his irritability away. At all events, after that they chatted pleasantly enough and watched the long line of shining rails rush toward them at breath-taking speed. Every few minutes the car slowed down at a tiny station and folks got off or on, and the two boys, now being in excellent spirits, viewed and discussed them and whimsically invented histories and careers for them. The big car pulled into Central Square in Springdale right on time and the visitors had nearly an hour in which to see the town and walk out to the High School athletic field. Springdale is less citified than Clearfield, even though it has a slightly larger population. Perhaps the fact that it is on the main line of the railroad and so nearer the city in point of time accounts for its popularity as a residence town. The State Agricultural Experiment Station lies just outside, and Chester, who was an enthusiastic chicken fancier, was all for going out there to see the poultry farm. But there was hardly time for that excursion, and so they contented themselves with wandering about the streets of the business section for half an hour, quenching their thirst at a soda fountain, standing for several minutes in front of the gaudy placards outside a moving-picture theater, and all the time pretending amused contempt for Springdale’s village aspect. Then it behooved them to reach the field and they tore themselves away from the interesting display in a picture-dealer’s window and moved out Maple Boulevard, their feet rustling through the fallen leaves that almost hid the sidewalk. They were soon part of a straggling procession of boys and girls and older folks all headed toward the athletic field. A number of merry-faced youths in striped brown-and-white uniforms rode past, and the throngs on the sidewalks waved their blue pennants with the white S’s and shouted laughing comments after the visitors.

Lanny and Chester yielded their quarters and, being early, found places near the center of the field in the comfortable and commodious new grandstand. “This,” said Lanny enviously, “is what we ought to have.”

“We will some day,” replied Chester. “It’s a peach of a stand, isn’t it?”

“Yes. How many do you suppose it holds? Five hundred?”

“Five hundred!” exclaimed Chester. “Nearer a thousand, I’ll bet!”

“It’s all very fine being presented with an athletic field,” said Lanny, “but it’s going to keep us poor. There’s taxes to pay on it, and they’re big, too. That’s the trouble with having your field right in town like ours is. Then we need a new fence all around and a new stand. We ought to have two stands, one back of the plate for baseball and one beyond first base for football. The committee said the reason they didn’t want to pay a coach this Fall was so they could fix the field up, but I haven’t seen them doing anything yet. There’s Weston coming on. What sort of a team have they got, Chester?”

“I guess it’s not much. They look pretty spry, though. Say, that was some punt, wasn’t it?”

The stand was beginning to fill and they had to edge along to make room for a party of boys whose conversation, overheard by the visitors, indicated that they were Springdale High School students. Once Lanny intercepted an inquiring look aimed at him by one of the group and for the first time experienced an uncomfortable realization of his role. After all, when he came to consider it, there was something sort of underhand about what he and Chester were doing, or, at any rate, it seemed so to him at that moment. He glanced at his companion and found Chester staring frowningly at the squad of brown-and-white players who were trotting past in signal practice. Perhaps feeling Lanny’s eyes on him, he turned.

“I’m not crazy about this business,” he growled. “It’s a bit too sneaky.”

“Nonsense,” replied Lanny in low tones, as anxious to persuade himself as Chester, “we’ve got a perfect right to come here and see these chaps play if we want to, same as anyone else has.”

“Just the same,” responded the other stubbornly, “I don’t like it. Next time Dick may send someone else. I don’t like being a spy.”

“You’re not,” returned Lanny half-heartedly, “you’re a scout.”

“Same thing,” Chester growled. “And for goodness sake don’t say anything to let on, Lanny. Those fellows next to you have been staring and whispering at a great rate. Bet you they suspect!”

“Let them!” said Lanny. “We’re not doing anything, I tell you. They do the same thing themselves. Didn’t they send scouts over to watch us last year when we played Corwin or Benton?”

“I dare say they did. Just the same——”

“If you say that again I’ll chuck you off the stand,” exploded Lanny in sudden irritation. “If you’re so touchy you’d better go home and let me do this.”

“If I was half as touchy as you are I’d jump in the river!” retorted Chester peevishly. “If you think I’m going to make notes with those fellows watching you’re mistaken. Bet you every one of them knows who we are!”

“Oh, get out! Why should they?”

“Why shouldn’t they, you mean. They’ve seen you play, haven’t they? And me, too. Even if they don’t recognize me you needn’t think you can get by with that white thatch of yours!”

“Well, what’s the difference? You don’t expect me to dye my hair and wear false whiskers, do you, you idiot?”

“No, I don’t, but stop whispering, for goodness sake, and don’t act like a conspirator! We’re giving the snap away as fast as we can talk. Talk out loud.” And, suiting action to word, Chester began to discuss the weather with startling enthusiasm and vociferation, and kept it up until Lanny dug an elbow into his ribs and begged him to “cut it out, for the love of mud!” And that minute the Springdale team trotted on the field and a boy at the foot of the stand led a weak cheer. Evidently Springdale was too sure of the game to display much enthusiasm. Lanny and Chester gave their attention to the blue-stockinged players who had taken possession of the farther end of the field and, divided into two squads, were going through signals and practicing punts and field-goals.

“Recognize any of them?” asked Lanny.

Chester shook his head doubtfully. “Some of them look familiar, but I don’t remember their names.”

“That’s the same quarter they had last year. I think his name is Kelly.”

“Yes, I remember him. And the tall end on the further squad. He was on last year’s eleven. That’s a good punt, Lanny; forty-five yards, easy. I wonder who that chap is.”

“The little fellow hasn’t made but one goal so far,” said Lanny. “He’s had about five tries. There goes another, from the thirty. They ought to be pretty evenly matched at punting. What was the name of that center they had? Hill? That’s he coming this way; the fellow over there with the new trousers.”

“It wasn’t Hill, though; it was—Heath, wasn’t it?”

“That’s it, Heath. I’d like to know how many of last year’s fellows they’ve really got.”

“The paper said six, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but some of those were subs last year. Get on to the referee with the swell sweater! Lavender and yellow! That’s a peach of a combination, what?”

The players trotted off and, after the usual preliminaries, the teams faced each other and the game began. From the first Weston, which was a much lighter team, played a wide-open game and strove to outspeed her opponent. The first quarter proved unexpectedly exciting, for Springdale was by no means prepared for the sort of plays Weston introduced, and she was caught napping time and again. But Weston always lacked the final punch necessary to score, and the teams changed places with the honors belonging to the visitors. In the second quarter the Blue met the adversary’s attacks better, and, securing the ball, began a march down the field that ultimately took the pigskin to the ten-yard line. There, however, an attack on center was stopped and a skin-tackle play fared no better, and Kelly, the Springdale quarter, tossed a forward pass to the tall end whom Chester had recognized. But that youth, having made a perfect catch, fumbled the instant he was tackled and one of the brown-stockinged visitors fell on the ball. A long and high punt sent the pigskin to midfield after two downs had failed to advance it, and Springdale, in fourteen plays, craftily mixing line-plunges with wide end-runs and three forward passes, all of which were completed, soon pushed her left half over for a touchdown. No goal resulted and, with the score 6 to 0, the half ended soon after.

Lanny looked questioningly at Chester as the blanketed warriors left the field. “A dandy attack and no defense worth speaking of,” was Chester’s verdict.

Lanny nodded. “It’s early for a perfect defense,” he replied. “They’ve got team-play, though, all right. They’re two or three weeks ahead of us on that. If we were to meet them next week they’d lick us about twenty to nothing.”

“Easy,” agreed Chester. “But we aren’t. And I’ll trust Dick to bring us around in plenty of time.”

“You really think he’s doing pretty well, do you?” asked Lanny anxiously.

“Dick? I certainly do! Don’t you?”

“Y-yes, only sometimes it seems to me that he’s a little too—too cautious—or something. We’re getting along awfully slowly, Chester.”

“Slow and sure,” replied the quarterback untroubledly. “These chaps will be in top-shape long before our game, if they don’t watch out. What do you think of that forward-pass formation of theirs?”

“I don’t know. It worked well enough, but it doesn’t seem to me that sending three or four men down the field that way to protect the catcher is a good scheme. It shows where the pass is going, in the first place, and gives the other fellow a chance to get there. Seems to me Weston’s scheme, which is about like ours, has it beat. I mean sending three or four men to different parts of the field and so keeping the other chaps guessing.”

“It worked pretty well, though,” mused Chester.

“Against a lighter team, yes. We could break it up without much trouble, I’ll bet. It stands to reason that if you see a bunch of fellows getting together——”

“Suppose, though, Springdale sent another man to another place and threw to him instead?”

“Hm; well, that might go once. It would depend altogether on what sort of a defense the other team put up. Of course, if you’re going to let a man go down the field uncovered there’s bound to be trouble.”

“Did you notice the lateral pass Weston got off in the first quarter? It would have been a dandy if the runner had got away with the ball!”

“Yes, but he didn’t. I don’t believe those laterals are going to be what they’re cracked up to be, Chester. They give the other team a lot of time to size up the situation and meet it. If you could pull them off quick, before the other fellows could guess them, they’d be fine. Dick has the right idea, I guess, when he claims that’s the only way to work them——”

“Not so loud!” cautioned Chester. “Those chaps next to you are trying to listen.” Just then one of the chaps in question left his seat and sauntered down the aisle. Chester watched him suspiciously until he was lost in the gathering that filled the space between grandstand and field.

“So far I don’t think we’ve learned a great deal,” said Lanny thoughtfully. “That fullback of theirs is a good one and, in fact, their whole backfield works together finely and has a good deal of punch. And Kelly looks to me like a pretty nifty little quarter. But their line hasn’t shown much. The left side is weak. Look at the way Weston got through tackle there half a dozen times.”

“They certainly haven’t shown anything startlingly new, unless it’s that forward pass dodge of theirs. They use the same five-men-in-line formation on defense they used last year. I noticed, though, that they pass direct to the runner a good deal.”

“There’s nothing new in that,” said Lanny. “Here they come again. I’d like to see Weston get one over on them. I wonder if they’ve got a man who can kick field-goals.”

“If they have they ought to have used him last time,” replied the other. “They had a fine chance when they were on Springdale’s ten and couldn’t get through.”

“Perhaps they wanted a touchdown.”

“Maybe, but Farrell used to say ‘Hit first!’ and it’s a good scheme, Lanny. If Weston had got three points then you don’t know what the effect on Springdale would have been.”

“She’d have played harder,” said Lanny.

“Yes, but playing harder doesn’t always mean playing better,” replied Chester, with a wise shake of his head. “I tell you, Lanny, there is a whole lot in getting first blood. I’ve seen it win lots and lots of times.”

“Look down there,” whispered Lanny suddenly. “See those two fellows looking up? Isn’t the smaller chap the one who went down a while ago?”

“Yes,” answered Chester softly. “And he’s told the other fellow about us and he’s recognized us. See them talking it over.”

“Well, let them talk,” grunted Lanny. “They’ve got nothing on us.”

“No, but I don’t like my job, just the same. There they go. Do you suppose they’re going to look for a cop?”

“I dare say. Maybe they’re going to send for the ambulance,” replied Lanny with a grin. “Which way did they go?”

“I lost them. No, there they are, and— Say, isn’t that Newman, the coach, they’re talking to?”

“Where? Yes, by Jove, it is! He’s looking up here now!”

“Put your head down! Don’t let him see that white thatch of yours, Lanny!”

“I will not!” declared Lanny defiantly. “I’m not doing anything I’m ashamed of!”

“I suppose not,” muttered Chester, “only, just the same, I sort of feel as if I were!”

“Buck up!” chuckled Lanny. “Here comes the Smart Aleck who went down to tell. Now watch the excitement when the glad news gets out!”

The boy in question pushed his way back to his seat and his companions leaned eagerly toward him. But, although Lanny and Chester frankly listened, they could hear only low whispering and, finally, chuckles. Lanny frowned.

“What are they choking about?” he asked. “They evidently think they’ve got a great joke on us.”

“Probably think we don’t know they’re on to us. There goes the kick-off.”

Lanny, however, was stealing a look toward his neighbors and was puzzled to find them all observing him with amusement. The boy next to him but one nodded impudently as he met Lanny’s gaze. “How’s everything in Clearfield?” he inquired politely.

“Fine, thanks,” replied Lanny gravely. Chester turned an anxious countenance.

“Came over to see a real football team, I suppose,” continued the Springdale youth with a grin.

Lanny nodded. “Yes, and I’m still looking for it,” he answered.

“Keep right on looking,” another boy chuckled. “You won’t see much to-day, old top.”

“I haven’t so far. You fellows are playing your Scrubs, I see.”

“Shut up, Lanny,” whispered Chester.

“Yes, we are,” was the reply from the adversary. “We’re giving them a little work so as to get them in shape for Clearfield. No use using the regulars in that game, you know!”

“That’s right,” returned Lanny cheerfully. “Put your strongest team in the field. You’ll need it!”

“We can beat you with the girl’s basket-ball team,” was the scathing retort. But Lanny, hearkening to Chester’s entreaties, turned away without response, and the neighbors contented themselves for the rest of the game with talking at instead of to them.

It was soon made clear to the two scouts why the boys at the other end of the seat were amused. For the rest of that half, Springdale used only the most ordinary, old-fashioned football. It was quite plain that the Springdale coach, either because he feared the two visitors might really learn something of use to them, or because he wanted to have a joke on them, had instructed the team to show nothing. Lanny and Chester exchanged amused glances when, on Weston’s twenty-yard line, with four to go on fourth down, Springdale chose to lose possession of the ball by a hopeless plunge at guard rather than make her distance by a trick play or even try for a field-goal. In the last quarter Springdale was hard pressed to keep her goal line from being crossed, for Weston, using every play in her programme, got as far as the six yards and might have gone over if, in her eagerness to score, she had not fumbled on the threshold. The game ended soon after that, the figures on the board unchanged, and Weston, possibly puzzled by her adversary’s strange choice of plays in the last half, but evidently well pleased at the outcome, trotted off with the airs of a victor, while a small group of supporters at the far end of the stand waved brown-and-white banners and cheered proudly!

When Lanny and Chester arose to leave they found that their neighbors in the row were waiting for them to pass out ahead. With a slight frown, Lanny led the way, crowding past the youths, and Chester followed silently. As they passed, the enemy indulged in pointed remarks to each other. “Seen any spies about to-day, Hal?” “I thought I saw a couple of the things.” “Guess they didn’t learn much, eh?” “No, it’s a poor day for spies.” “Too bad to come all that way for nothing!” “Yes, isn’t it? Poor chaps, I’m sorry for them!”

Lanny only smiled untroubledly, and Chester, trying to look quite as if he heard nothing, gazed intently at the back of Lanny’s head. But when he was squeezing his way past the last boy in the row a foot went out and Chester, stumbling, had to catch Lanny’s shoulder to keep from falling. Instantly he turned and confronted the grinning face beside him.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly, “or you’ll get hurt.”

There was something in Chester’s countenance that silenced the retort on the Springdale youth’s lips, and it was not until Lanny and Chester were in the aisle and on their way down that the fellow’s courage returned. Then, raising his voice, he called:

“You wouldn’t hurt anyone, you Clearfield spy!”

A jeer from the others accompanied the taunt, but Chester kept straight ahead. He was thoroughly angry inside, but he knew that it would never do to accept that challenge. Chester was no coward, but he realized that it would look rather disgraceful for a member of the Clearfield team to visit Springdale as a scout and then get into a fracas! All the way down the stand, and, indeed, until they were well back into the town, they were uncomfortably conscious of the curious, amused, often unfriendly regard of the Springdale fellows, and more than once the word “Spy!” reached them as, striving to converse unconcernedly, they followed the returning throng toward the town.

But eventually they found themselves alone, and Lanny heaved a sigh of relief. “I wouldn’t do that again for a thousand dollars!” he said emphatically.

“And I wouldn’t do it for ten thousand,” replied Chester. “The next time Dick wants any dirty work like that done he may do it himself! The worst of it was we couldn’t fight!”

“Which,” replied Lanny dryly as they boarded a car, “was lucky for us!”

CHAPTER XII
THE BOARD OF STRATEGY

“Home again from a foreign shore,” murmured Lanny as they climbed down from the car in the Square. “I wonder how the game came out. Bet you we got licked, Chester.”

“I don’t believe so. We’ll ask somebody.” He looked about him but caught sight of no one he knew. “There’ll be some of the fellows in Castle’s, I guess. Come on in. Want a soda?”

“No, thanks. I must be getting home. I’ll call up Gordon on the ’phone and find out. Will you be around at Dick’s after supper?”

“Yes. Wait a minute, Lanny! There’s Fudge Shaw in there. He’ll know about the game.”

Lanny, who had started toward the crossing on his way home, rejoined Chester and together they pushed through the crowd at the doorway of the popular drug store. At the right, in a corner which held a cushioned settee and two or three small wire-legged tables, sat Fudge. An emaciated rubber plant hung its leaves above his head, a tall glass of ice-cream soda was in one hand and a dripping spoon in the other, and his eyes were fixed ecstatically on the big glass jar which, suspended in the nearer window, glowed with carmine and purple.

“It’s a shame to wake him,” chuckled Chester, as they wormed their way through the throng. “What an awful looking mess he’s eating!”

“How did the game come out, Fudge?” demanded Lanny anxiously.

Fudge’s rapt gaze fell slowly away from the hypnotic brilliancy. “Eh?” he murmured.

Lanny impatiently repeated the question, while Fudge blinked and brought his thoughts back with an evident effort.

“Hello, fellows! Game? Oh, they beat us. Thirteen to seven.”

“What do you know about that?” demanded Lanny disgustedly. “Isn’t that the dickens?”

“How did they do it, Fudge?” asked Chester.

“Made two touchdowns to our one,” replied Fudge, dipping his spoon in the harlequin concoction and conveying a liberal portion of it to his mouth.

“Oh, cut out the comedy,” said Lanny. “What was the matter with our team?”

“Search me,” replied Fudge, in an injured tone. “We just couldn’t get started, it seemed. Logan scored in the first period and the second, and we didn’t do anything until about five minutes before the end of the game. Then that fellow Hull shot a forward off to Gordon and Gordie got away with it for about thirty yards. After that they couldn’t stop us and Nelson Beaton went over for the touchdown.”

“What sort of a game did Logan play?” asked Lanny, plainly disconsolate.

“Fine! They had a grand time running around our ends, or they did until Dick put Gordon Merrick in for Felker. Felker was rotten to-day on defense. Gee, but Gordie played a great little game after he got in! And, say, Lanny, that fellow Hull is a wonder! You ought to have seen the way he fooled those fellows on quarterback runs! It was fine!”

“It must have been if we got licked like that!” said Lanny. “Was McCoy good?”

“I guess so. Pretty fair. We didn’t seem able to stop them outside of tackles, though. That right half of theirs made a seventy-yard run one time. That was when they got their first touchdown. They fooled us on a fake-kick play and sent a back around Felker’s end from our fifteen yards.”

“I knew we’d get licked,” muttered Lanny. “We must have played a solid-ivory sort of game, Chester!”

“You ought to hear the fellows roasting the team afterwards,” chuckled Fudge, struggling with another spoonful of ice-cream. “Dick, too. They say he didn’t more than half try to win. He put in six subs in the last half. What sort of a way is that?”

“I take it you didn’t get in,” said Chester, sarcastically.

“I’m on the Scrub,” replied Fudge, untroubledly. “Bet you I could have done as well as Thad Brimmer did, though. How was the Springdale game, Lanny?”

“Pretty good,” Lanny replied absently. “Six to nothing, Springdale. Well, I must be getting on. See you later, Chester.”

Chester nodded and Lanny went out. “He feels pretty bad about it, I guess,” said Chester.

“He’d have felt worse if he’d been here and seen it,” replied Fudge, philosophically. “It was p, u, n, k, punk!”

“Say, for goodness sake, what sort of a mess is that you’re eating?” asked Chester, his curiosity at last demanding satisfaction.

“This?” asked Fudge, stirring his spoon about in the glass and watching the resultant blending of colors with admiring eyes. “This is what I call an Opalescent Dream.”

“Looks more like a nightmare! What’s in it?”

“Strawberry and chocolate and lemon ice-cream and blood-orange sirup. You take a third of each and——”

But Chester, with a gesture eloquent of repugnance, had flown. Fudge smiled calmly and stirred again with still more interesting results. “Some folks don’t know what’s good,” he murmured blissfully.

The Board of Strategy, as George Cotner chose to call it, met in Dick’s parlor that evening at half-past seven, Dick, Lanny, Cottrell and Cotner present. Dick disposed of the afternoon’s contest with Logan in few words.

“They outplayed us,” he said frankly. “Our line was fully as good as theirs, I think, but their backs were better. Besides, they had more plays and used them well. We were handicapped by a lack of plays and those we had didn’t fool them. They made practically all of their gains around our tackles and couldn’t make much impression on the line. They got their first touchdown as the result of a fine run by Showalter, their right half, which put the ball on our thirteen yards. From there they took it over in one play, around our right end. Felker was neatly boxed and they had no trouble. Their next score was after they had worked our ends and thrown a forward pass for gains that took them from the middle of the field to our twelve yards. They finally got through Wayland for the last half-yard. They made twelve first downs to our seven, I believe. We outpunted them by about five yards on an average. Hull, who took your place, Chester, ran the team very well and was very clever at carrying the ball. He promises remarkably well and ought to make a first-class quarter by next Fall. We used six substitutes in the third and fourth quarters. Merrick at right end showed up well and made a clever catch of a forward pass and a thirty-yard run that made possible our touchdown. On the whole, the substitutes did good work. I’m sorry we couldn’t have won, Lanny, but the game showed us our weaknesses, and that’s something. Now, what did you fellows learn at Springdale?”

“Mighty little,” answered Lanny. “They got on to us and stalled all through the last half.”

“What about the first half?” asked Dick.

“Weston played all around them in the first quarter. Used a lot of queer stunts from open formation, like double-passes back of the line, with an end breaking through or a half running wide. The plays weren’t much, but Springdale didn’t get on to them for a while. In the second period she opened her line out and dropped an extra man behind it. That worked better. She made her score by pretty clever work. Got off three dandy forward passes and mixed her plays up well.”

“What formation did she use on attack?” asked Dick.

“Same as last year. For kicking she played her ends way out. It wasn’t a fair test, though, for Weston is a light team and couldn’t do much with the Springdale line. If she’d use that kicking formation against us we could smear her every time, I guess.”

Dick continued his questions, making notes from the information he received, and at last said, with a smile: “On the whole, I think you chaps managed to find out a good deal. Still, it’s pretty evident that Springdale didn’t show anything new. She wouldn’t, I suppose, so early in the season. We’ll see what the Springdale paper says Monday about the game.”

“Look here, Dick,” said Chester, “what’s the—the ethics of that sort of thing?”

“What sort of thing, Chester?”

“Why, scouting, as we call it; spying on the other fellow.”

“I don’t know,” replied Dick slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered it. Why do you ask?”

“Because I felt like an awful sneak over there this afternoon,” was the answer. “So did Lanny, only he wouldn’t own up to it.”

“Everyone does it,” observed George Cotner.

“That doesn’t make it right, though,” said Chester doggedly. “I don’t believe it is right, either. If it were I wouldn’t have felt so like a—a fox!”

“I’m sorry,” said Dick. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do it if I’d known you were going to feel that way about it.” He jabbed a pencil thoughtfully into the tablecloth. Then, “Honestly, fellows, I don’t know what to say about it. As George says, everyone does it; colleges and schools everywhere. I suppose that if we look on football as a sort of athletic warfare—to coin a term—we have every right to spy on the enemy in order to learn, as in real warfare, what his condition is and what his plans may be.”

“Surest thing you know!” agreed George.

“On the other hand, if we look at football as merely a—a gentleman’s pastime, the spying part is hard to defend. It’s rather a difficult question to answer, Chester.”

“A football campaign,” declared George convincedly, “is exactly like real war. We form our army, we train it, we map out a campaign, we plan strategies. If the enemy has weak spots in its—its battle-line we want to know it so we can throw the brunt of our attack there. As long as the other fellow doesn’t hide behind fences and hold secret practice we’ve got a perfect right to go and watch him and learn what we can. It’s done all the time. All the big colleges do it and I’ve never heard any objections made before. Why, bless you, fellows, Springdale will be over here scouting in a couple of weeks!”

“Just the same,” returned Chester, using his favorite expression, and bringing a smile to Lanny’s face, “no more of it for me, if you please!”

“Is that how you feel, Lanny?” Dick inquired.

“I guess it is, Dick. I don’t say I wouldn’t do it again if you say it’s all fair and right, but I didn’t like it to-day very much. For my part, I can’t see why it should be necessary. If all the teams agreed not to do it I suppose we’d get on just as well. After all, it doesn’t do much good, I guess. A team doesn’t show its real stuff until its big game. I think we could get on without it.”

“I’m perfectly willing to try,” said Dick. “Somehow, now that you mention it, it doesn’t seem quite—well, gentlemanly. But that raises the question, Lanny, of how far we can go and act like gentlemen. Is it fair, for instance, to read about the other team’s progress in the newspapers?”

“Quite, I’d say,” replied Lanny. “Seems to me that’s different. If information gets into the papers that’s their lookout, and anyone has a right to read it.”

“If scouts get into their grandstand that’s their business, too,” said George. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is,” answered Chester, “that they are willing the newspaper stuff should be published, but they aren’t willing that we should see them play. And they can’t keep us out if we have the money to buy tickets. You can talk your head off, George, but I know there is a difference.”

“I can’t see it!”

“It’s there, just the same,” muttered Chester.

“Well, let’s agree that it is wrong, fellows; or, at least, bad form, a little underhand, a little ungentlemanly. Let’s make a rule not to do it. We’ll play it safe, in other words.” This from Dick.

“That’s all right if you can get the other fellow to cut it out too,” demurred George, “but if he doesn’t he’s got a big advantage over us. I call that pretty crazy business.”

“Oh, let’s be crazy, then,” exclaimed Lanny. “Fair sport is fair sport, but spying isn’t! It’s sneaky stuff! Let’s call it off.”

“Right-o,” agreed Chester. “And I dare say when Springdale learns that we’ve stopped it she’ll stop it too.”

“She’s not likely to believe we have stopped it,” observed George dryly, “after seeing you two fellows over there this afternoon.”

“No; but she’ll believe it after awhile,” said Dick cheerfully. “So we’ll call that settled. Now then, let’s see what we’ve learned to-day.” He picked his memorandum book from the table and began to turn the leaves. “Personally, I’m pretty well pleased with this Logan game. It’s shown up a whole lot of weak places, fellows, and you can’t make repairs until you learn where the breaks are. If we can get through the Corwin game with no worse results we’ll be doing pretty well.”

“Great Scott!” groaned Lanny. “Don’t tell me we’ve got to take another licking next week!”

“I hope not, but if we are licked and we get through with no injuries, as we did to-day, and we find out our mistakes as well as we did to-day, I’ll be satisfied.”

“The school won’t,” replied Lanny glumly. “Three defeats out of five games would be going it pretty strong, Dick.”

“Fairly,” returned the coach untroubledly. “So would being beaten by Springdale, Lanny.”

“Of course, but—oh, well, you know best, I dare say,” Lanny sighed. “If it wasn’t that I happen to be captain, Dick——”

“There’s a good deal of growling about to-day’s defeat,” observed George Cotner. “Of course, fellows always do kick when the team loses and cheer like mad when it wins. Still, I’m inclined to think it might be a good plan to—well, to make a little extra effort and win next week’s game, Dick. Just for the—er—the look of the thing, you know.”

“Bless the look of the thing,” said Dick placidly. “We’ll win if we can do it without disturbing the plan of development we’ve settled on. If we lose, the fellows will just have to howl. What we’ve got to do is keep our eyes on the Eighteenth of November!”

“You bet!” said Chester. “Who cares whether Corwin is beaten or not? Or Benton, or Lesterville? We want to lick Springdale! That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

“I dare say,” agreed George; “but isn’t there always the danger of losing so many games that the team will think it can’t win?”

“You mean it might develop the habit of defeat?” laughed Dick. “That’s a new idea, George. I didn’t know you were such a psychologist.”

“I’m not, I’m a Methodist,” retorted the manager.

“There may be something in your theory, though,” Dick continued, “and so I guess it will be best to let them win once in awhile.” Dick’s eyes twinkled as he turned to Lanny’s somewhat disconsolate countenance. “Which game on the rest of the schedule would you rather win, Lanny?”

“What!” exclaimed the captain. “Do you mean that—” Then he caught the gleam of laughter in Dick’s eyes and grinned relievedly. “We’ll beat the grads,” he said. “How’ll that do?”

“Finely! So let’s get busy and see where we stand.” Dick took up his memorandum again. “Move up here, George, and let me have those notes of yours. That’s the ticket. Now then, starting with the plays we used——”

CHAPTER XIII
A TRIP TO THE CITY

On Monday, Morris and his sister and May Burnham made the journey to New York. Mr. Brent had advanced to them the difference between what had been paid in by subscribers to the Fund and the ninety dollars at which they had figured the purchases. They set off in fine spirits, for the day was what Morris called a “perfect corker,” and all were flushed with the spirit of adventure. They had luncheon on the train, Morris acting the part of host, and reached the Grand Central Terminal a few minutes after they had finished. Visits to New York were infrequent enough to make them feel quite breathlessly excited as they followed Morris to the street. Morris was all for getting to the furniture store by subway, but the girls wanted to see the sights, they declared, and refused to be beguiled underground.

“I always feel like a human mole down there,” said Louise. “And I’m frightened half to death besides.”

“And we want to see the streets and the shops and the people,” added May. “It’s a perfect waste of opportunity to come to New York and spend half your time in subways, Morris!”

So Morris gave in with fairly good grace, grumbling a little at the foolishness of girls, and boarded a surface car. He made the mistake of turning eastward instead of toward the west when they alighted at Eighteenth Street and had to stand some joking from his companions when the error was discovered. Marsden’s proved to be a huge establishment occupying a building of its own, with floor after floor of wonderful things. For over an hour they trotted around, in and out of elevators, up and down endless aisles, at the heels of a most imposing gentleman in a frock coat and immaculate gray trousers. Morris declared afterwards that he didn’t have much chance to see the furniture, he was all the time admiring the creases in those trousers and wondering whether they were starched! May, on the other hand, confessed that she had been quite hypnotized by the salesman’s lovely whiskers! So, if we believe them, Louise was the only member of the Purchasing Committee able to give her entire attention to the matter at hand. And Louise did, occasionally reprimanding the others for their levity, or begging them to please help her decide. It was, in fact, really Louise who made the purchases, for when the others were not exchanging whispered jokes they were usually wandering around far from the article in discussion.

It was no easy task to decide, either, for Marsden’s showed so many styles and values that Louise was quite at sea. But at last everything on the list was accounted for and, to their delight, the total, after deducting the discount, was well under the ninety dollars. Even the filing-cabinet, which Morris had predicted they would have to look elsewhere for, was obtainable at Marsden’s. At the last, because they still had several dollars left unexpended, Louise ordered a handsome wastebasket of Japanese woven ware, the color of which almost exactly matched the mahogany of the other things, on her own authority. They gave Mr. Brent’s address, obtained the salesman’s promise to have the goods shipped by freight not later than the next afternoon, paid the bill and emerged triumphant.

“I think we did beautifully,” exulted May as they joined the throng on the sidewalk outside. “And we have nearly four dollars left!”

“Yes,” agreed Morris, with a grin, “I think we did pretty well myself. I don’t want to seem to be taking too much credit, but I must say that without my assistance in there——”

“Your assistance!” interrupted Louise almost crossly. “You were both about as much use as—as nothing at all! I think you acted horridly. I know that man thought you were crazy.”

“He’s got nothing on me, then,” laughed Morris. “I’m mighty sure I thought he was! Say, if the salesmen dress the way he does, Sis, what do you suppose Marsden himself wears? Bet you he’s covered with purple velvet and gold lace. Gee, I’d like to see him!”

For another hour or more the two girls shopped, Morris dangling along and complaining at every doorway. They didn’t buy much, but they had the finest sort of a good time and, or so Morris averred, were in such a condition of amazed and delighted awe that their eyes very nearly popped from their heads! And then, of a sudden, Morris, who had been standing on first one foot and then the other, and who had been buffeted and pushed and squeezed and jammed, and who was more tired than if he had put in a hard two hours of football practice, discovered to his joy and relief that they had just time to reach the station to get the train home, and literally dragged the girls from the store they were in. But before they could reach the car-line the brilliant windows of a famous confectioner sprang into view and May squealed with delight and refused to go home until she had had an ice-cream soda. After that it was a close shave, but they eventually reached the train before it pulled out and, thoroughly breathless and tired, sank into their seats and viewed each other in triumph.

[“I’ve had the loveliest time,” announced Louise exultantly], “and I’m simply tired—to—death!”

[“‘I’ve had the loveliest time,’ announced Louise exultantly.”]

“Tired!” grumbled Morris. “Don’t talk to me about being tired! I’m one big ache from head to toes, and my feet feel as if they’d been pounded by a spile-driver! I don’t mind buying things, but when it comes to shopping—excuse me!”

And the odd part of it was that Morris’s tiredness stayed with him all the next day, and when, at practice, he tried to kick some goals in the course of his half-hour instruction of the candidates under his charge, he made awful misses! The Scrubs played the Varsity to a standstill that afternoon, and all the driving of which Dick and Lanny were capable, and all the entreaties of Chester Cottrell and of Perry Hull, who took his place finally, failed to bring about a score. The Scrubs were as proud as turkey cocks and remained so until the next day, when, smarting under the ignominy of those forty scoreless minutes, the Varsity came back and literally tore the other team wide open and scored three touchdowns, two of which Morris converted into goals. The best that the Scrub Team could do was to force a safety on the Varsity when Tupper misjudged a punt.

That was on Wednesday. Thursday passed without a scrimmage since Dick was not satisfied with the tackling and handling of the ball. Several of the Varsity had been showing the weakest sort of work at tackling and fumbles had been far too frequent. And so on Thursday there was a hard drill at the dummy and a lot of work in essentials. Cable took the linemen off to a corner of the field and gave them a long session in blocking and breaking through, and Morris kept his pupils busy in front of a goal. It must be confessed that Morris was not a huge success as an instructor. He knew how to kick goals from placement and from drops, and he was a good punter, but when it came to imparting his knowledge to George Tupper and Nelson Beaton, he was far less skillful. The explanation was that he didn’t really know how he obtained his results, and if one doesn’t know how he does a thing, it’s well-nigh impossible to teach another! Morris took infinite trouble, for he was fully as enthusiastic as Dick about developing the kickers, and he worked as hard as he knew how, but his method of correcting a pupil was to say, “No, you don’t get it, George. Now watch me. See? One hand on each side—get your lacings right—sight your goal—drop it—swing— There you are! See what I mean?” And Tupper or Beaton would assent doubtfully and, perhaps, do no better the next time. Still, George Tupper had made progress; that couldn’t be denied; and Dick hoped for the best and silently wished he knew more about the gentle art of drop- and placement-kicking himself.

On Friday the team showed some improvement as a result of the previous day’s practice, and in the short and not very hard scrimmage with the Scrubs managed to get by without fumbling. But a spell of unseasonably warm weather had had its effect on the players of both teams and there were distinct signs of sluggishness visible. Dick read the signs and called an early halt. He had been expecting a slump for several days and now, he told himself, it had arrived. He was relieved rather than troubled, however, for if there must be a slump—and there usually is at some time during a football season—it was better to have it now than two weeks, or even a week later. He hoped for a change of weather on the morrow, but scarcely dared expect it.

And it didn’t come. If anything, Saturday was warmer and more enervating than Friday had been, and many of the seventeen players whom Dick took to Corwin at noon looked dragged and tired. Not a few more were plainly irritable, always a bad sign, and Dick secretly feared that Lanny was not destined to be much pleased with the outcome of the afternoon’s game.

But if the Varsity was not in the best of condition, little fault could be found with the Scrubs that afternoon. Perhaps the prospect of having a real game with an outside team buoyed them up and caused them to forget the fact that they had been listless the day before. At all events, they trotted on to the field for the contest with the North Side team looking much alive. Will Scott, who had not been taken along to Corwin with the Varsity, had been given the management of the Scrubs for the occasion, which meant that he had his hands pretty full. Not that the players demanded any attention from him, but he had to look after the contest itself; find boys to take money at the two gates, see that Danny Shore’s players were looked after on arrival, arrange for a referee, an umpire and a head linesman, find a youth to take one end of the ten-yard chain and perform a number of other duties, which, since he had never performed them before, caused him a condition of mind and body closely approaching collapse.

The public turned out generously for that much-heralded game. A large portion of the audience was composed of workers in the factories, who were plainly there for two things; to have a good time—and having a good time with them entailed making a certain amount of noise—and to see their champions win. When the last spectator had entered and Will Scott hurriedly counted the proceeds, he discovered that something over three hundred and twenty persons had paid their dimes at the gates, which, everything considered, was a good showing.

The Scrubs were playing to-day under the title of the High School Second Team, a title which carried more dignity and seemed better calculated to attract an audience. Two of the Varsity substitutes who were not taken to Corwin lent their strength to Captain Nostrand’s team. These were Grover, who took Jones’s place at left end, and McCoy, who ousted Burns at left half. Fudge Shaw was at center, a position which Fudge had been filling most creditably.

So far as enthusiasm went, that game was notable. The North Siders rooted loudly and continuously, while the High School adherents, encouraged by the enemy to expressions of loyalty, greeted the Second with a hearty cheer when it appeared, and indulged in further encouragement of a similar nature as the game progressed. The North Siders were older than their opponents and averaged, especially in the line, much heavier. But their play was scarcely more than elemental, and appeared to be built around two very clever backs, Wightson and Larue. The first of these was a raw-boned Welshman of about twenty, and the second a black-haired little French Canadian who seemed to be built of steel, and went into the enemy like a human bullet, and was just about as hard to stop. Danny Shores, red-headed and shrill-voiced, played quarterback and made up by grim determination for what he lacked in experience and science.

It was a very good game, in spite of its raggedness. Fumbles were plentiful on both sides, and the North Side backs continually missed the signals. The Seconds showed an over-eagerness that lost them more than it gained, and Pete Farrar, who played quarter, had his hands more than full in trying to steady them down. The High School players got the jump on the adversary in the first few minutes of the game, and so bewildered them by open plays that, almost before anyone realized what was happening, they were down on their opponents’ ten-yard line with every indication of scoring. But an unlucky fumble spoiled their chance of a touchdown, a fumble which red-headed Danny Shores recovered by plunging between Fudge’s sturdy legs.

CHAPTER XIV
AN UNWILLING HERO

North Side used Wightson and Larue continuously, hurling them against the line from tackle to tackle and managing to work the ball from under the goal well into the middle of the field. There, however, the Second, surmising that attacks outside the tackles were not included in the enemy’s present plans, concentrated its secondary defense behind the center of its line and stopped the advance, North Side being forced to kick. The punt was poor and rolled out near the adversary’s forty yards, and from there the Second began another advance. But a fumble again lost ground and a punt went over the goal line. On a third try from their twenty yards, the North Siders managed to get Wightson clear for a twelve-yard run. A minute later Larue also squirmed free and, with the factory workers yelling their lungs out in the stand and along the side lines, North Side passed the middle of the field, and for the first time had the pigskin in High School territory.

They played a hard and desperate game, caring nothing for knocks and bruises; in fact, showing a willingness to stand any sort of punishment so long as they gained ground. Concentrating their attack on Gage, at left guard, they wore that youth down, so that, finally, on the Second’s thirty-two yards, that player was withdrawn to recover his breath and nurse his injuries, and Johnson took his place. Johnson was a big Senior who knew little football, but who looked so imposing and mighty that the North Side transferred its attentions to the other guard. But Captain Nostrand was not so easy a proposition as Gage had proved, and the enemy’s advance was stopped. A desperate attempt to get a forward pass across the goal line from the thirty yards failed, and the twelve-minute period came to an end.

High School punted on second down when play was resumed and Grover recovered the ball after a fumble by Quarterback Shores on the North Siders’ thirty-yard line. From there, in eleven plays, mixing forward passes with fake-kicks and end runs, High School scored, sending McCoy through right tackle for two yards and a touchdown. Brimmer, who essayed to kick the goal, failed by a narrow margin.

There was no more scoring in that half, although the North Siders were threatening High School’s goal when the whistle blew. Undismayed, the audience from across the river consumed peanuts and popcorn and enjoyed themselves noisily. Nostrand returned Gage to the line when play began again and put Burns in for Sawin at right half. Getting the pigskin on the kick-off, North Side, with one or two substitutes in her line, returned to her line-bucking tactics, evidently resolved to tire out and wear down the High School defense. Wightson was the marvel of that contest. How he could perform the work that was given to him and keep on his feet, no one understood. He was always good for a short gain and seldom failed to get clear of the first defense. Only the fine work of McCoy and Burns, the latter returned to the backfield on account of his defensive ability, saved the day time after time, for, once free, the big Welshman could never have been stopped. Pete Farrar, with his one hundred and forty-odd pounds, would have been tossed aside like a chip had he ever been called on to get between Wightson and the goal line! Now and then, but infrequently during the first three periods, Larue was called on, but for the most part it was the Welshman who took the ball and banged himself, head down, against the opposing line, much as an enraged bull might have assaulted a stone wall. High School was fortunate in being able to know beforehand pretty well where the attack was coming, since Danny Shores had but few plays and those were not difficult to guess, and so was able to put her backfield defenses where it would do the most good. But for all of that, their line was showing wear and tear before that third quarter was over. North Side did not deliberately “mix it up,” and only one penalty was meted out to her because of unnecessary roughness, but her savage and desperate attacks were bound to tell. Fudge was wearing a bloody nose, which gave him a most disreputable appearance, and several other linemen showed marks of battle when the third quarter ended.

By that time the North Side supporters had become impatient and were howling for a touchdown, calling on the players individually to distinguish themselves. “Get into ’em, Billy! What you scared of?” “Eat ’em up, Pat! Show us what you know!” “Give us a touchdown now! Are you goin’ to let ’em lick yer?” “Where’s yer fight, Terry? Kill ’em, boy, kill ’em!” “Give us a score, Danny! Let’s do ’em up, now.”

As if in obedience to such promptings, North Side began again harder, more desperately than ever. A penalty for holding put High School back to her twenty-three yards. An end run gained but a yard, and Brimmer punted almost straight into air. When the ball stopped rolling it was North Side’s on High School’s thirty-two yards. Yells of delight and encouragement came from the stand, and Danny hurled Wightson at the line again. Two yards resulted, McCoy stopping the runner. Larue made four on left tackle and was pulled down by Brimmer. Wightson again at Fudge’s position and three yards more were gained. Wightson at right guard and first down made.

Twenty to go now. Danny Shores himself took the ball but made no gain. Then Wightson made three and the fullback two, and, with five to gain on fourth down, Danny faked a place-kick and sent Wightson straight into the line, plunging, dodging, straining, and made the distance by a bare two inches, as the tape showed! Pandemonium reigned in the North Siders’ camp. Entreaties, commands, threats of personal violence were hurled at the players! High School gathered herself compactly, concentrating her whole strength behind the center of her line. For North Side had tried no end of plays and seemed not to have included them in her education. But Danny Shores was red-headed, and so is a fox. A try at the center yielded a scant two feet and took the ball to the nine yards. Then the pigskin was shot back to Larue and that swarthy-faced little Canuck shot around Grover’s end like a weasel and planted the ball just behind the left goal-post!

The North Side supporters were all for rushing onto the field and carrying the heroic Larue around on their shoulders, and it was all that Will Scott and the officials, aided by most of the visiting team, could do to persuade them to postpone that ceremony. When order had been restored and the delighted and noisily appreciative supporters had been cajoled back of the side line again, Danny essayed to kick the goal. But North Side’s chance to win the game there and then was lost, for the ball went well under the cross-bar, and High School shouted its relief.

There were still six minutes of playing time remaining, and Captain Nostrand called on his team to make the most of it. High School kicked off and North Side caught and ran back to her fifteen yards. Larue now took the brunt of the work, but his forte was broken field running, and his attempts at the line were less successful than Wightson’s. Nevertheless, North Side made first down twice and took the ball to her forty yards before she was forced to punt. Farrar caught on High School’s thirty-three and, behind good interference, ran back to midfield. There a fumble lost a down, a forward pass failed, and Brimmer punted to the opponent’s twenty. Danny Shores made the catch, but was downed without gain and Larue tried to win through the left of the line without success. A fumble by Larue cost North Side half a dozen yards, and the ball sailed through the air to midfield again. Once more Farrar caught and ran back, reeling off ten or twelve yards before he was stopped. A forward pass, Farrar to Smith, gained seven and McCoy made it first down off left tackle. From the thirty-yard line High School advanced to the six, mixing her plays bafflingly and fighting with desperation. And then, once more on the threshold of a score, luck deserted her. Farrar, attempting a forward pass to Grover, found that end out of position for the catch, and so tried, in forlorn hope, to gain around the other side. But he was caught well back of the line and, on third down, the ball went into play on the twelve yards. A double pass to Brimmer for a plunge at the left of the line failed miserably and, as a last resort, a field-goal was attempted. But Brimmer never had a chance to get the ball away, for the whole right side of High School’s line crumpled before the savage attack of the enemy, and the fullback was downed with the pigskin in his hands.

Then Fortune appeared to desert the home team utterly. Larue got clear through, eluding the secondary defense as though he was greased, and put forty yards behind him before Farrar, running desperately, brought him down from behind. From midfield to High School’s fifteen-yard line plunged the triumphant North Siders. High School was weakening every minute now. Nostrand put in two fresh linemen and replaced Burns with Sawin, but the advance went on, Larue finding all sorts of holes to squirm through, and the redoubtable Wightson, rested and chafing under inactivity, returned to the attack with redoubled fury, hurling himself at the faltering High School line for good gains.

With two minutes left and the ball just inside the third white line, High School fought for time, hopeless now of victory and only seeking to stave off defeat. Twice the whistle shrilled while some real or imaginary injury was looked to, and each time North Side raged like so many tigers who had tasted blood.

“One minute and fifty-six seconds,” proclaimed the Timer.

“All right now, fellows!” piped Danny. “Over with it! Here’s where we score again!”

“Hold them, Scrub!” shouted Nostrand hoarsely, and, “Throw ’em back!” yelled Farrar. “Get down there, Shaw! Play low, fellows! Get under ’em and throw ’em back!”

Then—well, no one ever had a very clear idea of what immediately ensued. All that is known is that somewhere between the North Side center and Wightson the ball went astray and that for the longest four seconds on record it bobbed and trickled about under the feet of fully half the contending players. But after that what happened was just this. Fudge Shaw, who, perhaps, owed his presence at center more to his ability to keep his eyes on the ball than to any other feature of his playing, was one of the first to cry “Ball! Ball!” Also, he was one of the first to break through. Unfortunately, he came through on his hands and knees and his first effort to capture the erratic pigskin only sent it further afield. But Fudge, by a miracle of spontaneity that must have shocked his system dreadfully, rolled to his feet, seized the bobbing ball from under the outstretched hands of a North Side player and staggered off with it!

Having done that much, Fudge was willing to call a halt, and he proved it by stopping stock-still and, looking back, inviting someone to lay him low. But, as it happened, he was for the moment unchallenged, and instead of a tackle he received the exultant, imperious, entreating cries of his team-mates to “Run, Shaw!” “Go it, Fudge!” He heard those cries plainly, in spite of the counter-cries from the momentarily befuddled enemy, and, although they chimed in not at all with his inclinations, he obeyed them and started, somewhat irresolutely, toward the far-distant goal.

Fudge was not built for speed. There was no unnecessary fat on his somewhat rotund body, but his legs were short and stocky and his strides, lengthen them as he might, covered scant territory. But, despairingly he ran, with the enemy momentarily drawing nearer and nearer, a grim, flaming-haired Danny, with “Danger” written all over him, in the lead. To say that Fudge despaired because the enemy promised to stop his flight would be wide of the truth. Fudge despaired because they didn’t hurry up and do it! Fudge had not the slightest desire in all the wide, wide world to race at breakneck speed down that interminable field and become a hero. The price was too large! If someone would only take the ball from him, it would be fine! And, as if in answer to Fudge’s wish, Danny Shores gained until he was close behind. And Fudge, half closing his eyes, awaited the shock of that tackle.

But it didn’t come! Feet spurned the turf behind him, a purple-stockinged figure raced up, Danny Shores went reeling to earth and Fudge was again out of danger, free to carry that ball in triumph over some eighty yards!

The player who had cleared Danny from his course was the fleet-footed Grover and with a world of entreaty in his eyes and voice, Fudge half turned, held the pigskin out and faltered laboredly, “Take it!”

But Grover had shot his bolt. He fell behind. Only his voice followed Fudge: “Run, Shaw! You’ve got it!”

So poor Fudge, his short legs twinkling so fast that they became a mere purplish-yellow blur, ran! And behind him came friend and foe. Midfield now, and still uncaptured! Only fifty yards more! Only! The stand was shouting wildly. From the side lines, where raced shrieking partisans of the visitors, came cries of rage, of encouragement, of despair! One by one the High School interference, hastily formed but effective, performed their duty and fell behind, and now only one of the enemy pursued and only one of the High School players followed. At the forty yards Fudge was gasping painfully for breath. At the thirty he was ready, more than ready to give up. If only, thought Fudge, someone would pull him down! He resented the fact that he was allowed to run his legs off, and held it in for weeks against Danny Shores’ team that they had so easily allowed themselves to be put out of the running!

At the twenty-yard line Fudge saw the goal-posts distinctly for the first time and the hope that perhaps, after all, he might reach them without dying first came to him and encouraged him. He never once looked back. He only hoped each moment that hands would seize him and pull him to earth. But Fudge’s hope was idle, for, near the fifteen-yard line, Farrar made a final despairing effort, flung himself in the path of the pursuing North Sider and together they subsided, too weak to move for many moments. And then, with the shouts of the spectators beating on his ears like the sound of distant surf, Fudge, unwilling hero of the contest, fell across the last white line and sank into peaceful coma!

CHAPTER XV
CORWIN WINS

While Fudge, completely exhausted, was being restored to usefulness, Captain Nostrand converted the six points to seven by an easy goal. And before Fudge, assisted by admiring team-mates, had reached the bench the game was over, High School had won, 13 to 6, the North Siders were dejectedly leaving the field and Fudge had leaped into fame! A full eighty-five yards, they called that run, which, allowing for slight exaggeration born of enthusiasm, it was. But Fudge, with becoming modesty, insisted that it hadn’t been a foot over eighty-three! Back in the dressing-room, having recovered breath and presence of mind, Fudge rendered his version of the feat to a respectfully attentive audience.

“I saw the fumble and tried to get through, but their center blocked me off and I had to crawl under him. I could almost reach the ball, but not quite; I touched it, I think. Then I dived across for it, knocking a couple of North Siders out of my way, and picked it up right under the nose of that fellow Wightson. My, but he was mad! Then I started down the field, and——”

“What did you stop for?” asked some one puzzledly.

Fudge’s modesty again asserted itself. “Well,” he answered frankly, “I’m no sprinter; not built for it. I can run a long time, but I’m not fast, if you see what I mean. So I thought that if I could pass the ball to one of you fellows who was a better sprinter I’d do it. You see, it didn’t matter who made the runs so long as we got the touchdown.” Faint murmurs of admiration greeted this noble sentiment. Pete Farrar’s countenance expressed slight amazement. It didn’t sound quite like Fudge. Still, that youth’s expression was so guileless that Pete concluded that perhaps, after all, Fudge was as unselfish as he pictured himself. “There was no one to take it, though,” continued the hero, warming to the narrative; “and so I saw that I’d have to make the score myself. Shores was right after me, and a lot of the others too. Once Shores almost had me, but I swung aside——”

“It was Grover who put Shores out,” said Sawin.

“I know. It was good work, too,” declared Fudge heartily. “But he wouldn’t have caught me, because I’d got my second-wind by that time, and the rest was easy. With the start I had none of them could have caught me.”

“Hm,” said Captain Nostrand, “you sort of hate yourself, don’t you, Fudge?”

But the consensus of opinion was that Nostrand’s sarcasm was in poor taste, although perhaps excusable to some extent since envy is a common failing. Nor was Sprague McCoy’s remark thought any better of. McCoy chuckled and observed: “I thought once or twice, Fudge, you were going to lie down and go to sleep! The trouble with you is that you’re geared too high!”

Fudge smiled patiently, sweetly, as if to say: “’Twas ever thus! Success is always a target for the shafts of Envy!”

At that moment, as if Fate sought to secure an even balance between joy and sorrow, Jim Grover, who had gone to the telephone a minute before, hung up the receiver and faced the others with gloomy countenance.

“Wouldn’t that make you sick?” he demanded. “Corwin won!”

There was an instant of silence. Then, “Who says so?” demanded McCoy incredulously.

“I called up Castle’s. They got it by telephone from Corwin. Twelve to ten. What do you know about that?”

Grover kicked disgustedly at a bench.

A chorus of dismay arose. “Twelve to ten? How’d we make ten?” “Touchdown, goal and field-goal, of course.” “Isn’t that the limit? Say, they ought to let us play instead of the Varsity!” “We haven’t won a game since Methuselah was in rompers!” “Wait till you hear them roast Lovering! Wow! I wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything!” “Did they say anything about it, Jim?”

“No, they just heard the score, that’s all. Gee, I wish Lovering would quit his kindergarten stuff and let us spring some plays! We never will win a game with the sort of things he gives us!”

“Well, that comes of putting a fellow who doesn’t know football in as coach,” declared Burns. “It’s up to Lanny White, all right.”

“What’s the good of knocking every time we get licked?” demanded Nostrand. “It doesn’t do any good. Wait till you hear what the trouble was before you begin criticising.”

“Everyone knows what the trouble is,” responded McCoy gloomily. “Lovering doesn’t care whether we win or lose. All he cares about is Springdale.”

“Maybe he’s right,” replied Grover, reflectively and more cheerfully. “After all, if we win that game——”

“If we do!” said Thad Brimmer. “But how are we going to if we can’t beat these smaller teams? Bet you anything you like that the Varsity would fall dead if it won a game!”

“That’s all right,” Fudge spoke up, “but you’ll all be talking out of the other side of your mouth pretty soon. Dick knows just what he’s doing, and don’t you forget it!” And Fudge, looking unusually belligerent by reason of his inflamed nose, faced them indignantly. “What if we do get beaten by Corwin and Logan and all those little fellows? What we’re after is to smear Springdale, and we’ll do it, too, if we’ll leave Dick Lovering alone and not kick him in the shins every time we get a chance! You make me weary, you gang of grouches!”

Fudge was a hero just now and his words were hearkened to with respect. An uncertain murmur of approval followed, and some laughter, and Grover said: “I guess that’s so, fellows. Let’s leave Lovering alone. Anyway, I’m going home. Who’s coming along?”

And so, although the Scrub triumphed that day, the Varsity trailed home with a third defeat pinned to it, and the school was at first incredulous, then disgusted and, finally, resentful. Explanations and excuses didn’t satisfy. A few fellows who had journeyed to Corwin and witnessed the game declared that hard luck and not poor work had been to blame for the defeat; that on merit Clearfield should have conquered by at least one score. The school at large listened but was unconvinced. “Beaten again!” it said. “Three games lost out of five played! What sort of a team have we got, anyway? What’s Dick Lovering think he’s doing? Playing ‘give-away’?”

There had been extenuating circumstances, however, whether the fellows were willing to believe it or not. Clearfield had distinctly outplayed her opponent in three of the four periods, had gained more ground by rushing, had punted farther and had shown better generalship. In short, she had fairly deserved to win. But there is no denying that success is what counts, and she had not succeeded.

She had fought her way half the length of the field for a clean, well-earned touchdown in the second period and had kicked the goal. She had again rushed nearly sixty yards in the third quarter, and, being held for three downs, had sent a field-goal over for three more points. She had secured the ball two minutes later near the Corwin goal and almost scored again, a fumbled ball which every fellow on the eleven declared had been recovered by Tupper, being awarded to Corwin on the latter’s four yards. And, in the final period, when, with the score 12 to 10 against her, she had twice attempted goals from the field, either of which would have given her a victory, Morris Brent had failed dismally to make good. Not once, declared Lanny resentfully, had the luck broken for Clearfield. All during the contest Fortune had glaringly befriended the adversary. Even Corwin’s first touchdown could not be justly said to have been deserved, for the ball had been Clearfield’s on her twelve yards, succeeding a punt by the opponent, and, after off-side penalties had twice been imposed on Clearfield when Corwin had equally offended, a blocked-kick had been downed by Corwin behind High School’s line. But all this failed to impress the supporters of the team and by Monday feeling against Dick, or, perhaps, against what the school termed his system, was running high. One heard criticism everywhere, sometimes mildly sarcastic, more often angry and bitter. Some wag evolved a conundrum that circulated through school: “What’s the matter with the football team?” “Too many Beatons!” Unfortunately for the perfect success of the conundrum, the question elicited so many explanations and theories that the answer, when it arrived, fell rather flat.

Just who started the agitation for a mass-meeting to protest against the conduct of football affairs never transpired. But the project met with instant acclaim and a notice suddenly appeared on the bulletin-board in the school corridor Monday noon. The meeting was to be held at eight o’clock Tuesday evening, announced the notice, in the assembly hall, and all students were requested to attend. The signature, “Committee of Twelve,” produced much speculation, but no one could or would throw light on the identity of the twelve. Dick, attracted to the bulletin-board by the group in front of it, read the announcement on his way out of the building in the afternoon. The group faded away as he pushed forward, although several of its component parts halted at a distance to observe the effect on the coach. They had their labor for their pains, for Dick showed neither by attitude nor expression that the notice conveyed anything to him. He passed out with his usual half-smiling gravity, nodding to those he passed, and it was not until he was climbing into his blue runabout that the half-smile faded from his face and his expression became thoroughly serious.

At the field Lanny broached the subject laughingly. “Heard about the indignation meeting, Dick?” he asked at the dressing-room door. Dick nodded. “A lot of sore-heads,” Lanny grumbled. “I’ve a good mind to take a bunch of the fellows and bust up the meeting!”

“Better let them alone,” counseled Dick. “I don’t much blame them for getting peeved. Still, if you’re going—and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t—I’ll run around and get you about half-past seven.”

“You mean that—that you’re going?” asked Lanny in surprise.

“Yes, didn’t you notice that the ‘Committee’ wanted everyone to come?” asked Dick, with a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, I shall go, and, if they’ll let me, I’ll have a few words to say.”

“I wouldn’t trouble to talk to them,” expostulated Lanny. “Just let them spout and get it off their chests, Dick. It’ll do them good.”

“All they want,” said Chester Cottrell, who had joined them, “is a chance to make some speeches and roast some one. Then they’ll forget all about it, Dick.”

“Maybe, but they’re dissatisfied with the way I’m running things, Chester, and I don’t want their antagonism toward me to spread to the team. There’s nothing worse than for a school to go back on the team. Every player feels it and it takes the heart out of him. I don’t say that they will do that, but they might, and if I can put things before them so they’ll see, at least, that it isn’t the team’s fault that we’re getting licked so often, I think I’d better. They’re at liberty to roast me as much as they please. I guess any football coach expects a certain amount of that sort of thing, and he can’t afford to be sensitive. Besides, I hope to show them in the end that I’m not as bad as they think!”

“All right, Dick,” agreed Lanny, doubtfully, “go ahead and give ’em fits! We’ll go and back you up.”

“But don’t go there in a bunch and sit together and try to—well, intimidate them,” smiled Dick. “Free speech for all, Lanny! Let them say what they want to. After they’ve said it I’ll try to satisfy them that there’s nothing wrong with the team, no matter how punk the coach may be!”

“And I’ll tell them, by George, that the coach is all right and knows what he’s doing a heap better than they do, the silly galoots!” exclaimed Lanny indignantly.

“You sit tight and say nothing,” replied Dick. “Let me do the explaining. All right now. Get your men out. We’re ten minutes late.”

CHAPTER XVI
LANNY VISITS THE OFFICE

Practice was light that Monday afternoon, for many of the boys had suffered slight bruises or muscle-strains in the Corwin game and all were more or less languid as a result of the continued warm weather, while, to make easy work more advisable, the light drizzle which had been falling since early morning had made the field slippery. Several of the Varsity players were excused altogether, among them Tom Haley, who had stood a good deal of punishment, and Lanny White, who showed unmistakable signs of a disposition to go “fine.” Everyone moved slowly, sluggishly to-day, and the jump that Chester Cottrell usually managed to put into the team was noticeably lacking. Morris Brent tried a few field-goals and did so well that it was difficult to believe that he had twice failed on Saturday. After practice was over, and it ended long before dusk to-day, Morris waited for Dick and Gordon, who emerged together from the dressing-room under the stand, and walked with them across to where the blue runabout, its top glistening with rain, stood in the lee of the fence.

“That stuff’s come,” he announced. “The fellow at the freight office called me up after school. I was afraid it wasn’t going to get here in time.”

“Are you going to move it to-night?” asked Dick.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Mr. Grayson’s birthday is Wednesday and we’ve got to get the things in his office to-morrow evening. So it doesn’t seem to me much use to move it twice. What do you think? Why not have Stuart load it on a team to-morrow afternoon before the freight shed closes and pull it to his stable and then bring it around to the school later, say about nine? The dickens of it is that we’ll have to wait until that old meeting is over, I suppose. We don’t want the whole school messing around while we’re moving it in and getting the wrappings off. I wish they’d selected some other evening for their silly meeting.”

“Yes, but you can wait until the fellows go home. I don’t see any reason for moving it twice, either, Morris. Your scheme looks all right. Don’t you think so, Gordie?”

“Yes. You’ll want help to get the stuff unpacked, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe so. Louise and Nell are coming around, and Owen, the janitor, will be there to help. I can manage all right. Unless,” he added, “you want to have a hand in it.”

“I wouldn’t be much use, I guess,” replied Dick. “I won’t come unless I’m needed. By the way, I’ve got some money for you at home. I’ve collected all but about three dollars.”

“Me, too,” said Gordon. “Only I’ve got more than three to get yet. Some of the younger fellows hate like anything to give up their money. Get in, Dick, and I’ll turn her over.”

“Coming along, Morris?” asked Dick, climbing in and laying his crutches in the improvised rack on the running-board. “You can sit on the floor if you don’t mind.”

“Get in the seat,” said Gordon. “I’ll squat. All set?”

“All set,” answered Dick. Gordon twirled the starting crank and Eli began to whir merrily. Gordon closed the gate behind the car and seated himself on the floor, and Eli chugged off down A Street toward Brentwood.

“By the way,” announced Morris, “the girls are going around to the meeting to-morrow night, Dick. Louise is sputtering with indignation and declares that if it comes to a vote they’ll see that you come out all right!”

“Votes for women!” laughed Dick. “That’s very nice of them, but I’m afraid the fellows won’t appreciate their presence.”

“So I told her,” said Morris, “but she says that all the students are asked to attend and that the girls are just as much students as the boys are. Anyway, she’s going, and she’s made about thirty others promise to go, too. I guess it’s going to be quite an affair!”

“It looks so,” replied Dick dryly. “Whoa, Eli! Good night, Morris. Let me know if I can do anything to help with the furniture, please.”

As they started off again Gordon began to chuckle and Dick viewed him inquiringly. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Dick. I was just thinking.”

“Does it always affect you like that?”

“Not always. Only when it’s funny. You see, I was thinking about Louise going to the meeting. It’s fine to have the ladies on your side, Dick.”

“Huh!” grunted Dick.

“I suppose it’s because you’re such a handsome beast. Still, you’ve got a way with you, too. If it was anyone else, now, Louise——”

“Do you want to land in the gutter?” asked Dick carelessly.

“N-no, not especially, thanks.”

“Then cut out the comedy.”

“All right. But I can keep on thinking, can’t I?”

“Yes, if you don’t do it so I can hear you. Here’s where you get out, anyway. Beat it!”

“Thank you. And good night, you old heart-breaker!”