FORWARD PASS

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

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[“He went staggering around the goal-post for a touchdown and victory.”]

FORWARD PASS

A STORY OF THE “NEW FOOTBALL”

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE SPIRIT OF THE SCHOOL,” “THE
HALF-BACK,” “WEATHERBY’S INNING,”
“ON YOUR MARK,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1908

Copyright, 1908, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published September, 1908

TO

GILBERT H. SHEARER, Jr.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FORWARD PASS

[CHAPTER I]
OFF TO SCHOOL

“All aboa-a-ard!”

There was a warning clang from the engine bell and a sudden return to darkness as the fireman slammed the furnace door and tossed the slicer-bar back onto the tender. The express messenger in the car behind pulled close the sliding door and hasped it, pausing afterwards to glance questioningly at the cloudy night sky. At the far end of the train, which curved serpent-wise along the track, the conductor’s lantern rose and fell, the porter seized his footstool and Dan Vinton, after a final hurried kiss, broke from his mother’s arms and ran nimbly up the steps of the already moving sleeper.

“Good-bye, mother,” he called down into the half-darkness. “Good-bye, father! Good-bye, Mae!”

They all answered at once, his father in a hoarse growl, his mother softly and tearfully and his sister in a shrill, excited voice as she tripped along beside the car steps, waving frantically. The eastbound express carried ten cars to-night, and for a moment the big engine puffed and grunted complainingly, and the train moved slowly, the wheel flanges screaming against the curving rails. From across the platform Dan heard his father’s voice lifted irritably:

“Ma, if you’re coming I wish you’d come! Can’t expect me to keep these horses standing here all night!”

Dan smiled and choked as he heard. Dear old dad! All the way to the station he had been as cross as a wet hen, holding his face aside as they passed a light for fear that the others would see the tears in his eyes, and trying with his gruffness to disguise the quiver in his voice. Dan gave a gulp as he felt the tears coming into his own eyes. The dimly-lighted station hurried by, there was a flash of green and red and white lanterns as the trucks rattled over the switches and then they had left the town behind and were rushing eastward through the September night, gaining speed with every click of the wheels. There was a sudden long and dismal shriek from the engine, and with that the monster settled down into the stride which, ere morning came, was to eat up three hundred Ohio miles and bring them well into Pennsylvania. The porter, with a muttered apology, closed the vestibule door, and Dan, blinking the persistent tears from his eyes, left the platform and entered the sleeping-car.

“I put your suit-case under the berth, sir,” said the porter as he followed the passenger down the aisle. The lights were turned low, and Dan was glad of it, for he didn’t want even the colored porter to think him a baby. The green curtains were pulled close at every section and from behind some of them came sounds plainly indicating occupancy.

“Lower eight,” murmured the porter. “Here you are, sir. Hope you’ll sleep well, sir. Good night.”

“Thanks,” muttered Dan. “Good night.”

“We take the diner on at Pittsburg, sir, at seven. But you can get breakfast any time up to ten, sir.”

Dan thanked him again and the porter took himself softly away. When he was finally stretched out in his berth, with his pocketbook tightly wrapped up in his vest under his pillow, and the gold watch which his father had given him when he had graduated from the grammar school last June tucked into the toe of one of his stockings as seeming to him the last place in which a thief would look for it, Dan raised the curtain beside his head and rolled over so that he could look out. It was after eleven o’clock and he knew that he ought to be asleep, but he felt as wide awake as ever he had in his life. The moon had struggled out from behind the big bank of clouds which had hid it and the world was almost as light as day. For awhile, as he watched the landscape slide by, a panorama of field and forest and sleeping villages, his thoughts clung somewhat disconsolately to Graystone and his folks. But before long the excitement which had possessed him for days and which had only left him at the moment of parting crept back, and, although he still stared with wide eyes through the car window, he saw nothing of the flying landscape.

He was going to boarding-school! That was the wonderful, pre-eminent fact at present, and at the thought his heart thrilled again as it had been doing for two months past. And at last the momentous time had really arrived! He was absolutely on his way! The dream of four years was coming true! Do you wonder that his heart beat chokingly for a few minutes while he lay there with the jar and rattle of the train in his ears? When one is fifteen and the long-desired comes to pass life grows very wonderful, very magnificent for awhile.

Ever since Dan had been old enough to think seriously of the matter of his education he had entertained a deep longing for a course at boarding-school. In Graystone it wasn’t the fashion for boys to go away from home for their educations; Graystone had a first-class school system and was proud of it; a boy who wanted to go to college could prepare at the Graystone High School as well as anywhere else, declared the Graystone parents; and as for the Eastern schools—well, everybody knew that the most of them were hot-beds of extravagance and snobbishness. This is a belief that unfortunately prevails in plenty of towns beside Graystone. Dan’s father was quite as patriotic as any other citizen of the town and held just as good an opinion of its educational advantages. So when, during his second year at the grammar school, Dan had broached the subject of a term at a preparatory school in the East he was not surprised when Mr. Vinton refused to consider it.

“Pooh! Pooh!” scoffed Mr. Vinton, good-naturedly. “What’s the matter with our own High School, Dan? Isn’t it good enough for you, son?”

Dan tried to explain that it was the school life he wanted to try, and, unfortunately for his argument, mentioned “Tom Brown.”

“Tom Brown!” exclaimed his father. “Well, that’s a fine story, Dan, but it’s all romance. I went to boarding-school myself, and I can tell you I never ran up against any of the things you read about in ‘Tom Brown.’ No, son, if that’s all you want you might as well stay right here in Graystone. You’ll find just as much of the ‘Tom Brown’ romance in High School as you will back East.”

Dan wanted to tell his father that the kind of school he wanted to go to was little like the boarding-school which his father had attended. Mr. Vinton’s early education had been obtained at the Russellville Academy, an institution whose name was out of all proportion to its importance. Mr. Vinton had been born in one of the smaller towns along the Willimantic River in Connecticut, and Russellville Academy had possessed for him the advantages of proximity and inexpensiveness. The tuition and board was one hundred dollars a year, and on Friday afternoon he could reach home by merely walking twelve miles. Mr. Vinton’s schooling had terminated abruptly in the middle of his third year, when the death of his mother—his father had died years before—left him dependent on an uncle living in Ohio. So Russellville Academy was abandoned in favor of a position in the Graystone Flour Mills. To-day Mr. Vinton owned the mills and, for that matter, pretty much everything else in that part of the county. But the fact that he had succeeded in life on a very slim education hadn’t made him a scoffer at schools and colleges; on the contrary, he was a firm believer in those institutions and was determined that Dan, who was an only son, should have the best education that money and care could provide.

Dan’s private and unexpressed opinion of Russellville Academy wasn’t flattering. He believed that his father must have had a pretty forlorn, unpleasant experience there. But Mr. Vinton had come to look back upon his few years of school life through rose-tinted glasses.

“There were only about thirty of us fellows,” he would say when in reminiscent mood, “but maybe we had better times for that reason; every fellow knew every other fellow. Why, the first month I was there I fought more than half the school!”

“Did you ever get licked?” asked Dan eagerly.

“Licked!” laughed Mr. Vinton. “Lots of times, son. Why, seems to me as I look back at it, my nose was out of kilter more than half the time!”

“You must have been a set of young barbarians,” observed Dan’s mother with conviction on one occasion.

“Nothing of the sort, Mary; just a parcel of youngsters full of life. We didn’t think anything of a fight; used to make up half an hour afterwards and bandage each other’s heads.”

“Were the fellows nice?” asked Dan doubtfully.

“Nice? Of course they were, most of them. Still, I guess we had all sorts at the Academy. There was ‘Slugger’ Boyd and ‘Brick’ Garrison and ‘Fatty’ Thomas and—and others like them that maybe you wouldn’t just call ‘nice.’ ‘Brick’ got his nickname because of a way he had of grabbing up a brick or a stone when it came to a fight. No one cared to fight ‘Brick’ except in the barn where there weren’t any loose stones lying around handy.”

“Did you have a nickname, too?” Dan asked.

“Yes, they used to call me ‘Kicker.’ You know we didn’t have any special rules to fight by; every fellow just went at it the handiest way. I was a good kicker; used to jab out with my fist and kick at the same time. I won lots of fights that way, for some fellows can stand any amount of punching on the head or body and quit right away when you get a good one on their shins.”

“We wouldn’t call that fair fighting nowadays,” said Dan uneasily.

“No? Well, fashions change. It was good scientific fighting when I went to school,” answered Mr. Vinton smilingly.

“Well, I think your folks must have been crazy to let you go to such a place,” said Mrs. Vinton irascibly. “Fighting all the time and living on almost nothing and sleeping on corn-husks and walking twelve miles to get home and nearly freezing to death!”

“Oh, I only came near freezing once,” responded Mr. Vinton pleasantly. “But that was a close shave. I guess if Farmer Hutchins hadn’t come along just when he did that time—”

“I don’t want to hear about it again!” declared Dan’s mother. “If that’s your idea of having a good time it isn’t mine! And you can just believe that no son of mine ever goes to boarding-school!”

“Well, as for that, ma, I dare say boarding-schools have changed some since my day,” responded Mr. Vinton.

But in spite of this assertion Russellville Academy remained to Mr. Vinton a typical boarding-school, and remembering how little he had learned there and, when the rose-tinted glasses were laid aside, how many unhappy moments he had spent there, he was resolved in his own mind that his wife’s decision was a wise one.

In the end Dan had given up all hope of getting to boarding-school, without, however, ceasing to desire it. In June he had graduated high in his class at the grammar school with every prospect of entering the High School in September. But toward the last of July a conversation had occurred at the dinner table which later put a different complexion on things.

“Well, son, what you been doing to-day?” asked Mr. Vinton, absentmindedly tucking his napkin into his collar, yanking it quickly away again and glancing apologetically at his wife.

“Nothing much, sir. I played baseball for awhile and then ‘Chad’ Sleeper and Billy Nourse and Frank Whipple and I went over to Saunders’ Creek and went in bathing.”

Mr. Vinton frowned.

“‘Chad’ Sleeper, eh? Is that old Dillingway Sleeper’s boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And young Nourse and that Whipple boy, you said, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See a good deal of those boys, do you? Go around with them a lot, eh?”

“Yes, sir, a good deal.”

“I thought Frank Whipple was going to work this summer in his father’s store.”

“He did start to,” answered Dan, “but—I don’t know. I guess he didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t like it, eh? Did he tell you so?”

“Well, he said it was pretty hard work; said the store was awfully hot and his mother was afraid he’d take sick.”

Mr. Vinton grunted.

“All those boys in your class next fall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which one is your especial chum?”

“‘Chad,’ I guess. I like him better than the others.”

“What is it you like about him, son?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s a good baseball player, and a dandy half-back; you know he played half on the team last fall, sir.”

“Did he? I’d forgotten. Well, any other good points you can think of, son?”

Dan hesitated. He didn’t like his father’s tone. It was a tone which Mr. Vinton was likely to use when, to use Dan’s expression, he was “looking for trouble.”

“He—he’s just a good fellow, sir, and we get on pretty well together.”

“I see. Ever hear of him doing anything worth while?”

“He won the game for us last Thanksgiving Day,” answered Dan doubtfully, pretty certain that the feat mentioned wouldn’t make much of a hit with the questioner.

“Ever hear of him doing anything helpful, anything kind, anything useful to himself or anyone else?” pursued Mr. Vinton remorselessly. Dan was silent for a moment.

“I guess he would if he got the chance,” he replied finally.

“Well, did you ever see him shading his eyes with his hand and looking for a chance?”

“John, don’t talk such nonsense,” expostulated Mrs. Vinton, glancing at Dan’s troubled countenance.

“No nonsense at all, my dear,” answered Mr. Vinton. “Dan’s got three of the most useless, shiftless, no-account boys in town for his special chums and I’d like to know just what he sees in them. That’s all. ‘Chad’ Sleeper’s father never did a real lick of work in his life, excepting the time he did the State out of forty thousand dollars on that bridge contract, and ‘Chad’s’ just like him. And young Whipple is no better; and I guess Nourse belongs with them. Look at here, son, aren’t there any smart, honest, decent fellows you can go with?”

“‘Chad’ and Billy and Frank never did anything mean that I know of,” answered Dan resentfully.

“Did you ever know any of them to do anything fine?” asked his father. “Outside of winning a football game, I mean?”

Dan was silent, looking a trifle sulkily at his plate. There was a moment’s pause. Then Mr. Vinton said more kindly:

“Well, I’m not finding fault with you, son. Maybe the boys here are pretty much alike; and as I come to think about it I guess they are. But it’s going to make a difference with you what sort of friends you have during the next five or six years. And if you can’t find the right sort here in Graystone, why—”

But Mr. Vinton paused there and relapsed into a thoughtful silence that neither Dan nor his mother nor even his sister Mae, who was the privileged member of the family, cared to disturb.

[CHAPTER II]
MR. FINDLAY SETTLES THE QUESTION

Nearly a week later the conversation bore fruit.

“Son,” asked Mr. Vinton, “do you still want to go to boarding-school?”

Dan’s heart leaped.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Well, your mother and I have been talking it over and we’ve about concluded that a change of scene for the next three or four years won’t do you any harm. What do you say to the Brewer School?”

Dan hesitated. The Brewer School was in the southern part of the state and had quite a local reputation, but Dan was certain that it wasn’t the school he wanted. So he took his courage in hand.

“I’d rather go East, sir,” he said.

“Would, eh? Well, maybe you might as well. I tell your mother that as long as you have to go away it don’t make much difference how far it is. Takes all day to go to Brewer, anyway; put a night on top of that and you’re pretty well East. Any special school you’ve got in mind?”

“N-no, sir. I didn’t think you’d let me go, and so I haven’t thought about any special place.”

“Hm! Well, I dare say the old Academy is still running back in Russellville, but—I don’t know, son, that it would just suit you. What do you think?”

“If you don’t mind I’d like to go to one of the big schools, sir,” answered Dan.

“All right, all right, son,” said Mr. Vinton cordially. “You put your thinking cap on and study up on schools. When you find one you think you’d like you tell me and I’ll get particulars.”

For the next fortnight Dan perused the advertisements of eastern preparatory schools, sent for catalogues, read them, made up his mind and changed it at least once a day. It seemed that just as soon as he had settled upon one school as being the very place for him the postman tossed another catalogue in at the gate and Dan speedily discovered his mistake. He discovered several other things during that period, one of which was that you can’t always safely judge an article by its advertisement. There was one school in particular which won his admiration early. It was advertised in a magazine all across the top of a page. The picture gave a panoramic view of the grounds and buildings and Dan held his breath as he looked. At first glance there seemed to be at least a quarter of a mile of study halls and dormitories; by actual count the buildings in the picture numbered eleven; and, as Dan pointed out to his father, they were all of them “jim-dandies.” Mr. Vinton allowed that they were. He appeared rather aghast at the magnificence of the place; perhaps he was silently contrasting it with Russellville Academy as he remembered the latter institution. But when the forty-page catalogue came and Dan set out to identify the different buildings in the picture by means of the explanatory text he found to his dismay that only three of them were mentioned. This puzzled him until he came across a casual paragraph stating that “the grounds of the State Normal School adjoined the Academy on the east.” After that Dan viewed with suspicion all pictures until the text of the catalogues made good the pictorial claims.

In the evenings he showed his day’s “finds” to his father; Mrs. Vinton was practically exempt from the evening conferences, since she was called upon at all hours of the day for her opinions; and under the study lamp Mr. Vinton and Dan looked at pictures, read descriptions and weighed the merits of the different institutions under consideration. Of course Dan started out with a pronounced leaning toward the military schools; most every boy will own to the fascination exerted by stirring pictures of long lines of youths in trim uniforms drawn up in battalions on an immaculate parade ground, or dashing recklessly over four-rail gates on splendid white horses, or grouped with stern authority about a field-gun from whose muzzle a puff of white smoke hints stirringly of the aspect of war. But Dan’s father was very discouraging on the subject of military schools.

“If you want to be a real soldier, son,” he said, “I’ve no objection if you can get your mother’s permission. I guess I could get you appointed to West Point in the next year or two. But if you don’t want the real thing I wouldn’t monkey with the imitation. From what I can learn about most of these military academies they’re either play schools or else they’re reform schools in disguise. Of course there may be some very excellent ones, but I don’t believe you stand in need of a military training, son.”

After all Dan was going to school to prepare for college, probably Yale, and, recollecting that, he dropped the military schools and a good many others from consideration. What, he asked himself, was the good of learning to jump a horse over a four-rail fence or make pontoon bridges? He had never heard that equestrianism or bridge-building was required at Yale. And if it was merely a matter of physical exercise he guessed he could get all he needed of that from baseball, football and tennis. He was an enthusiastic lover of athletics; played a fair game of tennis, was an excellent baseman and had captained last year’s football team at the grammar school. And so, naturally enough, he was looking for a school where athletics flourished. But nevertheless one school, which advertised that “Blank Academy has turned out five victorious football teams in the last six years” earned only his contempt. For he shrewdly argued that a school which sought to attract students on the strength of its athletic success must be sadly deficient in other and more important departments. Football and baseball and things like that, thought Dan, were important adjuncts to education, but they weren’t what a fellow went to school for.

In the end, and that was along towards the third week in August, the choice, by an exhaustive process of elimination, was narrowed down to two schools, one in New Hampshire and one in Connecticut. I think all the other members of the family were heartily glad when the end was reached, but Dan had enjoyed it all hugely. He would have felt sorry for the boy whose school is selected by his parents. “Why, just think of all the fun he has missed!” Dan would have exclaimed. It was hard work making the final decision. The New Hampshire school, Phillips Exeter, appealed to him strongly. In Graystone a building thirty years old was considered venerable; one fifty years old—and there was only one such—was absolutely archaic. And Phillips Exeter Academy was a century and a quarter old; was turning out students years before the State of Ohio entered the Union! That appealed to Dan’s imagination. And Dan liked what the catalogue said about the school’s purpose: “The object of the Academy is to furnish the elements of a solid education. The discipline is not adapted to boys who require severe restrictions, and the method of instruction assumes that the pupils have some power of application and a will to work. The purpose of the instructors is to lead pupils to cultivate self-control, truthfulness, a right sense of honor, and an interest in the purity of the moral atmosphere of the school.” I think Dan’s final choice would have fallen on the New Hampshire school had not Congressman Findlay happened in one day to dinner while the decision was still in abeyance. The Congressman was very large and very deliberative, and when in the course of the conversation the subject of Dan’s choice of schools was brought up and his advice requested he demolished two of Mrs. Vinton’s excellent lemon tarts before he replied. Then:

“Both fine schools,” he said. “Not much to choose, Mr. Vinton. Don’t know as I ought to advise you, sir. I’m prejudiced.”

“Eh?” inquired Mr. Vinton. “How’s that?”

“Yardley man myself, sir,” replied Mr. Findlay.

Well, that settled it. Mr. Findlay was one of the State’s best citizens, a man admired by all, even his political enemies. Dan, who was always somewhat in awe of him, liked him thoroughly, and was convinced that a school which could turn out men like the Congressman was all right. After dinner some of Dan’s awe wore off, for Mr. Findlay told about Yardley Hall School and indulged in reminiscences of his own four years there and he and Dan became very chummy. When Dan went up to his room that night he had the Yardley Hall School catalogue in his hand and before he went to sleep he had read it through from front cover to back, word by word, three times.

The following month had been an exciting period in his life. There were so many jolly things to attend to. Of course the first of all was to apply for admission to Yardley Hall, and until the reply was received Dan was on tenter-hooks of suspense. For the catalogue plainly stated that the enlistment was restricted to two hundred and seventy students, and Dan feared that he was too late. But fortune was with him and he learned later that his application was the last but one to be accepted that year. Then came a brushing up on one or two studies in which he felt doubtful of satisfying the examiners. And after that there were clothes to buy, and to this task Mrs. Vinton lent herself with an ardor and enjoyment that for the while soothed her sorrow over her son’s prospective departure. And then, quite before anyone realized it, it was the Day Before, and Dan was listening to a few words of advice from his father.

“I don’t know that I’ve got much to say to you, son,” said Mr. Vinton. “We’ve let you choose your school and after you get there you’ll find that you’ve got to choose lots of other things for yourself. We’ve started out by letting you have your own say, pretty much, and I guess we’ll keep it up. So far you’ve shown pretty fair sense for a youngster. If you want advice about anything, why, you know where to come for it, but unless you ask for it neither your ma nor I will interfere with you. You’re getting along towards sixteen now, and at that age every boy ought to have a mind of his own. You’ll make mistakes; bound to; everyone makes mistakes except a fool. Just so long as you don’t make the same mistake twice you’ll do well enough. You’re going to a pretty expensive school, son. I don’t object to the cost of it, but I want you to see that you get your money’s worth. The extravagant man isn’t the man who pays a big price for a thing; he’s the man who doesn’t get what he pays for. So you’ll have to work. You’ll find all sorts and kinds of boys there, I guess, and I want you to use good sense in picking out your friends. A whole lot depends on that. A fellow can know other fellows that will be good for him if he goes about it right. Don’t make your friendship too cheap; if a fellow wants it let him pay your price; if he has the making of a real friend he will do it. Of course I expect you to behave yourself; but I’m not worried much about that. I’ve never seen anything vicious about you, son, and if you choose your friends right I don’t ever expect to. I might tell you not to do this and not to do that, but I guess if you’ll just make up your mind not to do anything you wouldn’t be afraid of telling your ma or me about you’ll keep a pretty clean slate.”

Next day had come the final frenzied excitement of packing, succeeded by an interminable wait for the moment of departure. Dinner that evening had been an uncomfortable meal, with only Mae looking cheerful or eating anything to speak of. And afterwards how the hours had crawled until it was time to get into the surrey and drive to the station! Dan had felt pretty miserable several times before the carriage came around and his mother spent much of the time out of the room, returning always with suspiciously moist eyes and smiling lips. Then had succeeded the drive to the train through the silent streets, past the darkened houses—for Graystone retires early to bed—with everyone by turns unnaturally animated or depressingly silent. And now here he was whizzing away through the moonlight, leaving Graystone farther and farther behind, the great adventure really and truly begun!

Of course he wasn’t really sleepy; there was too much to think about to waste time in slumber; but the silver and purple world rolled past his eyes with hypnotic effect, the clickety-click of the wheels sounded soothingly, and—and presently he was sound asleep with the moonlight smiling in upon him through the car window.

[CHAPTER III]
THE FIRST ACQUAINTANCE

Dan’s train rolled into the station at Wissining, Connecticut, at a few minutes before five. All the way from New York, and more especially since the Sound had suddenly flashed into view, he had been vividly interested in the view from the window of the parlor car, so palpably eager, in fact, to see this new country through which he was traveling that a kind-hearted, middle-aged gentleman whose seat was on the shoreward side of the car and across the aisle from Dan had insisted on changing chairs with him. Dan had at first politely refused the offer, but the gentleman had insisted with a little tone of authority in his voice and in the end Dan had accepted the coveted seat.

“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” he explained with a deprecating smile as he moved his bag across.

The gentleman smiled and nodded as though to say “I surmised as much, my young friend.” Then he settled down in his new chair and half hid his face behind a magazine. But a few moments later, when Dan happened to glance across, he encountered the gaze of the other fixed upon him speculatively. At once the eyes dropped to the pages of the magazine once more. Dan read the name on the cover, “The Atlantic Monthly,” and wondered whether the magazine was devoted to news of the fascinating ocean upon which he had been eagerly gazing. Then the absurdity of the idea struck him and he turned back to his window smiling.

Not only had Dan never seen an ocean before, but he had never looked on a body of water broader than the Ohio River. This doesn’t necessarily imply that he had spent his entire life in Graystone, for as a matter of fact the family spent an occasional summer away from home, usually in the Cumberland Mountains, and, besides this, Dan had made short trips now and then with his father to Cincinnati, Columbus, Springfield, and once as far South as Memphis. But Lake Erie, which was the nearest approach to an ocean in Dan’s part of the world, was two hundred miles north by rail and it happened that he had never reached it. And not only the ocean interested Dan to-day. The country itself engaged his pleased attention, for, although he had been born in Graystone, yet Connecticut had been the home of his father’s people for many generations and it seemed to him that the smilingly rugged, bay-indented country was holding out a welcome to him.

He had armed himself with a railroad map and had located his father’s old home some eighty miles north. The map even showed Russellville, and the tiny word there seemed a veritable welcome in itself! And so the time went quickly enough for him and almost before he knew it the porter was brushing his clothes and the train had slowed down at Greenburg, which, as he knew, was just across the river from his destination. As he tipped the porter and sank into his chair again he saw that the platform outside was thronged with boys who had left the train from the day-coaches ahead. They must be Yardley Hall boys, he thought; perhaps the train didn’t stop at Wissining and he should get off here! He looked around for someone whom he could ask and his gaze encountered that of the gentleman across the aisle, who, the magazine stowed away in his bag, had donned his light overcoat and was also apparently ready to leave the train. He noticed Dan’s anxious countenance and leaned across.

“Are you for Broadwood?” he asked.

“No, sir; that is, I’m going to Yardley Hall. Should I get off here?”

“No, your station is Wissining, the next stop. This is Greenburg and those boys are going to Broadwood Academy.”

Dan thanked him as the train started again. Suddenly the buildings dropped away from beside the track and in a flash he was looking along the estuary of a little river which wound away between low meadows for a short distance and then opened into the Sound. The sun had gone behind the clouds and a gray evening was succeeding a sunshiny day. Miles away across the quiet water the eastern end of Long Island lay like a purplish smudge against the horizon. He had time to see this, and time to catch a glimpse of a hamlet of scattered houses as the train crossed the little bridge and slowed down beside the station.

“Wissining,” announced the porter as he took up Dan’s bag. “This is your station, sir.”

He took the bag of the gentleman across the aisle also and for the first time it occurred to Dan, as he followed his cursory acquaintance toward the door, that perhaps the other was for Yardley Hall, too; that perhaps he was one of the teachers. But out on the platform he abandoned that theory, for a smart man in automobile livery took the gentleman’s bag and led the way to a big chocolate-brown touring car, and almost before Dan had had time to look about him the car was whisking itself off down the road. Some thirty other boys of various ages had left the train, and Dan, uncertain of his directions, followed them down the platform to where a number of carriages were drawn up, the drivers vieing merrily and loudly for custom. Dan hesitated. He had had in the back of his head an idea that when he left the train there would be someone looking for him. The idea had not been sufficiently concrete for him to know now whether he had expected the Principal himself or merely the school janitor. While he hesitated the other arrivals rushed for the carriages and tumbled themselves in after their luggage and in a twinkling the conveyances were all filled to overflowing and Dan alone remained on the platform, bag in hand, looking somewhat blankly about him. Several of the carriages—tiny affairs they were, holding not more than seven fellows no matter how you packed them in—had already started away when a voice hailed him from one of the remaining vehicles and a boy’s head was thrust out of the door.

“Hi, there, you chap! Coming up?”

Dan supposed that “up” meant to Yardley Hall; and of course he was coming up if he could get up, but—

“Come on in here,” called the boy. “Lot’s of room! Hold your horses, Mike!”

The driver, seated on a pile of bags and suit-cases where his seat had once been, had chirped encouragingly to his horse, but at the command he called “Whoa!” and the horse obeyed instantly, one might say almost with enthusiasm. A chorus of loud and long drawn-out “Whoas!” supplemented the driver’s injunction. Dan strode across and looked doubtfully into the interior of the carriage. At first glance there seemed dozens of occupants, but—

“Climb in,” said his rescuer merrily. “Give me your bag. Here, Tubby, hold the gentleman’s bag.” The bag was passed forward by eager hands until it was deposited unceremoniously in the lap of a stout, round-faced youth who showed no pleasure at the honor conferred upon him.

“Hold the old bag yourself,” he growled.

“Why, Tubby,” cried an outraged voice. “Such manners! I am surprised! Hold it nicely; be a gentleman, Tubby, even if it hurts you.”

“I—I’ll stand up,” said Dan as he pushed his way between the almost touching knees of the occupants. But that was out of the question, for the roof was too low to permit of it.

“Sit down,” said the boy who had hailed him, a youth of about seventeen with a good-looking, merry face. He gave a sudden tug at Dan’s coat and Dan went over backward on to his knees. “That’s the ticket. You’ve got an upper. Sit still.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find it uncomfortable,” said Dan anxiously.

“Not a bit of it! All right, Mike! Go ahead, but do drive carefully!”

This remark caused an appreciative howl from the others, during which progress began again. Dan felt a trifle embarrassed at first, but everyone seemed to forget all about him on the instant, even the boy on whose knees he sat paying no more attention to him. Once as the carriage rattled and shook its way along, Dan had a brief glimpse of a cluster of stone and brick buildings crowning a low hill to the left of the road and felt comforted to know that the school catalogue had not lied either as to the number and attractiveness of the buildings or the commanding situation of them. Then he did his best to maintain his seat and listened to the chatter of the fellows around him. The talk was loud and merry and incessant, but Dan couldn’t make very much of it until the word “football” reached him. There followed a confused and animated discussion of the Yardley Hall eleven, its probable make-up, its chances of success against Broadwood and the date of arrival of a Mr. Colton, whom Dan guessed to be the head coach. The discussion was at its height when the vehicle stopped.

“All out!” was the cry and Dan struggled to his feet and stumbled down on to a stone pavement and found himself in front of a flight of broad granite steps leading to a deep, arched entrance. Rescuing his bag, he looked about him indecisively. The other boys were scattering in all directions, some few entering the doorway before him. The boy who had rescued him at the station was taking his departure with the others. Dan hurried after him and touched him on the arm.

“Where do I go, please?” he asked.

The other boy, Alfred Loring, turned and gazed at Dan in mild surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean where shall I go to—to find someone?”

“Oh, are you just entering?” asked Loring. “I thought you knew the ropes. Well, come on and I’ll show you the office.”

He led the way up the steps and into the building. A broad hall traversed the building from front to rear and was intersected by a narrower passage running lengthwise. The woodwork was dark, and the plaster statues standing at intervals upon their high pedestals gleamed ghost-like against it. Loring turned to the right and led the way down the ill-lighted corridor, past the partly-open doors of recitation rooms, until a door with a ground-glass light in it blocked their further passage. On the glass was printed the legend: “Office of the Principal.” Loring opened the door and nodded his head.

“There you are,” he said. “Tell the chap at the right-hand that you want to register. He will give you a room and look after you.”

“Thanks,” answered Dan gratefully. The other nodded again carelessly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Glad to help you. See you again, I hope.” He took his departure, whistling softly and swinging his suit-case gayly along the corridor. Dan entered the office and closed the ground-glass door behind him. The room was large and less like an office than a library. A thick carpet covered the floor. On two sides shelves ran from floor to ceiling and were filled with books, filing-cases and wooden boxes lettered mysteriously. There were two low, broad-topped desks, one at each side of the room, and between them, opposite the door from the corridor, was a second door marked “Private.” There were three boys ahead of him and so Dan dropped into one of the four high-backed, uncomfortable chairs near the door and waited. Two deeply-recessed windows at his left admitted a flood of white light, and through them he could see an expanse of turf, traversed by red brick walks which converged in the center of the space where an ancient-looking marble sun-dial stood. Across the grass the end of a modern brick and limestone building, three stories in height, met his gaze. Beyond that again were woods. The picture was framed in the green leaves of the English ivy which surrounded the big windows. In the gray failing light of early evening, the quiet vista gave Dan an impression of age and venerability which thrilled him pleasantly and which was quite out of proportion with the real facts, for Yardley Hall School, as Dan well knew, was less than forty years old. Even the glimpse of Dudley Hall, a dormitory erected but three years before, failed to disturb the impression of ancientness.

“Now, if you please.”

Dan aroused himself and approached the desk where a keen-eyed man was regarding him a trifle impatiently over the tops of his glasses.

“What name?”

“Daniel Morse Vinton.”

The gentleman, who was the school secretary, ran his finger down the pages of a book beside him until it stopped at an entry. Then he took a filing card from a drawer and wrote on it.

“Residence?”

“Graystone, Ohio.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Class?”

“I don’t quite know, sir. I hope to get into the Third.”

“Father’s name and business?”

“John W. Vinton, manufacturer.”

“Mother’s name, if living?”

“Mary Vinton.”

“Street address?”

“Seventy-four Washington Avenue.”

“Religious denomination?”

“Baptist.”

“Bills to be sent to father or mother?”

“Father, please.”

“That’s all. Examinations in Room N to-morrow at nine-thirty. Your room is Number 28 Clarke Hall. Your room-mate is Henry Jones, a Third Class boy. I hope you will pass your examinations and enjoy your stay here. You have a check for your baggage? Thank you. It will be delivered this evening, probably. When you go out turn to your left, please; Clarke is the second dormitory. Dr. Hewitt receives the new students to-morrow evening from eight to nine in the Assembly Hall. I hope you will attend. If any question as to dormitory accommodation arises please see the matron, Mrs. Ponder, Room 2, Merle Hall. If there is anything else you want to know about you will find someone here from nine until six every day. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” answered Dan. “Thank you, sir.”

But the secretary was already absorbed again, and Dan lifted his bag and went out. To the left was a second building of granite, a very plain, unlovely structure which the ivy had charitably striven to cover. Beyond this a handsome, modern building of brick came into sight. There were two entrances and Dan went in at the first. A sign at the foot of the stairs announced “Clarke Hall; Rooms 1 to 36.” Dan climbed two flights and sought his number. He found it at length on the last door in the entry and knocked.

“Come in!” called a voice.

Dan entered. Before him, scowling interrogatively at the intruder, was the boy who had held his bag in the carriage.

[CHAPTER IV]
“28 CLARKE”

“Hello,” exclaimed Harry, alias “Tubby” Jones. “Who do you want?”

The tone was decidedly uncivil and Dan would have resented it had he been feeling less strange and lonesome. As it was he smiled ingratiatingly as he set down his bag.

“They told me at the office,” he replied, “that I was to room in 28 Clarke. This is 28, isn’t it? And you’re Jones, aren’t you?”

Tubby gave a growl of disgust.

“Gee, I knew I’d draw a freak,” he muttered. Dan heard and flushed. In momentary confusion he picked up his bag and deposited it on the window-seat at the end of the room. Tubby watched him with no attempt at concealing his disgust. Now, lest you gather the impression that our hero is a most unprepossessing youth, I’ll explain that Tubby Jones would have shown displeasure had his new room-mate been an Apollo in appearance, a Chesterfield in manners, a Beau Brummel in attire and a paragon of all virtues. Tubby, who, by the way, was none of these things himself, was what might be inelegantly called a chronic kicker. Tubby had a ceaseless quarrel with the world at large and things in general. He was a stout youth of sixteen with a round, pasty face on which there was habitually an expression of discontent and usually a scowl of sulky wrath. Tubby always had a grievance; he would have been dreadfully unhappy without one. Oddly enough, he was not unpopular in school, although he had few friends. The fellows never took him seriously—which was itself a grievance—and usually treated him with good-natured tolerance, using him as a butt for their jokes. The fact that Tubby couldn’t take a joke made it all the more fun.

When Tubby intimated that Dan was a freak he was more unflattering than truthful. And Tubby was forced to acknowledge unwillingly that this new room-mate of his was a mighty prepossessing chap; well-made, pleasant-mannered and attractive of face. Which was quite sufficient to make Tubby dislike him cordially. You see, Tubby wasn’t well-made, nor pleasant-mannered, nor attractive to look upon. And envy was at the bottom of many of Tubby’s grievances. Tubby stood with his hands in his pockets and looked aggressively at Dan. What he saw was a boy rather large for his age, fairly tall and “rangey,” with little superfluous flesh on his bones and a quick, alert way of looking and moving. He also saw a pair of steady, quiet brown eyes, a short, straight nose, brown hair and a nice mouth which at the present moment was trying bravely to smile. Perhaps Dan’s attire wasn’t quite the thing judged by Tubby’s standard; the clothes had been bought in Dayton “ready-to-wear” and didn’t fit very well; but the material was good and the color unobtrusive.

“Where do you live?” asked Tubby, as Dan, having unstrapped his bag, looked around for places in which to deposit the contents.

“Graystone, Ohio,” answered Dan. “Is that my bureau over there?”

“Yes, only it’s a chiffonier,” replied Tubby with a grin. “Say, do you reckon I could get a hat like that if I sent the money?”

Dan glanced in surprise at his straw hat on the window-seat. Then he looked doubtfully at Tubby.

“Sorry you don’t like it,” he said. “But I guess it’s pretty near time to call it in, anyhow. Which is my bed?”

“Everything on that side of the room is yours. Who said I didn’t like the hat? It’s a beaut! Did they give it to you when you bought the clothes?”

“No,” answered Dan quietly, “I paid for it.”

“Well, they must be robbers out your way,” laughed Tubby.

Dan made no answer. He was feeling too dejected to even get angry; besides Tubby’s ill-nature was so obvious that it lost its effect. Dan cleared out his bag and put it on the top shelf of his closet. Then he went back to the window-seat, took one knee in his hands and looked about him. The room was on the corner of the building, was some twenty feet long by twelve broad and was well if not luxuriously furnished. There was an iron cot-bed against each of the side walls, a chiffonier at the foot of each bed and a stationary washstand beside it. A broad study table stood under the chandelier, flanked on each side by an arm-chair. The floor was of hard wood and an ingrain “art-square” covered all but a narrow border. Beside the arm-chairs there were two straight-backed chairs, and the shallow bay window held a comfortable window-seat. On the walls, which were painted a light gray, hung four pictures, two on each side. These were part of the furnishings supplied by the school and were all framed alike in neat, dark oak frames. There was a photograph of the ruins of the Forum, an engraving of dogs, after Landseer, one of Napoleon on the deck of the Bellerephon and a cheerful colored print of the Christmas annual sort. There was a rule that forbade the hanging or placing of any other objects on the walls, but above each chiffonier a series of narrow shelves were built and on these the students arranged their photographs and posters.

“It’s a real nice room,” observed Dan sincerely.

Tubby sniffed.

“Glad you think so,” he sneered. “I think the rooms here are the limit. You nearly freeze in cold weather.”

“There’s steam heat, isn’t there?” asked Dan, with a glance at the radiator.

“Supposed to be, but you’d never know it. You’ve got the warmest side of the room.”

“On account of that side window there? I don’t mind the cold. I’ll change if you’d rather.”

“What’s the use? You’re cold anyhow, wherever you are. Are you one of those fresh-air cranks that want all the windows open at night?”

“No, one’s enough, I guess,” answered Dan.

“Well, you see that it’s the one nearest you, and don’t think you’re going to have it open all the way, either. I’m susceptible to cold, I am. I had the grippe last winter.”

“All right. When do we have supper?”

“Half-past six.” Tubby looked at his watch. “It’s twenty minutes after. Say, have you got any kind of a clock?”

Dan shook his head.

“Well, we need one,” continued Tubby. “If you’re thinking of adding anything to the furnishing of this palatial abode a clock’s the thing to get.”

“I see. Are you allowed to have furniture of your own?”

“You can have an easy chair if you like,” said Tubby. “Maybe you’d better get one. I usually use the window-seat and it only holds one comfortably.”

Dan stifled a smile.

“I guess we can take turns at it,” he answered quietly. He began to wash in preparation of supper. Tubby stared scowlingly at his back.

“What class are you in?” he asked presently.

“Don’t know yet; Third, I hope.”

“I’m in that. You’d better keep out. It’s an awful roast. They work you to death.”

“You mean you are in the Third Class this year?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I thought you said, but I wondered how you knew so much about it if you were just starting.”

“I know what fellows say,” answered Tubby crossly. “You’d better go in for the Fourth.”

“Maybe I’ll have to,” responded Dan cheerfully. “I’ll tell you more about it this time to-morrow.”

“Huh! You’re one of those smarties who think they know it all, aren’t you?”

“I hope not. If you’re going to supper I wish you’d show me the way, if you don’t mind.”

“All right. Come along. You won’t get much to eat, though, I can tell you that. They simply try to starve you here. Wish I’d gone to Broadwood, like I was going to.”

But Dan found that Tubby’s croakings about the supper were misleading. The food was very good and there was no evident attempt on the part of the waiters to force anyone to leave the table hungry. The dining hall, or commons as it was called, occupied most of the first floor of Whitson Hall, the unlovely granite structure which Dan had passed on his way to his room. There were thirty tables, holding from eight to ten boys each. Some of the tables were presided over by instructors, while in one corner of the hall a small table was occupied by Dr. Hewitt, the Principal; Mrs. Ponder, the Matron; Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and the Secretary, Mr. Forisher.

When Dan and his room-mate reached the hall they found it already well filled and Tubby gazed disgustedly at his watch, comparing it with the big clock over the fire-place. “Ten minutes slow!” he growled. Then he ambled over to a nearby table, leaving Dan to fend for himself. But a waiter came to his assistance, Dan gave his name, it was checked off from a list, and he was conducted down the hall. It was a long trip, for the table at which Dan finally found himself was quite at the other end of the room from where he had entered, and he tried his best neither to jostle the hurrying waiters or run into any of the occupants of the tables. He succeeded in both attempts and sank thankfully into a chair.

He might easily have thought himself in the dining room of a hotel, save for the absence of color lent by women’s dresses. As his eyes ranged about the hall they fell presently on a youth who was seated across the table. It was the boy who had come to his assistance at the station. As Dan’s eyes rested for a moment on him he wished that his acquaintance of the afternoon would look up and speak to him. He was an attractive, jolly looking chap, with brown hair that was slicked down very carefully on either side of his well-shaped head, a slightly aquiline nose, and dark eyes—probably brown, although Dan couldn’t be certain of that—that were frank and merry. Dan liked his looks very much and hoped they would become friends. After Tubby Jones the boy across the table was decidedly refreshing. But Dan was forced at last to withdraw his gaze without having secured a glance of recognition, and turned his regard to the other fellows at the table.

They were of all sorts, it seemed; in age, from fourteen to eighteen; attractive and unattractive, light and dark, sober and merry. But they seemed to Dan to be all much alike in one thing, and that was their air of absolute self-possession. For some reason he felt himself in comparison awkward and rough. No one spoke to him save the fellow on his left, who once asked for the pepper and once for the bread. Dan ate his dinner with a good appetite, glancing now and then across the table at his acquaintance of the afternoon and listening interestedly to the conversation about him. Much of it was unintelligible, abounding as it did in names and terms that were strange. But he learned in the course of it that the boy who had shown him the way to the office was named Alf Loring; for some of the fellows called him Alf and some Loring. Alf, reasoned Dan, was probably short for Alfred. As in the coach coming from the station, the subject of football claimed a good deal of attention, and it was evident from the deference paid to his opinions that Loring was to some extent an authority. By the time his dessert came on many of the fellows had finished their dinners and left the table, and Dan, for very loneliness, turned to his neighbor on the left, who had not quite finished, and ventured an inquiry.

“Are we—” Then he corrected himself; perhaps he had no right to say “we” yet. “Is the school going to have a good football team this year?” he asked.

His neighbor glanced at him curiously, but with nothing of unfriendliness, and shook his head.

“Pretty fair, I guess,” he answered. “We lost a lot of fellows last Spring, though.”

“I see,” said Dan. He couldn’t think of anything more to say at the moment and his informant paid no further attention to him. A chair scraped at the other side of the table and Dan looked across in time to see Loring arise. A moment later their glances met. Loring’s swept by and then returned, while a little pucker of indecision creased his forehead. Then recognition came and he nodded across, pausing with a hand on the back of his chair.

“Hello,” he said. “How’d you get on? All right?”

“Yes, thanks,” answered Dan, feeling a little self-conscious as the remaining boys turned their eyes to him. “They gave me a room in Clarke Hall.”

“You might have done worse,” said Loring. “Who are you with?”

“With?” repeated Dan, puzzled.

“I mean who’s your room-mate?”

“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Dan. “A fellow named Jones.”

“Not Tubby Jones?”

“I think so. He was in the coach with us.”

“That’s Tubby,” answered Loring with a smile. Several of the others laughed outright and a boy at the end of the table remarked as he pushed back his chair: “I wish you joy!” It wasn’t intended for Dan’s ears, but Dan heard it.

“Well, Clarke’s a pretty good dormitory,” said Loring. “You might have had worse luck.” He smiled again in friendly fashion and took his departure. Dan thought that the two or three fellows who remained at the table seemed a trifle more interested in him than they had before, but none of them spoke and presently he left the table himself.

Tubby Jones was not in the room when he got back to Clarke. His trunk was there, however, and for the next hour Dan was too busy unpacking to feel lonesome. But afterwards, when everything had been put away he wished that someone would come in; even Tubby would have been welcome. But no one came and so Dan glanced over the books on Tubby’s side of the table, selected a battered copy of one of Henty’s stories and settled himself in a chair. He made up his mind to get interested in the story and keep his thoughts away from Graystone and the folks there; he had thought at first of writing a letter, but he knew that if he did he would be homesick in a minute. Luckily the book captured his interest before a half-dozen pages had been turned and he was thoroughly absorbed in the startling adventures of the hero when the door flew open and Tubby entered. Behind came a second boy, a sharp contrast to Tubby. He was about the same age, but there all likeness ended, for the stranger was thin and sallow with untidy hair of a nondescript shade of light brown, a mere apology for a nose and a wide, loose mouth that was always smiling in a nervous, ingratiating way just as Tubby’s was forever set in lines of displeasure. His eyes were quite as indecisive as his hair in regard to color and had a shifty look that Dan didn’t find prepossessing. The first thing that Tubby saw was the book in Dan’s hand.

“Hello,” he said with a scowl, “isn’t that my Henty?”

“Why, yes, I guess so,” answered Dan. “I found it on the table!”

“Well, I don’t lend my books,” growled Tubby.

“Oh!” Dan looked at him rather blankly and then at the stranger. The latter was grinning as though in appreciation of his friend’s discourtesy, but tried to straighten his mouth when Dan looked at him.

“Sorry,” said Dan. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” He got up and put the book back in its place. “I don’t think I’ve hurt it,” he added dryly.

“Well, if you’d asked me—” began Tubby a trifle more graciously.

“You weren’t here, you see,” said Dan. He picked up Tubby’s cap, which the latter had just tossed on the desk, and placed it on top of the row of books.

“What’s that for?” asked Tubby suspiciously.

“This is my side of the table,” answered Dan quietly, “and I don’t like things put on it.”

Tubby scowled angrily and muttered to himself. Then he took up the cap and tossed it onto a hook in his closet, closing the door with a vindictive slam. The stranger had seated himself on the edge of Tubby’s bed and was grinning like a catfish; the expression is Dan’s, not mine. The possibility of a quarrel between the room-mates seemed to fill him with the most pleasant anticipations. But, as before, when he caught Dan’s gaze on him he strove to dissemble his enjoyment. Perhaps Dan’s glance had in it something of the instinctive dislike which he felt for the other, for the stranger seemed a little embarrassed and turned to Tubby.

“I say, Tubby, you might introduce me, you know,” he challenged.

“I forgot,” muttered Tubby. “Mr. Hiltz, Mr. Vinton. Jake is in the Third and he will tell you just what I did, it’s a mighty tough job.”

Dan shook hands with Jacob Hiltz, wondering as he did so how Tubby had learned his name; for Tubby had not asked it and Dan had not volunteered it. As a matter of fact, Tubby had paid a visit to the Office after supper and asked Mr. Forisher, a course quite typical of Tubby, who, as Dan learned later on, would much rather obtain his information in a round-about way than ask a straightforward question. Hiltz laughed nervously as he dropped Dan’s hand.

“Yes, it’s a tough class all right,” he corroborated. “They say the Latin is fierce.”

“Yes,” said Tubby. “We have Collins in Latin, and he’s a regular slave-driver.”

“He’s the Assistant Principal, isn’t he?” Dan asked.

“Yes, that’s what they call him, but he really does most of the work. Toby’s a figure-head. All he does is to interfere with things and spoil our fun.”

“Toby?” repeated Dan vaguely.

“Doctor Hewitt,” Jake Hiltz explained. “His first name is Tobias, you know. He’s not a bad old sort.”

“Oh, he makes me tired,” growled Tubby. “Doesn’t do a thing that’s any good and draws a big salary for doing it.”

“How old is he?” Dan asked.

“Oh, pretty near seventy, I guess.”

“Does he teach?”

“Yes, some. You’ll have him in Greek when you get into the First Class. He’s a cinch, though, the fellows say. Wish Collins was like him.”

“Are the exams very stiff?”

“You bet they are,” said Tubby. “That’s why you’d ought to try for the Fourth instead of the Third. You’d be certain to make the Fourth, you see.”

“Well, but if I miss the Third, there’s still the Fourth, isn’t there?”

“Yes.” Tubby shook his head dubiously. “But it’s a bad plan to start out that way; Faculty doesn’t like it. Does it, Jake?”

“Dead against it,” answered Jake promptly and with conviction. “If I were you I’d try the Fourth. Then, if you wanted to you could take two extras next year and maybe skip the Third. Two or three fellows are doing that.”

“Sounds a bit difficult,” mused Dan. “What class are you in?”

“Third,” answered Tubby.

“Oh, then you really don’t know very much about it from experience, do you?” asked Dan carelessly. Jake was at a loss for a moment, but Tubby came to his assistance.

“He’s heard plenty of fellows talk about it, I guess. Jake’s been here two years.”

“I see. Still, maybe you fellows are more scared than you need be. I shall try for the Third, anyway.”

“Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said Tubby irritably.

“No, and I’m much obliged to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” answered Jake sweetly. But Dan didn’t like his tone. They talked for awhile longer desultorily. Dan tried to learn something about football at the school, for he meant to try for the team, but neither Tubby nor Jake seemed to be the least bit interested in the game.

“One thing’s sure, though,” said Tubby, “and that is that we will get licked again this year just as we did last.”

“How’s that?” Dan inquired.

“Rotten coaching,” Tubby growled. “They’ve got a fellow named Payson for Head Coach and he’s no good. A conceited chap who thinks he’s the whole show. He doesn’t know enough about football to coach a girls’ school!”

“Do you play?” asked Dan suspiciously. Tubby shook his head.

“No, not on your life! I know how, all right, but there’s no use trying to make the team here unless you’re a swell or a particular friend of Payson’s.”

“Oh, then you don’t think there’s any use in my trying for the team?” Dan asked.

“You!” Tubby and Jake viewed him derisively. “You’d have about as much show as—as—”

“As I would,” Jake assisted.

Dan looked at Jake’s thin, flat-chested figure and tried not to smile. But he wasn’t wholly successful and Jake flushed.

“Oh, you may have the build all right,” he said, “but it takes more than that to get on the team here. Payson won’t pay any attention to a fellow unless he’s had a lot of experience.”

“Well, I’ve had three or four years of it,” said Dan.

“Oh, Western football doesn’t count,” Tubby sneered. “You’ll find we play a different game here.”

“That so? By the way, who is Loring?”

“Alf Loring?” asked Tubby quickly. “He’s quarter-back on the eleven and he thinks he can play football. Do you know him?” Dan shook his head.

“I sat at table with him to-night,” he said.

“Huh! You ought to feel honored! He’s a cad, he is. There’s lots of them here, and he’s the top-notcher of them all. He makes me sick. Conceited fool! If you want to play football you’d better try for the class team; you’ll be lucky if you make substitute on that!”

“Well, I’m going to bed,” said Jake. “Good night. Glad to have met you, Vinton. I’m in Whitson; Number 7. Get Tubby to bring you over some time. Hope you get through exams O.K. Good night.”

Tubby went off with his friend and Dan went to bed. He had just pulled the covering over him when Tubby returned. Dan feigned sleep and Tubby, after one attempt at conversation, let him alone. Soon the light went out and Dan, lying with wide-open eyes, considered the day’s events. On the whole he wasn’t very well satisfied. He had been at Yardley Hall five hours and had been spoken to by exactly four of the two hundred and seventy boys. And of the four two he already cordially disliked. Of the others, one, his neighbor at table, had neither repelled nor attracted him, while Loring, if he was to accept Tubby’s estimate, was not promising. But he had a suspicion that Tubby’s estimates were not always just, and what little he had seen of Loring he liked. Unfortunately, Loring hadn’t shown any reciprocal sentiments. Dan smiled ruefully as he recalled his father’s advice on the subject of forming friendships. “Don’t make your friendship too cheap,” he had counselled. “If a fellow wants it make him pay your price.” Dan wondered now whether anyone was going to want his friendship at any price whatever! Perhaps, after all, he would have done better to have gone to a western school. At Brewer, for instance, he would have by this time, he was certain, known half the school. Yes, there was undoubtedly a difference between western ways and eastern. It wasn’t that Yardley fellows don’t make friendships, for after supper he had passed boys in Oxford Hall with their arms over each other’s shoulders as chummy as you pleased. Perhaps it was merely that it was harder here to make friends, more difficult to become acquainted. Perhaps after you got to know the fellows you would like them immensely. Only—well, Dan wondered whether he would ever get to know the right sort, for certainly, with Tubby and Jake as examples, he hadn’t made a very brilliant beginning! And still wondering, Dan fell dejectedly to sleep.

[CHAPTER V]
YARDLEY HALL

It may be that you who are reading this story know Yardley Hall quite as well as, maybe even better than I do. If so you will think me a bit cheeky for describing it. But as this is likely to fall into the hands of those who may, at the most, have only heard the name of Yardley, I think we owe it to such to say a little about the scene of the story. But I’ll make it as brief as I can, for I don’t like descriptions any better than, possibly, you do. And if you are not satisfied with this, why, it’s the easiest thing in the world to skip this chapter. I shall think myself lucky if you don’t skip more than that before you have finished my tale.

Yardley Hall School, then, is at Wissining, Connecticut, and Wissining is a very little town—so little that some maps do not even show it—situated on Long Island Sound about midway between Newport and New Haven. A little river—not much more than a good-sized creek, to tell the truth—leaves the Sound there and meanders back through marsh and meadow until it finally loses all likeness to a river—even a little one—and becomes simply a bog. But that is seven or eight miles inland. At Wissining it makes quite a showing in a small way; it is broad enough to accommodate a couple of islands, and that is something, you’ll have to allow!

Coming from New York, and after you have left New Haven quite a distance behind, you reach Greenburg. Greenburg is on the west bank of the river and is something of a town. It has a good many factories of various sorts; factories for silverware, brass tubing, clocks and builder’s hardware. There are others beside, and a big boat-building yard where they turn out gasoline launches. Whenever you come across a launch whose engine bears the inscription, “Wissining Launch and Engine Company,” you may be certain that it came from Greenburg. Of course if you want to reach Wissining you pay no attention to the conductor’s cry of “Greenburg! Greenburg!” You keep your seat in the car and after a minute or two the train goes on, past the backs of the houses and stores and over a little bridge across the river, and stops at a very much less imposing station. That is Wissining.

If you stand on the platform after the train has gone and look about you the first thing you will probably notice is a mass of stone and brick buildings which stand on a plateau about a quarter of a mile away. You are looking now directly north-east. Between you and the collection of buildings, which, as the station master will tell you, is Yardley Hall School, there lies nothing but a field and a country road which starts off straight and level and very business-like only to waver uncertainly a little distance away and then make a long curve up a hill until it has reached the top of the plateau and is skirting the fronts of the big buildings.

The school buildings are arranged in such a way that they form in outline a letter J, the loop toward Greenburg and the straight part facing the Sound. Clarke Hall is at the top. Then comes Whitson. Then, forming the first curve, Oxford. Next is Merle and finally, supplying the final twirl, the Kingdon Gymnasium. Back of Whitson and Clarke, and having no part in the J, is Dudley Hall. This completes the list, save for a heating plant tucked away near the gymnasium, and the boat house on the river-bank.

If you stand on the steps of Oxford Hall you have a noble view before you. In the immediate foreground there is a wide lawn, known as The Prospect. Below and beyond are fields through which the road runs to the village, a modest collection of some thirty or forty houses and stores. Further beyond is the river, with the railroad bridge, the wagon bridge and Loon Island for points of interest. Across the river lies Greenburg, quite a city in appearance, her tall chimneys forever spouting smoke. To your right, looking along the front of Oxford, is field and wood, the river, and, beyond that, Meeker’s Marsh, a mile-wide territory of reeds and rushes, streams and islands, where there is good duck and plover and snipe shooting in season, or used to be. There is a good-sized pond there, too; Marsh Lake they call it; and if you have a canoe or a flat-bottomed boat and know the way you can reach it from the river. In the far distance are wooded hills and occasional farms.

Turning and facing the Sound you have in front of you a path which leads straight across The Prospect, past the flag-pole, until, at the edge of the plateau, it becomes a rustic bridge and crosses the railroad. That bridge is a favorite lounging place, for you can look right down into the funnels of the smoke-stacks as the engines whirr by beneath you; that is, if you don’t mind a little smoke. The bridge leads across the railroad cut and the path begins again, running down hill now and parting to left and right at the edge of the woods. If you go through the woods a few minutes’ walk will bring you to the beach with the broad Sound before you. But from The Prospect the Sound is well in view, for the woods and the village and the big Pennimore estate, which fronts the Sound and river both, are all below you. Almost due south those little specks of islands are The Plums. More to the east that purple smudge on the horizon is the eastern end of Long Island. I doubt if any school has a more wonderful outlook.

Yardley Hall School was founded in 1870 by Tobias Hewitt, M.A., Ph.D., Oxford. Then it was called Oxford School and there were only Oxford and Whitson Halls. For a quarter of a century the Doctor did well and the school flourished. But some fifteen years ago the Doctor met reverses and the property, forty acres of land, and, by that time, four buildings, passed into the hands of a stock company. The School was renamed and the business reorganized, the Doctor retaining a sufficient interest to give him an important voice in affairs. The new owners spent a good deal of money. A fine gymnasium was built, a new athletic field was laid out, the grounds were vastly improved, and, finally, in 1903 I think it was, Dudley Hall was erected. About the same time the buildings, all save Dudley, were connected with each other by covered colonnades, the gifts of graduates.

Of the buildings Oxford and Whitson are of granite, the former in Gothic style and the latter without claims to any. In Oxford the basement is given over to the chemical and physical laboratories and store rooms. On the first floor are recitation rooms, the school offices, and, at the eastern end, the Principal’s apartments. On the second floor are recitation rooms and the library. The Assembly Hall is on the third floor, as are the rooms of the rival debating societies, the Oxford and the Cambridge. Whitson contains the kitchens and commons downstairs and two floors of sleeping rooms above. Clarke is entirely a dormitory, one of the new brick and limestone buildings put up in 1892, Merle, erected in the same year, houses the students of the Preparatory Class, for at Yardley there are five classes, First, Second, Third, Fourth and Preparatory. It is in Merle that the Matron, Mrs. Ponder, has her office. (Mrs. Ponder is popularly known as “Emily,” but no disrespect is intended.) Dudley, the newest of the dormitories, is the best in point of comfort, although its situation is not especially desirable. In Dudley you can have a room all to yourself if you want it, or you can go in with another boy and have a suite of study and bedroom. The latter is the more popular way. Rooms in Dudley are awarded first to the members of the graduating class and then, if there are any left, to the Second Class boys.

Yardley is proud of its gymnasium, and justly so. When it was built, in 1895, it was the best preparatory school gymnasium in the country, and even to-day few, I think, excel it. The basement floor is given over to locker rooms, bath rooms and a commodious baseball cage. On the first floor is the gymnasium, Physical Director’s office and bowling alley. Above is the running track of twenty laps to the mile, the trophy room and the boxing room. Four hours a week of physical exercise in the gymnasium are required of all students save those engaged in active sports as members of school or class teams. Mr. Bendix, the Physical Director, is what the fellows call “a shark for work,” and there are those who would never utter a regret if Indian clubs, chest weights, dumb bells, single sticks, foils and boxing gloves suddenly disappeared from their ken. But such fellows form a minority of the whole, you may be sure.

If you take the path that leads down the slope toward the river from the gymnasium you will see Yardley Field spread before you; six acres of smooth ground leading with an imperceptible slope toward the river. First come the gravel tennis courts an even dozen of them in the two wire-netted enclosures. [The little red shed is where the nets are stored.] Then you find yourself at the back of the grand stand, which, built in sections of steel frame and wooden seats, can be moved as desired from one part of the grounds to another. The track is a quarter of a mile oval of hard, well-rolled cinders enclosing the gridiron and diamond. If you skirt the track to the left you reach the boat-house, a picturesque little building of weather-stained shingles about which ivy and shrubbery grow.

Now follow the well-worn path along the river to the right until you have reached the other end of the oval. That low expanse of grass and rushes up-stream there, is Flat Island. It’s a joyous loafing place in Spring before the mosquitoes begin business. To the right is the golf links and in front of you is the Third Hole. There are only nine of them and the course doubles back and forth perplexingly for the newcomer. But it’s a pretty good course for all of that. The first tee is up there on the hill, a little way back of the gymnasium and on the edge of the woods; and there is a school legend to the effect that once an “Old Boy,” visiting his son at Yardley, stood up there and drove the ball clean into the river. And—well, I have nothing to say; you can see the distance yourself. But I know that I wouldn’t like to have to do it!

There’s a story at Yardley which tells how Doctor Tobias Hewitt, when he came to this country from England to start a school, had, because of his Oxford predilections, intended settling on the Thames River, and how when he arrived there was a dense fog blowing in from the Sound and he made a mistake in the rivers and didn’t discover his error until it was too late. Then, so the story goes, he tried to have the Wissining called the Thames and the Thames the Wissining; but the State of Connecticut wouldn’t humor him. Of course the story was made up only to illustrate the Doctor’s fondness for things English and, more especially, Oxonian. And true it is that during the early days of the school English customs were followed very closely. The Doctor was Head Master then, the instructors were Masters, the classes were “forms” and the dining hall was the “commons.” It is said that the Doctor even tried to install the “fag” system among the boys and that it went well enough until an unsympathetic youth from the free and enlightened West mutinied. The effects of his mutiny were: item, a disfigured nose for the boy whose fag he was supposed to be, and item, an immediate declaration of independence from all other fags resulting in a death-blow to the system. But all this was thirty years ago and more, and to-day both Doctor Hewitt and his school are American to the backbone, the Doctor rampantly so on occasions. To be sure, Oxford Hall still holds its name and the dining hall is still known as commons; the rival debating clubs clung to their original titles and the school color had never been changed from dark blue. But these things merely served to prove the school’s emancipation from the British yoke; and, as for the school color, Yardley fellows will wither you with a glance if you suggest any similarity in hue between it and the Oxford’s color, informing you crushingly that it is “Yale blue.” Which, as Yardley sends more students to Yale than to any other college, is as it should be.

[CHAPTER VI]
“TUBBY” JONES SURRENDERS

Dan passed his examinations and was admitted to the Third Class, to the very evident disappointment of Tubby. For the first few days, life in 28 Clarke was not altogether peaceful. Study hours were observed from eight to ten in the evenings. After eight no visiting was allowed outside the building except by permission of the instructor in charge and visiting inside the building was discouraged. But Tubby, who did very little studying at best, always felt especially sociable between eight o’clock and bedtime and liked to have his friends, notably Jake Hiltz and another boy named Caspar Lowd, visit him. Hiltz and Lowd appeared to find no more necessity for study than Tubby, and for several nights they turned up at Number 28, together or separately. This wasn’t conducive to concentration of thought on Dan’s part, and Dan was desirous of staying in the Third Class now that he had got there. He stood it for four nights and then mildly called Tubby’s attention to the rules. Tubby was indignant.

“We don’t stop you from studying, do we?” he blustered. “Can’t I have my friends in here if I want them? Is this room any more yours than mine?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Dan answered, “but you know mighty well that I can’t keep my mind on my books when you fellows are talking three feet away from me!”

“Well, that isn’t our fault, is it?” asked Tubby with a grin. “You’ll get used to it pretty soon. I can study anywhere.”

Dan wanted to ask him why he didn’t do it, but refrained. Instead—

“I have equal rights here with you, Jones,” he said. “I don’t have fellows here in study hours, and you don’t have to, either.”

“You don’t know anybody,” Tubby retorted.

“And if I did I’d have some consideration for my room-mate,” Dan replied tartly.

“Is that so? Well, maybe you think you can keep my friends out of here. Do you?”

“Yes,” answered Dan shortly. “I do. And I’m going to.”

“How?” shouted Tubby angrily. Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll have to go to Mr. Frye.” (Mr. Frye, instructor in physics, lived on the first floor and was in charge of the dormitory.) Tubby sputtered with indignation.

“I’d do that!” he cried. “I’d go and act the baby! You do and you’ll see what the fellows think of you!”

“Who? Hiltz and Lowd, do you mean? I guess I can stand having them think what they like.”

“Yes, and other fellows, too! They’d hear about it!”

“Yes, I guess you’d see to that,” answered Dan.

“Of course I would,” Tubby blustered, “if you carried tales to Noah.” Mr. Frye’s first name was Noah, and by that name was he usually known.

“I don’t like carrying tales any more than you do,” Dan replied, “but I intend to study in the evening, and I can’t do that if you have your friends in here.”

“That’s just what I am going to do,” said Tubby. “There isn’t any rule, anyhow, against visiting in study hours.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to do it often. Besides, there is a rule against visiting outside the building, and that’s what Hiltz and Lowd are doing.”

“They get permission, of course!”

“Oh, come now, Jones! You know Hiltz doesn’t get permission every night. They wouldn’t give it to him four nights running.”

“Well, that’s not my affair,” growled Tubby. “He comes and I have a right to let him in.”

Dan was silent a moment. Then—

“I tell you what I’ll do, Jones,” he said. “You let me study until nine and I’ll let you give house-parties from nine until ten. How does that suit you?”

“I’ll do as I like,” answered Tubby ungraciously.

“Then I’ll do as I like,” said Dan. “And if you have fellows up here to-morrow night between eight and nine I’ll go to Frye and tell him I can’t study.”

“Yah!” said Tubby.

Before this controversy, however, they had fallen out regarding the airing of the room at night. Dan was for having the window on his side of the room wide open, while Tubby declared that it was more fresh air than his constitution would stand.

“I had grippe last winter,” he said. “And I’m susceptible to cold; the doctor said so.”

“I don’t want you to catch cold,” said Dan, “but I can’t sleep with the room closed up tight. I’ll get a screen and you can put it around the head of your bed.”

“Don’t want a screen,” Tubby growled. “I don’t mind having your window open a little, say two or three inches, but I can’t stand a draft, and—”

“If you had more fresh air,” interrupted Dan impatiently, “you’d be a lot better and wouldn’t look so much like the other side of a fried egg!”

That, of course, didn’t help matters much, for Tubby got very red in the face and fumed and sputtered—very much, as Dan reflected, like the egg in the pan—and for the rest of the day the two boys didn’t speak to each other. This didn’t bother Dan much, for he had never found Tubby’s conversation very interesting. It was probably much more of a hardship for Tubby, for that youth was very fond of talking and seemed never happier than when well launched in a scathing criticism of someone or some thing. That night Dan pushed his window half-way up from the bottom and half-way down from the top. Then he put out the light. Just as he was dropping off to sleep he heard Tubby’s bed creak and Tubby’s bare feet on the floor. Then the window was closed very softly. Dan grinned and waited until Tubby was safely in bed again. Then he jumped up and slammed the window up from the bottom as far as it would go. He returned to bed and waited. Tubby got up again, this time walking into a corner of the study table and emitting a groan of pain. Dan pulled the clothes over his face and chuckled. When Tubby was once more between the sheets Dan again opened the window. After that he laid awake for some time, waiting for a continuance of the contest, but nothing happened and finally he fell asleep. But when he awoke in the morning the room was close and warm and every window was tightly shut. Only the transom into the hall was open. Tubby was smiling triumphantly. Dan said nothing.

Gymnasium work came at half-past eleven and lasted until half-past twelve four days in the week. To-day, however, Dan’s class didn’t meet and so after a mathematics recitation at half-past ten he had two hours before dinner time. He resolved to use a portion of the time in the interests of hygiene. So he set out for the village in search of a hardware store. He found the store, but not what he wanted to purchase. He was told, however, that he could get it in Greenburg, across the river. So he found the bridge and had soon covered the quarter of a mile which lay between it and the business part of Greenburg. The town proved to be quite a busy one and Dan found lots to interest him, especially in the store windows. After he had made his purchase in the hardware store he gave himself up to a veritable orgy of shopping. He bought pencils and blue-books and tablets in a stationery store, picture postcards and a glass of root-beer in a druggist’s, a dark blue necktie in a haberdasher’s and a box of candy at a confectionery store. Then he looked at his watch and discovered that he had barely time in which to reach school before dinner. He did it, arriving at Oxford much out of breath, just as the hands of the big clock in the stone tower pointed to four minutes of one. Later he made the discovery that luncheon was the one meal of the day at which tardiness was permitted, the doors of commons remaining open until a quarter to two.

Tubby seemed to have recovered from his ill-humor and the dove of peace perched itself in Number 28 Clarke. But when bedtime came the dove fled precipitately, and probably out the window. For Dan’s last act was to raise the lower sash and pull down the upper one. Then he produced a small chain such as are used for dog leashes and tossed one end of it over the tops of the sashes, bringing it back into the room underneath. Where the ends came together he made them fast with a small padlock. During this procedure Tubby, raised on his elbow in bed, watched silently. Then Dan put out the light and crept between the sheets. He hadn’t dared to so much as glance at Tubby for fear the expression on that youth’s face would move him to laughter. But after he had got the bed-clothes well over his head Dan chuckled to his heart’s content. There was no necessity for staying awake, for Tubby might lower the sashes or raise them to his heart’s content; whether up or down they must stay together.

The next morning Tubby was inclined to be distant, and his only conversational efforts were sniffs and snuffles designed to appraise Dan that he had caught cold through exposure to the night air. But Tubby’s cold didn’t last beyond breakfast.

For two more nights Dan used his chain and padlock. The third night he left it off and opened the window only a foot at the top and a like distance at the bottom. When he awoke in the morning it was just as he had arranged it. Tubby had given up the struggle. And Dan won out in the other affair as well, for, in spite of Tubby’s pretended disdain for his room-mate’s ultimatum he was pretty certain that Dan would do as he said he would, and it was part of Tubby’s philosophy never to present himself to the notice of the instructors. So thereafter Hiltz and Lowd, or (very occasionally) someone else, paid their visits to 28 after nine o’clock.

To Dan’s surprise these victories, instead of antagonizing Tubby the more, seemed rather to increase his respect and liking for his room-mate. Dan didn’t for one moment flatter himself that Tubby was fond of him, for it seemed doubtful if Tubby was capable at that period of being fond of anyone save himself; and Dan preferred that he shouldn’t be. For Dan’s sentiments toward Tubby were a mixture of tolerance and good-natured contempt, and a liking on Tubby’s part would have been embarrassing. But they got on pretty well together after these first skirmishes. Dan realized that Tubby’s companionship was better than none. For so far, and Dan had been at Yardley six whole days, he had made no friends and had but three or four acquaintances. His preconceived ideas of Eastern boarding-school life were getting some hard knocks.

[CHAPTER VII]
PAYSON, COACH

Those first six days were busy ones, yet Dan found plenty of time in which to be homesick. I don’t mean that he wept or went around with a long face; he was pretty nearly sixteen years of age, and, of course, a chap when he gets to be that old has altogether too much pride to act like a baby no matter how much he may feel like one. But on his first and second days at Yardley he went for long walks along the shore or struck inland along the river bank and thought a good deal about Graystone and the folks there and wished heartily that he could see them. The East and Yardley Hall in particular seemed to him then a very lonely, unfriendly place, and the three months which stretched ahead between the present and the Christmas recess looked interminable. Once—it was a dull, cold afternoon with an unfamiliar salt tang in the damp air—he even considered giving it up and going home. He had only to get his bag from his room, walk to the station and take a train. He had plenty of money for all expenses and he felt certain that his father would forgive him even though he would be disappointed in him. The knowledge that it was possible to cut and run at any moment was comforting and reconciled him to remaining for awhile longer. Perhaps he might manage to hang on until the recess. Then, once home, trust him to stay there!

But on the third day, when as usual he started out in the afternoon for a tramp, he suddenly discovered what he had not noticed on the preceding days; that the Sound, aglitter in the afternoon sunlight, dotted here and there with white sails and feathered with the trailing blue smoke of distant steamers, was very beautiful; that the curving shore, clothed in green turf and mellowing trees, edged with gray boulders or warm white sand, was vastly pleasant; that the blue sky, tranquil and summer-like, flecked here and there with streamers of cottony clouds, looked kindly after all; that, in short, this eastern world wasn’t so different from Ohio. He swung along that day with a lighter heart, whistling as he went. He cut a stick from an old willow that grew back from the shore and flourished it merrily. His walk was a series of surprises. The shore curved and capered along the edge of the Sound, revealing all sorts of interesting little coves and nooks and promontories. Once a stone wall came straggling down a hill across a meadow and wandered right out into the water like a bad little boy insisting on getting his feet wet. Dan followed it out, balancing himself on the big stones, and, at the end, jumping from one to another until he stood precariously on the last one of all with the blue sunlit water before him and around him. At a little distance a sloop lay moored. The tide was well out and Dan believed that he could reach it by wading. So he sat down and pulled off shoes and stockings and rolled his trousers as high as they would go and started out. The water was surprisingly warm and save that he once stepped into some sort of a hole and went down until his trousers were wet, he reached his goal without misadventure. The sloop was an old one, broad of beam and snub of nose, and it wasn’t very clean. But Dan pulled himself up onto the deck and dropped from there into the cockpit, where, the tiller under his arm, he sat a long while and watched the sea and the distant boats and made believe—for even at nearly sixteen one may still make-believe—that he was asail.

After awhile he noticed that whereas he had begun by looking eastward he was now looking in quite the opposite direction. That was strange! But the mystery was soon solved. The tide was coming in again and the sloop had swung around until her blunt nose was pointing straight toward the open. Dan glanced toward the shore and the end of the stone wall in dismay. Even as he looked a little wave crept up the side of the last boulder and playfully lapped the toe of one of his stockings. It was time for action. So he slipped over the side and found the water almost to his hips. When he reached the stone and rescued his shoes and stockings he was pretty wet. He went back up the wall and picked out a nice warm spot to dry off in and there with his back to a comfortable rock he spent another half hour, rousing himself at length to finish dressing and go home. There was a good four miles between him and the school, but he felt as though he could walk forty, and so, his willow cane swinging, he stepped out briskly. For the first time since he had reached school he was thoroughly glad just to be alive, to feel the springy turf underfoot, the sun on his face and the little salty breeze about him.

When he reached the turn of the path at the corner of Whitson he remembered that down on the football field practice was going on. Until now he had thought little about football. Before he had reached Yardley he had entertained notions of trying for the team, but what Tubby and Jake had told him had rather discouraged him; and besides that he had seen some of the players and they were so much older and larger than he that it seemed silly to offer his services; doubtless he would be only laughed at. And then, too, he had been so low-spirited that sport, even football, which of all sports held first place in his affections, had failed to appeal to him. But to-day there was a change in his spirits and he decided that he would go down to the field and look on awhile. So he went, and as he passed along the front of Merle Hall a nice-looking boy with a blue cap tucked rakishly on the back of his head smiled and nodded to him, and Dan’s heart lightened still more. He didn’t know who the boy was, couldn’t even recollect his face, but it was nice to be noticed. Dan never became well acquainted with the youth with the blue cap, but he always felt grateful to him for just that little smiling nod which meant little to the giver but so much to Dan.

The tennis courts were all in use and the players, for the most part white-clad, darted back and forth, to and fro, in a merry scene. Up towards Flat Island two canoes, each manned by a pair of white-shirted boys, were racing down with the tide, the paddles catching the sun as they rose from the water. But the busiest scene was on the gridiron. Dan sought a place along the side-line near the middle of the field and looked on. There were fully sixty candidates in sight, and Dan noticed hopefully that several of them were no older than he and no whit larger nor stronger. Perhaps, after all, he reflected, he might stand a show. If he could make a place with the scrubs it would be better than having no football at all. He realized that when the frost came into the air he would feel strangely lost of an afternoon were he not chasing a pigskin over the yellowing grass.

At the farther end of the field a dozen candidates were punting and catching. These were fellows trying for the backfield positions. An awkward squad of a dozen or so more were falling on the ball. Then there were four squads trotting about the gridiron learning the simpler plays, each squad commanded by a hard-working quarter-back. No signals were used. As one of the squads came abreast of Dan he heard the quarter shout his directions:

“Left half between guard and tackle on his own side!”

Then the ball was passed, left half sprang forward, clutched the ball and went stumbling through the line.

“What’s the matter?” cried an impatient voice. “Who is that man, Watkins? Well, you’ll have to learn to keep your feet under you, whoever you are. Try that again and let me see you hit the line as though you meant it!”

Dan put the speaker down for Payson, the coach. He was a large, broad-shouldered man of about thirty with a determined jaw and a pair of quick, restless black eyes that seemed capable of seeing the whole field at once. In weight he must have been nearly two hundred pounds, but he had the height to carry the weight; and, besides, there was an alertness about him and an easy manner of carriage that gave him a suggestion of speed as well as weight and strength. In college—he had played on both the Cornell and Yale teams—he had been known as “Whopper” Payson, and that was in an age of big men, too. He had played guard, and for one year full-back in those days, and there are plenty of folks who remember his work in the Yale-Princeton game in his last year at New Haven. At Yardley the older boys liked him well, but the younger ones, and especially those who had failed to please him, called him hard names, “bully,” “bear” and “big brute” were some of the more popular ones. He was a hard taskmaster; Dan soon saw that for himself; and he was impatient of shirking or awkwardness or stupidity. When he spoke—and he was not a man who talked when he had nothing to say—he said things in a quick, decisive manner that reminded one of cold steel.

There were a good many fellows at Yardley who believed that Payson didn’t take enough trouble with new candidates, that every year he missed good material for the reason that he was not willing to accord a sufficient amount of patience to green players. There may have been truth in this, yet, on the other hand, Payson, although he had failed the preceding year, had managed during his four-year régime to turn out two winning teams. There was his side of it, too.

“I can’t bother,” he said once, “to spend valuable time teaching the rudiments of football to fellows who may never make good. I have only eight weeks at the most to build my team, and I need every moment of those eight weeks for perfecting. Let the novices learn how to handle the ball on their class teams. Next year I’ll try them out. But a coach can’t conduct a kindergarten and turn out a decent team in eight weeks. Anyhow, I can’t.”

That was John Payson’s side of it, and doubtless there was a good deal of sense in his contention.

Dan liked the coach’s looks very well on the whole. He seemed honest and capable and dependable; above all dependable. He was just the sort of a fellow, thought Dan, that one would want to find on the bridge of a steamer when the rockets were soaring, and just the sort one would be glad to find waiting on the side-line when you trotted off after having been worsted in the first half of your Big Game. Dan approved of Payson. That sounds rather presumptuous, to be sure, but in the same way that a cat may look at a king, doubtless a candidate may pass judgment on a coach.

It was a warm afternoon, and presently Andy Ryan, the trainer, a brisk little, middle-aged Irishman with sandy hair, red face and a pair of eyes as green as his own beloved emerald sod, sought out the coach and secured the release of all candidates save a half-dozen or so unfortunates who, having unwisely taken on unnecessary fat during the summer, were doomed to two laps around the track. The others trotted up the path to the gymnasium and showers, the little gallery of spectators melted away, Andy busied himself with gathering the footballs into the big canvas bag and Dan found himself practically alone with the head coach. Payson was watching the little bunch of players jogging along the cinders across the field, but he was thinking of other matters, wondering, in fact, just how much recognition it would be best to accord to this “new football” which was entering on its second season. He had all of the old-style player’s contempt for the new-fangled tricks like the forward pass and the on-side kick. Last Fall the game with Broadwood had gone against him just by reason of one of those same idiotic tricks, a forward pass, which, after having been handled and dropped by most of the players of the two teams, had been finally captured by a Broadwood tackle on Yardley’s five yards, the tackle managing to fight his way across for a touchdown with the entire playing force struggling about him like chips on the edge of a maelstrom. Instead of accepting this as a vindication of the new game Payson declared it the veriest fluke and added it to his arguments in opposition.

“What science,” he demanded of Andy, “is there in throwing the ball down the field for the whole bunch of players to claw at? What if you do make it go once in ten times? or once in five times? Why, I dare say I could kick a placement from the middle of the field as often as that, but you wouldn’t call me anything but an idiot if I tried it! The onside kick has some sense to it; it might be possible to develop that into a scientific play, but this forward pass business—! Piffle!” And Andy, who was still smarting over Yardley’s defeat, agreed enthusiastically.

Still, Payson wasn’t blinding himself now to the fact that this same forward pass had possibilities in the hands of a fast, well-drilled team, and he would have given a good deal at this moment to have known what Myers, the Broadwood coach, was planning. As far as Yardley was concerned the new football would suit better than the old, for the material was not the sort which promised a powerful attack. Well, he would know better what to do in another week. Probably a mixture of old football and new would be the safest campaign to prepare for. As he turned his eyes encountered Dan’s and he presumed that the boy had been waiting to speak to him.

“Well?” he demanded sharply.

Dan didn’t know whether he had intended speaking to the coach or not, but the opportunity had presented itself and he decided to seize it.

“Is it too late to try for the team, sir?” he asked.

“No.” Payson’s gaze swept him from head to foot swiftly. “Ever played before?”

“Yes, sir, three years.”

“Where?”

“At home on my grammar school team; Graystone, Ohio.”

“What position?”

“End.”

Payson’s face brightened.

“What do you weigh?”

“About a hundred and thirty-eight, I think.”

Payson’s face fell again.

“Can you run?”

“I think so, sir.”

“What’s your time for the hundred?”

“I never tried it.”

“Can you punt?”

“Pretty well.”

“Catch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. See Ryan, get yourself examined by Mr. Bendix, and report to me to-morrow.”

Payson nodded and turned away toward the gymnasium. Dan gave him a start and then followed. Half way up the hill Payson heard the footsteps behind him, turned and waited.

“Know much about this new football?” he asked as Dan joined him.

“We tried it last year, sir, and it went pretty well—sometimes.”

“Sometimes! Yes, I dare say.”

“I think we’d have done pretty well with it,” said Dan, “only we lost our quarter in the middle of the season and I had to break in a new man.”

“Oh, you were captain, were you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Payson. “I never had a captain show up here to me that amounted to a hill of beans. Think you could forget it in time?”

Dan flushed at the note of sarcasm in the coach’s voice.

“I don’t think it troubles me much,” he answered stiffly.

“Sounds as though it did,” said the coach dryly. “Still, you didn’t start off your conversation with the announcement, and that’s promising. What’s your opinion of the forward pass?”

Dan hesitated, rather taken aback. He wondered whether Payson was mocking him, but a glance at the coach’s face dispelled that supposition.

“I think,” answered Dan finally, “that it ought to be a good play this year under the changed rules. Last year if the pass failed you lost the ball, no matter what down it was, but this year on the first or second downs you are penalized fifteen yards and keep the ball.”

“Yes, that makes it easier going,” said Payson. “But do you think that the forward pass can be developed into a certain play?”

“No, sir, no more than any other play. It will be perfected a good deal this year, I guess, but the defense will be perfected, too.”

“Do you think it can be developed to a point where you can depend on its gaining once in two tries?”

“Yes, sir. I think it might be made to do better than that if you could keep your opponent in the dark.”

“As how?”

“Well, of course I don’t pretend to know much about it,” said Dan with a note of appeal in his voice. The coach nodded. “But it seems to me that the best thing about the forward pass is its unexpectedness. It ought to be made always from some regular formation, don’t you think so, sir?”

Payson nodded again. They had reached the corner of the gymnasium now and had halted in front of the steps.

“I—we tried it last year by having the quarter make the pass, but it didn’t work. He had to run five yards and by that time the other team was through on us enough to spoil the throw. Then we made it from a kick formation and that worked better, although we lost about seven yards at the start from throwing the ball from a position farther back of the line. But it worked better, for the other fellows could never be sure whether we were going to kick or pass.”

“But it gave them a chance to cover their backfield,” objected the coach.

“Yes, sir, but toward the last of the season we’d all got so we were on the lookout for forward passes whenever anything except close formation was used by the opponent.”

“I suppose so. Well, we will have to try the crazy play ourselves this year, I suppose. You seem to be able to use your brain, my boy, so study this forward pass business up. See what you can contrive for attack and defense. Come and see me some time. By the way, what did you say your name is?”

Dan hadn’t said, but he forbore to mention the fact.

“Vinton, sir; I’m in the Third Class.”

“Vinton, eh? Sounds like an automobile, doesn’t it?” The coach absolutely smiled, which so surprised Dan that he hadn’t the presence of mind to smile back. When he had recovered himself the big oaken door was swinging shut behind the coach’s broad shoulders.

Dan crossed the colonnade between the gymnasium and Merle Hall and cut through the Yard. It was getting well toward twilight and the old stone sun-dial cast a long purple shadow across the turf. Some of the windows were still open in Dudley and Whitson and Clarke, and Dan caught glimpses of groups of fellows at the casements. But this evening the sight neither made him depressed nor envious. At last someone had recognized his existence, someone who counted. Dan climbed the stairs of Clarke with a light heart and when he reached the door of Number 28 flung it open with a bang, for all the world as though he was a person of importance!

Tubby Jones was sprawled Turk-fashion on his bed, with his own pillows and Dan’s at his back, reading a novel. He looked up in scowling bewilderment.

“What do you want to do?” he gasped. “Knock the building to pieces?” Dan laughed gayly as he tossed his cap onto the window-seat.

“If I do,” he answered, “I’ll build a new one and a better one, and I’ll call it Vinton Hall. And I’ll see that you have half a dozen pillows of your own, Jones, so that you won’t have to use these two, which—” Here he deprived Tubby of half his support, sending him rolling against the wall like a football—“happen to belong to me, my friend.”

“I wasn’t hurting them,” declared Tubby in injured tones.

“Oh, no, just getting them nice and dirty,” answered Dan as he threw the pillows onto his own bed, “and—Hello, you’ve been eating that messy popcorn again! It’s all over the shop. Jones, do you know you’re an awful little fat pig? You ought to have a sty of your own, you really ought!”

“Look here, Vinton—” began Tubby wrathfully.

But Dan strode over to Tubby’s bedside and with his hands in his pockets viewed the recumbent one with a broad smile.

“Jones,” he announced, “if I hear one tiny little grunt from you, one fretful squeal, I’ll turn you over and paddle you with your own tennis racket!”

And Tubby was so amazed at the sudden transformation of his sober, taciturn room-mate that he could merely gasp open-mouthed until it was too late for a suitable reply. So he relapsed into a silent condition of wounded dignity, while Dan raked his football togs out of the closet and examined them closely, whistling merrily the while.

[CHAPTER VIII]
DAN JOINS THE FOOTBALL SQUAD

The next afternoon at four o’clock Dan joined the throng of candidates in the big locker room in the basement of the gymnasium. He had been examined that forenoon by Mr. Bendix, had been put through strength tests, had been measured and at last presented with a chart which showed his size, strength and development in comparison with a normal youth of his age. He passed well and received official permission to play football. “Your chest, abdomen and upper-arm muscles are very well developed,” Mr. Bendix had told him, “but the lower part of your body seems to have been neglected. But we’ll fix that for you.”

Then Dan had given his name to Andy Ryan and been welcomed like a long-lost son. “Sure, you’re a well-made lad,” declared Andy, “and we’ll find a place for you, never fear. End, is it? Well, why not? Faith, it’s ends we need, I’m thinking. This new-fangled football is just the game for the lightweights like you. Just you take hold right, Mr. Vinton, and we’ll make a real football player out of you.”

This was all very encouraging, but Dan had a suspicion that Andy talked just that way to every new candidate. At a little after four he trotted down to the field with the others, looking very trim and fit in his new khaki trousers and faded, battle-scarred brown sweater. If he had expected any especial consideration from the coach he was disappointed. When he reported Mr. Payson looked at him silently for an instant and then asked:

“What’s the name?”

“Vinton, sir.”

The coach pulled a little memorandum book from his pocket and entered it.

“Let me see, you are trying for quarter?”

“No, sir, end.”

“Been examined?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Go down there and report to Captain Colton.”

Dan turned away a trifle chagrined. Payson had forgotten all about him since yesterday! But he hadn’t gone far when the coach summoned him back.

“Ever played before, Vinton?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, three years.”

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“Is that all? Nothing else you want to tell me?”

“No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. We haven’t any use for stars here. Tell Mr. Colton I sent you.”

Dan smiled as he trotted away. Payson had laid a trap for him and he had escaped it. He wondered what Payson would have said if he had mentioned his captaincy again. Something pretty tart, he was certain of that! The coach hadn’t forgotten him, after all, and Dan took comfort from that knowledge.

Oliver Colton, the captain, was a strapping big fellow of nineteen, a fine football player, a good all-around athlete and an excellent student besides. Yardley Hall was proud of Colton. He had been Honor Man for the last two years, held the school records for the broad-jump and the hammer, was a good pitcher, batted around three hundred and, above all, was one of the best guards that had ever played on a Yardley eleven. He was good-looking, with rather curly brown hair and such soft eyes of the same color that one would never have suspected him of being the hard, aggressive player he was. His voice, too, was soft, and he had a way of making a command sound like the most courteous request. And yet the fellows who knew Colton jumped just as quickly at his voice as at Payson’s. When Dan found him he had two lines of forwards under instruction in breaking through and blocking, and Dan had to stand by for a moment until the big chap was at leisure.

“That’s better, Hadlock,” said Colton as the lines disentangled themselves. “But you must keep your back down, you know. Don’t double yourself up like a pair of scissors. Maybe you think you can play a slashing game that way, but you can’t.”

The panting players laughed at the pleasantry as they took their places again, and Dan claimed the captain’s attention.

“Mr. Payson told me to report to you,” he said. “I’m trying for end. My name’s Vinton.”

“Glad to see you out,” answered Colton with a genial smile as he shook hands. “We need good ends this year, and if you’re quick enough to make up for your lack of weight you ought to make good. Know the rules pretty well, do you, Vinton?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, it won’t do any harm to study them a bit more. If you haven’t a rule book you’d better get one. There’s a quiz on the rules to-night in the trophy room. Better polish up this afternoon. Now you go over there where you see those chaps and join them. Played before, have you?”

“Yes, on my grammar school team.”

“That’s good. Buckle down to it, for we may need you badly before long.”

He nodded pleasantly and turned back to his charges, and Dan walked across the field and joined a ring of candidates who were falling on the ball. It was the awkward squad, but Dan didn’t mind that; he didn’t mean to stay there very long. Later there was practice in starting and running down under kicks, and when practice was over Dan was quite ready to quit work. When he stepped out of the shower, glowing from head to foot, he bumped against Alfred Loring, who, with a big bath towel clutched about him, was talking over his shoulder to another chap.

“Beg pardon,” exclaimed Loring. “Hello, are you with us? Glad to see you. What are you trying for?”

“End,” answered Dan.

“Good work! Played there, have you?”

“Yes, a couple of years. But I guess I’m too light for the team here.”

Loring stepped back, put his head on one side and looked Dan over.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “What’s your weight?”

“A hundred and thirty-six, but I suppose some of that will come off.”

“Well, I only weigh a hundred and forty-four myself,” said Loring encouragingly. “And you look fast. Hope you’ll make it.” Then he disappeared into the bath and a blood-curdling yell and a bath towel floated out at the same instant.

Dan went back to his room that afternoon feeling as though he had found himself again. Tubby, as usual, was curled up on his bed reading something that didn’t look like a text-book, but this evening he hadn’t borrowed Dan’s pillows.

“Well, I suppose everyone was tickled to death to see you,” he said sarcastically. “Had a brass band out, I dare say, to welcome you.”

“Tubby, you’re a cynic,” answered Dan good-naturedly. He hadn’t meant to address Tubby by his nickname; it came out without thought. Tubby looked surprised, was secretly pleased and made believe that he didn’t relish the familiarity.

“I don’t call you Dan, do I?” he growled.

“Oh, you can if you like,” was the answer. “It’s shorter than Vinton, and as we’re destined to see a good deal of each other for awhile you might as well take things easy. I shall call you Tubby, anyway. It fits you like a coat.”

“Go to thunder,” muttered Tubby, returning again to his book. Dan laughed cheerfully.

“Tubby,” he said, “to judge by your manner sometimes one would almost think you bad-tempered.”

Silent contempt on the part of Tubby Jones.

When Dan entered the trophy room in the gymnasium at a few minutes before seven he found the room already well filled. At least half a dozen fellows nodded to him, Alf Loring amongst the number, and Dan was secretly much elated. There followed a short talk by Payson on the new rules and then the “quiz” began. Some of the questions were not easy to answer:

What happens when a legal forward pass crosses the goal line on the fly without being touched by a player? When the same ball has been legally touched by a player?

When is a player of the side which has kicked the ball put on-side?

Is tackling below the knees illegal for all players? And, if not, what are the exceptions?

What is the penalty for holding or unlawful use of hands or arms when the offending side has the ball? When the offending side is not in possession of the ball?

What is the signal for a fair catch? What is the penalty for interference with a fair catch?

If marks had been awarded I doubt if many of the fellows would have received an A. At a few minutes before eight they were dismissed with the advice to study the rules. Dan obeyed the instructions so implicitly that when ten o’clock came he found that he hadn’t so much as glanced at his lessons for the morrow. So he burned the midnight oil, greatly to Tubby’s disgust, and got Cæsar’s Gallic War so mixed with the football rules that he might just as well have gone to bed at ten.

A few days later Dan awoke one morning to find the sunlight streaming into the room, to feel the crisp air of a frosty October morning blowing in through the window and to realize that, should the traditional fairy princess appear on the scene ready to transport him with a dip of her wand to any place in the world he would choose to stay just where he was. He lay there with his knees hunched up, the sunlight glaring on the white spread, and smiled at the knot in the left-hand upper panel of his closet door. The knot and he were getting to be pretty good friends. When he awoke in the morning the knot was always the first thing to meet his gaze, and of late it had seemed to have a welcome for him. There is a lot of expression in a knot if you look at it a long time, and sort of half close your eyes and—and—

Dan gave a start. He had almost gone to sleep again. That wouldn’t do, for it must be fully time to get up. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at the watch in his vest pocket. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction and tumbled back on the pillow. There was a good ten minutes yet. Across the room Tubby was represented by a round mound under the bed clothes. Not an inch of him was showing, for Tubby slept with his head under the covers to guard against those drafts which were forever troubling him. Dan put his hands under his head, stared contentedly at the knot in the closet door and went through the day in anticipation.

Chapel at half-past seven in Assembly Hall, the fellows sitting by classes on the old, knife-scarred benches, and “Old Toby,” as the principal was called, reading from the Bible in his pleasant, mellow, English voice; afterwards an invocation by Mr. Collins or Mr. Frye, the boys joining together at the end in the Lord’s Prayer; then announcements by Mr. Collins, the singing of a hymn and a decorous exit as far as the door turning to a wild, riotous stampede down the two flights of stairs.

Breakfast at eight; a good breakfast, too—all the milk you wanted to drink, or coffee or cocoa; steak or chops or eggs and bacon, with big steaming-hot baked potatoes and toast or rolls. Dan’s expression grew beatific. He had his regular place in commons now, and if all went well he would go to one of the football training tables in a week or so. He didn’t know any of the fellows at his table very well yet, but he was becoming better acquainted every day. The chap at his left—his name was Paul Rand—kept a jar of orange marmalade and was very generous with it. Dan rather liked Rand—or the marmalade; he wasn’t certain which.

At nine o’clock there was a Latin recitation in Oxford G, with Mr. Collins. Dan wasn’t awfully fond of Latin, but he accepted it philosophically as a necessary evil. French was better. That came at half-past nine. The instructor was Mr. von Groll, a great favorite with the fellows. He was just out of college, an Amherst A.B., and hadn’t yet forgotten what it was to be a boy. After French there was a half-hour in which to brush up on math. And it was a pretty good thing to brush up on, as Dan had already learned. For Mr. McIntyre—“Kilts” was his popular name—was pretty severe. “Kilts” wasn’t very well liked; there was a general idea prevalent that he had long since forgotten the first two letters of the alphabet; anyhow, it was an event in school when he awarded a B to anyone, while as for an A! Tradition had it that he had never marked a student with an A but once, and that it so upset him that he was ill for a week.

In the school catalogue he figured as Angus McIntyre, A.A., Edinburgh. That “A.A.,” which really stood for Associate of Arts, was variously interpreted by the boys as “Almost Anything,” “Abominable Algebra” and “Acrimonious Angus.” They said he had tacked so many A’s onto his name that he had none left for his pupils. In age he was somewhere about fifty, tall, lean, smooth-shaven, with a shock of iron-gray hair and piercing, deep-set eyes. Yardley didn’t love Kilts, but at the same time it was proud of him. He had written numerous books on higher mathematics, and, as one of his students had said in a moment of grudging admiration, “could take Euclid by the back of the neck and shake the change out of his trousers.” So far Dan had got along pretty well with Kilts.

After mathematics there was nothing to do to-day until dinner time, unless he was wise enough to study. At two there was English with Mr. Gaddis, a big, bullet-headed, good-natured man of thirty-six who would have looked more at home on the football field than in the class room. Old Tige was the name awarded him, probably because of a likeness to an unlovely, kind-dispositioned bulldog. The fellows liked Old Tige, even while they made fun of him; and there was no doubt about his ability as an instructor of the English Language.

At four came football practice. Dan’s heart warmed at the thought of it. He was getting on down there on the field, was Dan. Already he had been accepted as a possibility at end. That didn’t mean a great deal, for early-season possibilities often become late-season impossibilities, but Dan was encouraged and was doing his level best to make good. He had plenty of speed, followed the ball as a cat follows a mouse, and barring lack of weight, seemed to have the making of an ideal end. And whether he made the team or not, he was having a lot of good fun out of it and, better yet, was making acquaintances and friends. He knew lots and lots of fellows well enough to speak to now, while several had asked him to their rooms. He hadn’t gone yet, but he meant to. Alf Loring was very friendly, but Dan didn’t seem to get very far with him. He was sorry, too, for he liked Loring thoroughly, liked him better than ever since he had seen him run the first team in the scrimmages with which the practice ended nowadays. Loring was a wonderful quarter-back; there was no doubt about that. Dan wished that he might know him better. But Alf Loring was one of the popular fellows in school and doubtless had as many friends now as he wanted, Dan reflected. Perhaps in time—. Well, meanwhile there was his fidus Achates, Tubby Jones. Dan looked across at Tubby’s inert form and smiled.

After practice came a jolly half-hour in the gymnasium, while the fellows took their showers, dressed and talked over the day’s events. Then supper and a clear hour of loafing; only to-night was letter night for Dan, and letter writing would take the place of a loaf. Then study from eight to nine or half-past, or, in case Tubby’s friends didn’t happen in, until ten. And then bed again. A busy day, but a happy one, thought Dan.

But now the knot on the closet door was looking back at him warningly and Dan, his thoughts returning at a bound to the present, leaped out of bed, shut the window and called to Tubby.

“Seven o’clock and past, Tubby! You’ll be late for Chapel!”

“Don’t care if I am,” growled Tubby.

[CHAPTER IX]
THE FIRST GAME

“Say, you got stung, didn’t you?” asked Tubby with a grin of delight.

“How?” questioned Dan. Tubby pointed to the copy of the Yardley Scholiast which Dan held.

“Didn’t you subscribe?”

“Yes; why not?”

“You must want to waste your money, that’s all,” sneered Tubby. “The Scholiast never has anything in it. I wouldn’t give fifty cents a year for it; and they stick you two and a half. But they never got me. What’s the good? If there’s anything in it I want to read I go to the library for it.”

“But it seems to me,” answered Dan, “that it’s a mighty good sheet for a school paper; well printed, well written and pretty newsy.”

“They’ve got a better one at Broadwood,” replied Tubby. “Theirs is a fortnightly called the Portfolio; it’s a dandy.”

“Say, Tubby, why the dickens didn’t you go to Broadwood instead of coming here?” asked Dan impatiently. “You’re always cracking Broadwood up and running Yardley down. You make me weary, Tubby.”

“Huh!” said Tubby. “I wish I had. My dad wouldn’t let me; he went here himself; they used to call it Oxford School then. I’d go to Broadwood in a minute if he’d let me.”

“Well, any time you want to change, Tubby,” said Dan wearily, “I’ll do what I can to help.”

Tubby scowled deeply.

“Want the room to yourself, I suppose,” he said. “Well, you won’t get it. I’ll stay here as long as I like!”

Dan made no answer, but took up the school weekly again and continued the article he had been reading when Tubby entered. It was a criticism of the football material, which, declared the Scholiast, was well up to the average.

“Of the men who played on last year’s team five are eligible this Fall. These are Captain Colton, guard; Hill, center; Mitchell, tackle; Loring, quarter, and Kapenhysen, full-back. There are consequently but six places to fill and there seems a wealth of material to choose from. The center and right side of the line will be as it was last season, barring accidents. Hill at center, while not heavy, is very aggressive and fast and is a veteran player. Captain Colton, at right guard, is one of the best line-men representing the Blue in recent years. He has weight, speed and aggressiveness and last year more than held his own against every opponent he faced. He uses his head every moment of the time and opens holes well. Mitchell, at right tackle, went into the Broadwood game last Autumn at almost a moment’s notice and, in spite of lack of training and experience, played his position capitally. This season, with the proper attention, he should show up as one of the best on the team. On the left of center the positions of guard and tackle are to be filled. For guard, Hadlock, who played on the second team last year, seems the most promising. Ridge, a substitute last year, plays a good game. There are also Smith and Merriwell, both of whom did excellent work on the Second Class Team last Fall. Folwell, who ran a close race with Poole a year ago for the position of left tackle, seems the natural selection for the place this season, but he has been ill this summer and so may not be able to make good. Other possible candidates for that position are Coke and Little. The end positions will probably prove troublesome to the coach. The material looks good but is practically inexperienced, if we except Dickenson, who substituted last year in one or two games. Norton, Williams and Sayer played on the Second last year with varying success. Williams is a fast man for his size and gets down the field well, but his tackling is usually uncertain and indecisive.

“At quarter Loring, who held the position last year and put up a star game against Broadwood, is first choice. In fact, his closest competitor, Clapp, is hardly in the same class. Loring is in many ways an ideal quarter. He plays fast, is well grounded in the rudiments of the game and handles his team excellently. He uses his head on all occasions, and it was this fact that enabled him to stave off defeat twice last year in the Broadwood game. Two new half-backs will have to be found, but it is likely that Connor and Capes will start the season, with Dyer and Roeder pushing them hard for the honors. Connor is a fast man in a broken field and is hard to stop. Capes hits the line hard and keeps his feet well. He can usually be depended on for short gains through the line, and although not brilliant is a steady, dependable player. At full-back Kapenhysen is head and shoulders above all competitors at present. He is a veteran of two seasons, having been First Team substitute in 1905 and regular full-back last year. He is one of the cleverest players on the team, a hard worker and a brilliant performer in close formation plays. As a punter he is one of the best on the school gridirons, and he will be depended on for long kicks, Loring sharing the work when short punts are wanted.

“Besides the material mentioned there is the usual supply of green men who may develop into First Team candidates. At present only two have shown any great possibilities. Of these Sommers, who has entered the Second Class, and who played with Myrtledale High School last year, is a candidate for tackle and may make good before the season is over. Vinton, a Third Class man, played on his grammar school team last year at end. He is very fast and follows the ball closely. If he carried more weight his chance of making the First Team would seem excellent.

“On the whole our team promises this year to be quite up to the average, and distinctly better than the eleven which held the fast Broadwood team to a single score last year. In Mr. Payson the school has a fine coach. During his four years with us he had turned out two winning teams, while, all things considered, last year’s contest was more of a victory than a defeat. Mr. Payson may rest assured that Yardley Hall will support him and the team enthusiastically and do its share toward securing a victory over its old rival, Broadwood Academy. The first game of the season takes place to-morrow on Yardley Field with Greenburg High School. A hard contest is not looked for. Last year Yardley won 24—4, and this year the score should be no closer. The game, however, will give the school its first opportunity to see the 1907 team in action, and all who are able to do so should attend to-morrow’s game.

“The schedule is as follows. Unless otherwise specified the game will be played here.

• Oct. 5. Greenburg High School.
• Oct. 12. Forest Hill School.
• Oct. 19. St. John’s Academy.
• Oct. 26. Carrel’s School at East Point.
• Nov. 2. Porter Institute.
• Nov. 9. Brewer A. A. at Brewer.
• Nov. 16. Nordham Academy.
• Nov. 23. Broadwood Academy.”

Dan would have been less—or more—than human had he not read the few lines relating to himself several times. In the end, but this was not until Tubby had wandered away in search of a new book to read, he cut that part of the article out and stowed it away in a corner of his pocketbook. And next day he bought an extra copy of the Scholiast, marked the place modestly and mailed the paper home.

The game with Greenburg was played with the thermometer well up toward seventy degrees and was a slow and stupid performance. Yardley put in twenty-six men before the game was over. Dan, who saw it from the side-line, believed ruefully that he was the only player who didn’t get in. A blocked kick gave Greenburg a safety in the first few minutes of play, but after that the high school was never dangerous. In one fifteen and one twelve-minute half Yardley managed to pile up twenty points. In each case Kapenhysen missed goal. The playing was very ragged and slow, and the warmth of the day was undoubtedly responsible for much of this. Greenburg, having repeated her last year’s feat and scored, went away as happy as larks, and the Yardley players trailed tiredly back to the gymnasium unable to think of anything to be proud of. Payson had little to say, but he looked unusually sober and seemed to be doing a good deal of thinking. One of the things he was thinking was this: If Greenburg had been clever at forward passing and a little shiftier all around what would the score have been? As it was the high school had tried the forward pass but once in each half. The first time she had recovered the ball almost without opposition only to lose it on a fumble the next instant. The second time the throw had been poor and the ball had struck the ground without being touched. Payson couldn’t deny the fact that the outlook for the game with Forest Hill School next Saturday was depressing. Forest Hill always gave Yardley a hard struggle and always knew a lot of football. This year she would probably come to Wissining with a whole pack of new tricks to try out. Of course defeat at the hands of Forest Hill would be a small matter enough, and something that had happened before, though not often. But Payson feared that a defeat coming now at the beginning of the season, and especially a defeat encompassed by this “new football” of which Yardley knew little, would prove a discouragement to his charges. He decided that before next Saturday the team should be drilled to some extent in a defense to meet the forward pass.

After supper that evening Payson settled himself in front of the table in his little sitting-room in the village and did some studying. At his elbow lay a thick scrap-book of newspaper and magazine clippings and a number of small memorandum books, while in front of him was a small blackboard, some thirty inches long and correspondingly wide, ruled with white painted lines into the likeness of a miniature football field. On it were placed twenty-two little disks of wood, eleven of them blue and eleven green, each lettered on top, “L.E.,” “L.G.,” “R.H.,” “Q.,” and so on, each representing a player. With these imaginary men on his imaginary gridiron Payson figured out most of his plays and solved his problems. To-night he arranged and rearranged his little blue and green disks over and over, traced queer lines on the blackboard with a piece of chalk and made copious notes on a sheet of paper. But when bedtime came he put aside his playthings with a dubious shake of his head and a dissatisfied frown.

There was light work on the field Monday afternoon, but in the trophy room that evening there was a blackboard lecture that filled every minute of the hour at the coach’s disposal. Two kinds of forward passes were illustrated on the blackboard, the “bunch” pass with three backs and one end going down and forming a group to receive the ball, and the “one man” pass in which the backfield fakes to one side and the ball is thrown to an end who has gone through unnoticed at the other side. Next Payson showed how poorly prepared a team would be to cope with either of these plays from ordinary defense formation. In ordinary formation Yardley played her quarter some thirty yards up the field, the rest of the backs reinforcing the line some three yards behind it.

“You can see that this formation,” explained Payson as he sketched it on the board, “won’t work against a forward pass. We’ve got to have a special formation for this play. Here’s one we will try out to-morrow. Left half and quarter split the field, back about thirty yards, as for a punt. Right half and full drop back fifteen yards at each end of the line. To-morrow the second eleven will try the forward pass and the first will see what they can do against it from this formation.”

During the rest of the week the second eleven was drilled in the forward pass and the first was coached in defense during a portion of each practice. By Friday the first team had learned the first principles, at least, of defense on this play, and Payson’s fears of a disastrous overthrow at the hands of Forest Hall had somewhat subsided. He was not yet ready to teach the forward pass to the first; it was to rely on ordinary football for another fortnight.

Forest Hill’s eleven proved to be light, fast and brainy. In the first ten minutes of play it simply swept Yardley off its feet and did about as it wanted to, scoring twice as the result of the new football which Payson so despised. In that first ten minutes Forest Hill tried the forward pass seven times and made it go every time but twice. One of her gains was over fifty yards and several netted from twenty to thirty. The new defense formation was all right, the weakness was with the Yardley players who allowed themselves to be fooled time and again. Forest Hill made her passes from almost every sort of formation and Yardley was kept guessing every instant. Never once did she recover the ball on the opponent’s passes, Forest Hill’s two failures resulting because the ball struck the ground without being touched. Forest Hill obligingly missed both goals, thus leaving the score at 10 to 0.

Loring, realizing that the only way to prevent another score in that half was to keep the ball out of Forest Hill’s hands, went to work with his backs and plugged away at small gains through the opponent’s line, using up all the time possible and finally, after taking the ball the length of the field, was held for downs on the opponent’s eight yards. Forest Hill kicked from behind her goal and Colton nabbed the ball on the enemy’s thirty-five yard line. But before the teams could line up again the whistle sounded. Yardley trotted off the field with sensations of vast relief, while Forest Hill got together on the side line and planned new atrocities to spring in the next half on an apparently helpless opponent. Up in the gymnasium Andy and Paddy, the latter trainer’s assistant and rubber, were busy with witch hazel, arnica and liniment, bandages and surgeon’s plaster. There were no serious injuries; just a strained wrist here, a twisted ankle there, contusions all about. Oliver Colton, stretched at full length on a bench, with Paddy Forbes, the rubber, hard at work on his left knee, spoke to Alf Loring who was seated behind him viewing approvingly a nice clean strip of adhesive plaster about his wrist.

“What’s the matter with us, Alf?” asked Colton anxiously.

“Matter?” was the reply. “Nothing, except that we’re up against a team that knows a kind of football we don’t.”

“Well, we ought to have scored down there inside their ten yards, just the same,” said Colton.

“Yes, and we’ll do it next time. That was on me, I guess, Ollie. I should have given the ball to Kap.”

“It was on all of us. But this half we’ve got to score twice.”

“Fifteen minutes, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Where’s Mr. Payson?”

“Over there.” Alf nodded across the room.

“I want to see him. That’s enough, Paddy, thanks.” Colton pulled himself up and limped across to where the coach was talking earnestly to the two ends, Williams and Dickenson. Alf watched him a moment and then turned to the fellow beside him.

“Hello, Vinton,” he said. “What did you think of it?”

“Sort of disgusting,” answered Dan. “We’ve got to keep the ball away from them this half or they’ll score again.”

“That’s right. Well, it’s their kick-off. You going to get in this half?” Dan shook his head.

“I guess not,” he answered. “Williams and Dickenson did pretty good work, didn’t they?”

“I guess so; Dickenson did, anyway. But they got fooled on those forward passes every time.”

“All right, fellows,” called Mr. Payson. Silence followed. “We’re going to change our defense a little this half and I expect it to work better. On every formation that Forest Hill tries except an ordinary close formation, with their backs close up, I want you to open out your line. Guards will play two yards from center, tackles three yards from guards and ends five yards from tackles. Understand?” He repeated the directions. “It will be tackle’s place to get through and spoil the pass if possible, and the end will put out the opposing end, crowd him into the center of the field. Quarter and left half will play five yards nearer in than they’ve been playing. We’re going to kick this half until we get inside their twenty-five yards. Then I expect the ball to go over on straight plays. We want three scores. All right. Loring, I want to see you a moment.”

Forest Hill kicked off and Loring caught the ball on his twenty yards and started off with it. He covered ten yards and then, as the enemy closed in upon him, he passed the ball back to Kapenhysen, who caught it neatly, let up on his pace and punted far down the field. Forest Hill was caught napping and the ball went over the heads of her backs. Her quarter turned quickly and raced after the sphere, which had struck on his thirty-five yard line, and was now bouncing erratically toward the goal. The Forest Hill right half was close behind him, but Williams, the Yardley left end, had streaked down the field and was ready to take a hand in the fun. A cry of warning from the Forest Hill half went up as Williams shouldered him aside. The quarter dove for the ball and Williams dove for the quarter. The next instant he had snuggled the pigskin under his arm and was trying to find his feet again, with the Forest Hill quarter holding him by the left leg. Then the half crushed down on top of the invader and the ball was down on Forest Hill’s twenty-four yards.

Forest Hill arose nobly to the demands of the occasion, but she was plainly bewildered by the sudden turning of the tables and Yardley was not to be denied. Loring sent Capes against the center for four yards and Dyer on a cross-buck outside of tackle for seven more. Kapenhysen punched a hole through left guard for two yards and Capes followed him for four more. With four to go on the third down the prospect looked dubious, but on a tandem attack at center with the whole back-field pushing, Capes kept his feet until he had been shoved through for the required distance. The ball was on the three yards and it was first down. Kapenhysen made a scant yard on the first try, but on the next attempt went over, broke away from the enemy, and romped around back of goal. Loring kicked an easy goal. The score was 10—6, and only four minutes had elapsed.

On the kick-off Forest Hill captured the ball on her ten yards and brought it back to her twenty-two. On an ordinary formation two plunges inside of right tackle netted her nine yards. But a third attempt in the same place was a failure and the ball changed hands. Loring tried a quarter-back kick, which was recovered by the enemy on her ten-yard line. Her full-back went back apparently for a punt, but Yardley was suspicious and opened her line. The ball went back and a forward pass came hurtling down the field. Dickenson kept Forest Hill’s right end out of the play, but the ball was luckily recovered by a Forest Hill forward after having been fumbled by Folwell of Yardley. This netted the enemy twenty yards and more. Another pass on the other side of the line found no one awaiting it and Forest Hill was set back fifteen yards. Again the kick formation was used and again the ball was thrown forward by the full-back. It was intended for a “bunch” pass, but Yardley broke up the gathering and the ball plumped into the arms of her right tackle.

Yardley kicked and again Forest Hill started back up the field. But now she saw that the forward pass could no longer be relied upon with certainty. So she started running the ends, but made little profit. In the middle of the field the ball went again to Yardley. Some changes in the line were made now, Smith taking Colton’s place and Berwick going in at center for Hill. Kapenhysen punted and the ball was Forest Hill’s on her ten yards. A fake kick, with full-back slashing through between guard and tackle, netted six yards and five more came as a result of a desperate attack on the new center. Then a run around Williams took the ball to the forty-yard line. Yardley stiffened and two attacks at the line were thrown back. Forest Hill punted and Capes gathered in the ball on his fifteen-yard line and ran it back twenty. Again Kapenhysen punted and Dickenson nabbed the Forest Hill back before he could take a step. Yardley tried a double pass and gained eight yards. A plunge at center gave her the rest of her distance. An on-side kick was tried, but resulted disastrously. Hadlock blocked it and although Forest Hill’s right half fell on the ball it was down for a twelve-yard loss. A [delayed pass] netted four yards and a run outside tackle three more. The Forest Hill quarter-back started out to gather in the rest of the required distance by a run around right end, but Williams managed to get past his opponent and down the runner behind the line.

[DELAYED PASS NEAR SIDE LINE]

Kapenhysen fell back for a punt, but the ball went to Capes instead and he reeled off fifteen yards before he was captured. Then Loring punted from close up to the line and the ball was Forest Hill’s on her twenty yards. She was playing on the defensive now, had abandoned all hope of adding to her score and was eager only to keep her opponent from crossing her goal-line again. She kicked on first down and the punt went high in the air and fell out of bounds at the twenty-seven yards. There remained six minutes of playing time and Loring settled down to smashing football. Connor was sent in at right half in place of Dyer and Norton took Dickenson’s place at right end. It was hard going at first and the white lines passed slowly underfoot. But after a few terrific plunges at the right side of the Forest Hill line something weakened there and Connor and Capes went through for gains of three and four yards. On her ten yards Forest Hill called time for an injured player and put in a new man at right tackle. That wrought an improvement, but Kapenhysen got by the newcomer for a couple of yards and made it first down. There remained some eight yards to go for a score and Loring and Colton put their heads together. The ball was well over toward the side-line and it was advisable to work it back toward the center of the field. There were two ways to do this. One was to bring off a play toward the left of the line and the center of the field and the other was to send a play at the other end in the hope of gaining and then being pushed over the side-line. Colton and Loring decided on the latter.

The ball was passed to Loring and the other backs started toward the left of the line. Loring made the motion of passing the ball to right half and right half appeared to have caught it and doubled his arms about it. Meanwhile left half had dropped to his knees and Loring had kept the ball, hiding it as well as possible from the opponents. As the fake attack reached the end of the line to the left, the left half-back arose and ran hard for the right end of the line, taking the ball from Loring at a hand-pass. The trick worked even better than expected, for Forest Hill had been drawn away from the side-line and Capes reeled off the remaining eight yards without going out of bounds and was only tackled as he went over the goal-line. A punt-out was necessary and this was a failure. But the score stood 11—10 in Yardley’s favor and she had pulled herself out of a bad hole. The whistle sounded a minute later and the game was at an end.

Over on the stands Yardley Hall shouted long and blissfully in honor of the team.

[CHAPTER X]
DROPPED!

On the Monday following the Forest Hill game the final cut in the football squad was announced. For two weeks the process of elimination had been going forward quietly and mercilessly until of the original seventy-odd candidates who had started the season only forty-two remained. To-day after practice a list was posted on the bulletin board in the gymnasium. It contained two columns of names headed respectively “First Eleven” and “Second Eleven.” In the first column there were sixteen names, in the second fourteen; twelve unfortunates had been dropped.

Dan, coming up from the locker room, sought the notice with anxious heart. He was almost certain that Payson was going to retain him on the second squad, but there was always the chance—“Second Eleven,” he read, “Coke, Connor, Eisner, Flagg, Fogg—” and so on down to “Roeder, Sommers, Trapper.” His heart sank as he reread the list. Nowhere was his name written. Three times he went over the list, hoping each time to find that he had blundered. Then he read the first team names; it was just possible, he told himself, that Payson had got his name there by mistake. But he hadn’t. Dan was dropped from the squad.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs and of laughing voices sent him hurrying away from the bulletin board and out into the twilight. He didn’t want anyone to find him there just then.

Of course it didn’t much matter, he argued as he made his way along in front of the buildings. Even had Payson kept him on the squad he might never have made the First Team. Still, there was the pleasure of playing, and one could always hope. Well, there was nothing to hope for now. They didn’t want him. Dan threw his head back and thrust his hands into his pockets. That was all right, he muttered; they didn’t have to have him. He knew blamed well he could play better football than some fellows who had been kept on the squad, though. There was Sayer, end on the second, for instance. Dan knew well enough that he could play all around Sayer. However, there was no use thinking about it. They didn’t want him; that was the plain English of it.

He recalled what Tubby had said the evening of his arrival: “There’s no use trying for the team here unless you’re a swell or a particular friend of Payson’s,” Tubby had declared. Dan told himself now that he guessed that was about so. But the next moment he retracted it. They could say what they liked, but Payson was a gentleman, and if he had dropped fellows from the squad it was because he believed they weren’t necessary to the success of the team. Even if you did feel hurt and a little bit angry there was no sense in saying mean things—or thinking them—when you knew they weren’t so. Dan took a deep breath, thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and discovered that he was at the edge of The Prospect, looking unseeingly down at the village with its yellow windows. He turned, smiled just to make certain that he could still do it, and walked back to Clarke. He even whistled a tune as he went. It wasn’t a very merry tune, but it answered. Tubby was in the room when he entered, Tubby grinning broadly.

“Got dropped, didn’t you?” he demanded triumphantly.

“Yes,” answered Dan cheerfully. “How’d you know so soon?”

“Lowd told me. What did I tell you weeks ago, Dan? Didn’t I say you couldn’t make the team unless you were one of those swell snobs like Loring or Colton or Hadlock or the rest of them?”

“You did, O Solomon,” answered Dan. “You were right and I was wrong, as you always are.”

Tubby puzzled over that for a moment and then gave it up. He chuckled.

“You wouldn’t believe me, though, would you?” he asked.

“No, Tubby, and I don’t believe you yet. There are lots of fellows on the squad who aren’t swells. There’s Ridge, who’s captain of the Second, and Mitchell and Kapenhysen of the First. You don’t call them swells, do you, Tubby?”

“They’re protégés of Payson’s, though,” answered Tubby. “It’s the same thing.” He paused while Dan dropped into his chair and drew his books toward him. “I say, though, Dan, I’m sorry. You can play better than lots of those fellows they’ve kept.”

“Much obliged,” Dan replied, “but you’re wrong there, Tubby. I was dropped because I was trying for end and because they’ve got four good players for that position. That’s all, Tubby. Next year I’ll try again if I’m here.”

“If you come back next year you’re crazy,” growled Tubby. “I’m not going to, you can bet! I’m going—”

“Tubby, if you mention Broadwood I’ll murder you,” interrupted Dan wearily.

“I will if I like!” said Tubby defiantly. Dan made no reply. Presently, “Why don’t you try for the class team?” asked Tubby. “They begin to make them up this week.”

Dan nibbled the end of his pencil and looked reflectively at his room-mate.

“Maybe I will, Tubby,” he said at last. Tubby took up the book he was reading and settled back again against his pillows.

“I would,” he said. “If I could play the way you can I’d get on the Third Class team and show that idiot Payson and the rest of them what I could do.”

“Oh, I don’t want them to die of chagrin,” answered Dan mildly. “Still, I think I’d like to try for the class team. We’ll see.”

His glance dropped on the little two-fold photograph frame which shared the table with his books and papers and writing materials, and the pictures of his mother and father which it held brought a sudden frown to his forehead. He wished he had not sent that clipping from the Scholiast home to the folks!

The next forenoon Dan encountered the coach in front of Whitson Hall. He didn’t see Mr. Payson coming until he was almost up to him and so he had scant time in which to fix his features into the desired expression. What Dan would have liked to have conveyed by his expression was a polite affability, slightly tinged by contemptuous amusement and haughty indifference. Rather a large order, but Dan was pretty certain that he could have managed it had he had time. What he didn’t want Mr. Payson to read on his face was disappointment, or even concern. Unfortunately, however, the coach came out of Whitson and ran down the steps just as Dan came abreast of the entrance, and he never knew just what his countenance did express at that moment. The coach saw him at once and nodded. Dan said “Good morning,” and was for passing on, but Mr. Payson was going the same way and in an instant had ranged himself alongside. He seemed to be in very good spirits, Dan thought.

“A fine morning, Vinton,” said Mr. Payson “What’s next on the programme?”

“Math, sir.”

“Who do you have?”

“Kil—that is, Mr. McIntyre.” The coach smiled.

“Kilts will do, Vinton. They call me worse than that and I never make a whine. By the way, have you been thinking about this forward pass business? Remember a talk we had?”

“Yes, sir, but I haven’t had much time.”

“Oh.” Dan thought the coach’s voice expressed something of disappointment. “Well, that’s all right, of course. But when you have a spare moment now and then I wish you’d think it over. We’ve got to work out a good forward pass offense, Vinton, and several heads are better than one. You led your team last year and you had to do some thinking for yourself, I guess. Now see if you can’t plan something that will help us this fall. You’re a new boy here, but you want to see Yardley win just as much as anyone else, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course you do. And so—am I keeping you?”

They had paused in front of Oxford.

“No, sir, there’s five minutes yet,” answered Dan.

“All right. What I was going to say was that if every fellow would use his brains a little it would be a help. I don’t profess to have mastered this ‘new football’; I was brought up on the old style, you know; and I’ve got a heap to learn myself. But if every fellow will think a little about it, and come to me with the result, why, we may light on something that will make Broadwood open her eyes. Now you, for instance, Vinton. You’ve been up against this problem and you solved it after a fashion. Supposing you face it again; imagine that it’s up to you to find a way of pulling off forward passes that will beat anything Broadwood can show; make believe, if you like, that you’re captain and coach all rolled into one and that everything depends on you. I’m not talking to every fellow this way, for some of them can’t use their brains. But I’ve spoken to Colton and Loring and Hill and Capes and one or two others and they’ve agreed to tackle the problem. And some night pretty soon we’ll meet in my room in the village and talk it over. It’ll be a sort of advisory council, do you see? Now what do you say?”

Dan hesitated a moment. At first it had seemed to him that the coach was adding insult to injury in asking him to work for the success of a team that he was not considered good enough to play on. But his resentment was short-lived. If he could aid, it was his duty to do it. Yardley was as much his school as it was Colton’s or Loring’s, and if he couldn’t fight for it on the gridiron he could fight on the side-line. Besides, after all, it was pleasing to his vanity to be asked to help in this way. Even if Payson didn’t think very highly of him as a player he evidently respected his football knowledge and wits. So he looked up at Mr. Payson frankly and answered:

“I’ll do what I can, sir. I don’t suppose I can help much, but I’ll try.”

“That’s the way to talk, Vinton,” answered the coach. “And I’m much obliged. Whatever you can do will help me and it will help the school. Whenever you want to talk anything over you look me up. You’ll find me at home usually in the evenings if you care to drop in. I’ll be glad to see you any time. Hope I haven’t made you late.”

But Dan wouldn’t have cared if he had. It was worth one of Kilts’ sharpest “call-downs” to have that comforting sensation of being Somebody again. Since he had read the list in the gymnasium yesterday afternoon Dan had felt like a very unimportant Nobody! As he hurried up the steps and down the corridor to the recitation room he strove to recall a line that he had read or heard somewhere. “He also serves who only sits around and waits;” wasn’t that it? Well, something like that, any way. It wasn’t quite applicable to the present case, but it expressed the right idea.

But when it came time for football practice Dan discovered that even the re-establishment of his self-esteem didn’t give him the courage to go to the field and stand around on the side-line in his everyday clothes to be pointed out as one of the fellows who hadn’t “made good”! Perhaps after a day or two he could face it with equanimity, but to-day the wound was too fresh. So, although he would have much preferred watching practice, he went for a walk in the other direction, crossing the bridge above the railroad cut and waiting while an east-bound express roared by beneath him with a suffocating cloud of smoke and steam, and turning at the foot of the hill to the right to follow an unexplored path to the beach. There were three paths through the woods and Dan knew the other two by heart, but this one, the more westerly and the more roundabout, was new to him.

It started off in a leisurely way toward the river, winding and twisting prettily through the beeches and oaks and maples, and then, as though weary of indecision, swerved toward the Sound and marched away as straight and uncompromising as though laid out by an engineer. But the reason of its sudden reformation was apparent, for almost beside the path ran a high rustic fence. This fence, as Dan knew, marked the boundary of the school grounds on the west. Beyond it lay the country estate of John T. Pennimore, the Steamship King, as the newspapers loved to call him. He was one of the country’s rich men and Dan had heard of him often enough. Once Mr. Vinton had received a business letter from him and had brought it home to exhibit, not without a trace of pride, to his family. Sound View, as the estate was named, comprised some eight or nine acres fronting on the Sound and the Wissining River. There was an immense stone residence, barns and stables, hot houses, gardeners’ lodge and several smaller buildings of which one was known as the Bungalow and stood just above the beach near the Yardley line. Much of the property was wooded and only an occasional glimpse was to be had of the residence and stables. Now and then, however, as Dan followed the path a sudden thinning of the trees gave a brief view of velvety lawn or brilliant flower bed, and once the back of the big house was fairly in sight.

Where Sound and river met there was a long stone pier and a boat house. In front of the pier, a few hundred feet off-shore, lay the Pennimore steam yacht, a magnificent craft, resplendant in white and brass, large enough to cross the ocean in had the whim seized its owner. But John T. Pennimore was not a man of whims, and from June to late in the Autumn the Princess made almost daily trips to and fro between the summer home and the city, reeling off the miles like an express train. When the Princess lay at anchor off Sound View it was known that the Steamship King was at home. Dan wondered idly whether he would see the big yacht when he reached the end of the path. It must be jolly, he thought, to own a place like Sound View, and a yacht, and horses and carriages, and automobiles and—

His thoughts got no farther, for at that moment the dismal howling of a dog broke on his ears. The sounds seemed to come from a short distance ahead and from the other side of the fence and spoke of such fear and suffering that Dan caught his breath as he heard it. He raced forward down the path, and as he ran he caught the pungent odor of burning wood. Then between the rustic palings of the fence he saw a strange scene. Back from the fence a yard or two stood a small play-house, fifteen feet long by ten wide, with slab sides and shingled roof. It stood quite by itself amidst the shrubbery, its back to the fence. There was a window on the side nearest to Dan and another on the back, and from both of them, closed though they were, grayish-brown smoke crept out. At the corner of the little building stood a slim boy of apparently fourteen years. He had on a red flannel shirt and a red helmet such as firemen wear, and in his hands he held an axe. Beside him was a two-wheeled vehicle carrying a coil of hose and two fire-extinguishers. As Dan stopped and stared bewilderedly the boy lifted the axe as though to feel its weight, sniffed the smoke with evident relish and lifted his voice above the terrified howling of the dog which Dan could not see but which he surmised to be inside the house.

“Courage, Jack!” called the boy loudly. “I am coming to your rescue!”

But he seemed in no hurry about it, for instead of opening the door to release the dog he merely ran to the side window and peered in, drawing back coughing and laughing.

“Keep your nose to the floor, Jack,” he shouted, “and whatever you do don’t jump!”

At another time Dan might have found the instructions amusing, but now he was boiling with indignation.

“What are you doing over there?” he cried.

The boy turned in surprise and finally glimpsed him through the fence.

“Hello,” he answered smilingly. “I’m having a fire. I’m going to put it out in a minute. Want to help?”

“Isn’t there a dog in there?” asked Dan impatiently. The boy nodded his head.

“Yes, Jack’s in there. I’m playing that he’s a person, you know, and I’m going to rescue him from the flames.”

“He will die of suffocation, you silly chump, if you don’t let him out at once,” said Dan angrily. “You ought to have a good licking! Open the door and let him out, do you hear?”

“I can’t open the door,” was the untroubled reply, “because I locked it and threw the key away.”

“Where’d you throw it?”

“Somewhere over there in the bushes.” The boy nodded toward the fence. “I’m going to break the door down with the axe. If you can climb over I’ll let you squirt one of the extinguishers.”

“I can’t climb this thing,” cried Dan, impatiently. “Bring your axe here and knock off some of these sticks.”

But at that moment the dog ceased his howls.

“Never mind me! Knock in one of those windows,” ordered Dan, “and give him some air. He’s probably dying!”

The boy looked troubled, hesitated an instant and then crashed his axe through the glass of the side window.

A volume of smoke poured out and sent the rescuer reeling back. With a muttered exclamation of anger Dan gave a short run, caught somehow at the top of the high pickets and pulled himself up. The next instant he was down on the other side and had wrenched the axe from the boy’s hands. There was a strict rule at Yardley against trespassing on Sound View property, but Dan didn’t stop to think of that now.

“Get your fire extinguisher and look alive,” he shouted. “Put those flames out—if you can!”

For flames were mingling with the heavy smoke that rolled through the window. Dan ran to the door of the play-house and sent the axe smashing against the lock. Once, twice, and then the door flew inward and Dan retreated against the smother of smoke that assailed him. Inside the house was a dim chaos of swirling clouds illumined by little spurts of flame that ran along the window-casing on one side of the room. Now that door and window were open, the fire, which had almost smothered itself out, took new life. From the burning woodwork came a sound of crackling, drowned the next instant by the hiss of the stream from the extinguisher which the boy was playing through the window.

But Dan was thinking of the dog, and after the first outburst of choking smoke had driven him away he hurried back to the door and peered in. But so heavy was the murk that for a moment his smarting eyes could see nothing distinctly. He called over and over, and from the window the boy added his entreaties. But there was no answering whine. And then, as the smoke lessened, blown upward by a sudden draft of air from the door, Dan saw a dark object stretched motionless on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. At that instant the flames, having reached the top of the window, reached out with a hungry roar and the flimsy ceiling curled apart with a shower of sparks.

[CHAPTER XI]
A RESCUE

“Can you see him?”

The boy had dropped his extinguisher and was peering into the room, his hand clutching Dan’s arm frantically.

“He’s there in the corner by the table, but he won’t come,” answered Dan with something very much like a sob.

“Jack! Jack!” cried the boy. “Come here, sir! Good dog! Come here!”

But there was no answer.

“He will be burned to death!” shouted the boy in Dan’s ear. “I must get him out!”

“You can’t,” answered Dan miserably. “You’ll be burned yourself if you try it.” The heat and smoke were driving them further and further from the door.

“But he’s my dog,” cried the boy, turning a white, scared face to Dan, “and I told him I’d rescue him!”

“Well, you can’t,” answered Dan, angrily, half crying. “You had no business shutting him in there! You ought to be burned up yourself! You—you—”

But no one was listening to him, for the boy had suddenly darted through the doorway and was already lost to sight in the dense smoke.

“Come back! You mustn’t do that!” cried Dan. “You’ll be burned up! Do you hear?”

He ran to the door and looked in, forgetful of the fierce heat that assailed him. He heard a sound as from an overturning chair or table and, he thought, a faint cry. But he could not be certain, for the flames were roaring across the ceiling and the little room was filled with a lurid gloom that baffled sight. Dan reeled away from the door, his eyes smarting and streaming, his lungs gasping for air. For an instant longer he waited, watched, his heart thumping chokingly. He was dreadfully frightened. He wanted to turn and run, run until the sight and sound of the burning building were miles behind him. But he mustn’t do that, he mustn’t even seek help at the house or the stables! He was the only one who could help, and he knew it; knew that unless the boy came out in the next instant he must go in there for him! His knees weakened at the thought of it, and it seemed that to play the part of the coward was the most desirable thing in the world! It wasn’t his affair; the boy was no friend of his! Why should he risk his life?

These thoughts came and went in a moment, while his eyes regained their sight and his breath came back to him. Then he was tying his handkerchief across his white face with fingers that shook so that they could scarcely make the knots. He looked toward the house in the forlorn hope that help was in sight. But the stretch of shrubbery and lawn was empty of life. He turned his face toward the doorway, took a long breath and dashed forward.

The next instant he was on his knees at the end of the room. His head was already reeling, but he opened his eyes and, in the brief moment that he could see, the sprawled shape of the boy met his sight. He had only to stretch out his hand to reach him. But now, somehow, the idea of rescue was slipping from his mind. It was easier to lie there, face down upon the floor and keep his eyes tight closed. The heat beat down upon him and the smoke was filling his lungs, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. And then there was a sharp twinge of pain in his right arm that brought his senses rushing back to him. His sleeve was on fire. He beat out the smoldering flames, got a firm hold on the boy’s coat collar and, squirming and tugging, made for the gray oblong that was the doorway.

The place was a veritable furnace, and although there was but a few feet to traverse, it seemed that he must certainly fail. For the boy seemed to weigh tons, and the heat was like a living monster that sought to beat him to the ground with its fiery breath. More than once the thought of loosing his hold on that hateful thing behind him that was keeping him back assailed him, but each time he set his teeth and groped blindly on. And then a breath of fresher air met him, and [he staggered to his feet, stumbled blindly through the doorway] and finally fell flat upon his face on the grass.

[“He staggered to his feet, stumbled blindly through the doorway.”]

For several minutes he lay there unmoving, only dimly conscious. Then he came to himself with the knowledge of an aching, throbbing head and a scorched throat and threw out his arms and rolled over on his back with his face to the blessed blue sky and the soft breeze. He took a deep breath that pained him badly, and then another, and found that each succeeding breath hurt less than the one before. And full consciousness came back to him in a sudden rush of thankfulness. A groan from beside him recalled the boy to his mind and he sat up, swayed dizzily and blinked his eyes. Beside him lay the boy, his clothes burned in places and his hair singed. And beside the boy lay the dog, a red setter, the boy’s fingers clutched tightly about his collar. Dan looked for a moment from boy to dog. The boy stirred and moaned. The dog’s eyes were half closed, but his sides rose and fell with long, shivering breaths. They were both alive, Dan told himself contentedly. Then he lay down again and went into a dead faint.

When he regained his senses there were men about and a troubled, anxious face was bending above him. He looked up at it a moment, and then a smile of recognition curved his lips.

“I remember,” he murmured. “It was on the train.”

“How are you feeling?” asked a voice.

Dan considered a moment, opening his eyes widely and looking about. Then—

“Pretty good now, thanks,” he answered cheerfully. He tried to raise himself, but the man put a hand against his breast and held him down.

“Stay where you are, please, and we’ll have you in the house in a moment.”

“How’s—he?” asked Dan. “And the dog?”

“No worse than you, I hope,” answered the man with a break in his voice. “Here comes the car.”

Dan turned his head at the sound of the soft chugging of an automobile and saw the big chocolate brown car which he remembered coming across the grass.

“Are you his father?” asked Dan.

“Yes,” replied the man. “I’m Mr. Pennimore.”

Dan digested this a moment. Then he shook his head and remarked more frankly than politely:

“He’s a silly kid. He might have been burned up. I told him to keep out, but he wouldn’t do it.”

“After you feel better you may tell me what happened,” was the answer. “Here, Porter, lift him in. Tell Nagle to carry the dog up to the kennels and look after him.”

“How about the play-house, sir?”

“Let it burn,” was the answer.

Strong hands bore Dan to the car and he found himself sitting in a corner of the tonneau on the softest leather cushions he had ever felt. Then the boy was put in beside him and Mr. Pennimore sat beyond. The boy seemed half-dazed and looked at Dan as though he wondered who he was and what he was doing there. Dan felt rather weak and funny, but for all that he watched the two grooms crowd into the front seat with the chauffeur and watched the latter as he pushed a lever slowly forward and turned the big brass wheel. It was Dan’s first ride in an automobile and he felt that it was something of an event; he wished that he felt in better condition to enjoy it and wished that it was going to be longer. Mr. Pennimore was very silent as they went slowly across the grass, dropped with a lurch into the curving road and then whizzed toward the big stone house. That ride was over all too soon for Dan. Almost before he knew it he was lying on a wonderful brass bed in a room that was all pink roses, and a doctor, who had suddenly and marvelously appeared from nowhere, was unceremoniously taking his clothes off of him and feeling his pulse all at the same time.

“There’s nothing the matter with me, sir,” said Dan, but his voice didn’t sound just right to him, and he decided he’d shut up for awhile.

“Supposing you let me find that out for myself,” answered the doctor cheerfully. Well, that sounded sensible, and so Dan laid still and let the doctor do whatever he pleased. It seemed to please the doctor to bandage his left arm and his leg just above the ankle, to look very attentively at his eyes and finally to make him swallow two spoonfuls of something that tasted the way liniment smelled. Dan wondered amusedly whether the doctor was making a mistake and dosing him with what ought to go outside.

“That will do for you,” said the doctor presently, drawing the clothes up under Dan’s chin. “You go to sleep for awhile and when you wake up you’ll feel as fine as ever. Better let fires alone for awhile, though. They’re rather dangerous.”

He nodded and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Dan lay for awhile and looked at the roses. The house was very quiet. The flutter of a shade at an open window and the faint break of the waves on the beach were the only sounds that reached him. Then his thoughts went back to the afternoon’s adventure and he wondered how the Pennimore boy was. Then he wondered how Jack was. Then he wondered whether they had saved the fire extinguishers. He hoped so for he wanted to see how they worked. Then telling himself that the stuff the doctor had put on his arm and leg certainly did smart, he dropped quietly to sleep.

[CHAPTER XII]
AT SOUND VIEW

When Dan woke up he found that it was supper time. The room was lighted softly and a man—Dan concluded that he was the butler, and having never seen a butler before examined him with disconcerting intentness—was placing a tray on a stand beside the bed. Dan had a very healthy appetite, he found when he had got the sleep out of his head, and was a little disappointed to discover that the repast was quite spartan in its simplicity. There was a good deal of gleaming white napery and much silver and many dishes, but when it came right down to brass tacks, as Dan’s father would have said, there was only hot bouillon, a soup-stick, some graham bread cut into wafer-like slices and buttered, two slices of cold chicken, a “dab” of white current jelly and a saucer of some sort of cornstarchy stuff that did more than aught else had done to impress upon Dan the fact that he was supposed to be an invalid. He had vivid recollections of that sort of pudding. It was inextricably mixed in his memory with mumps and scarlet fever.

“Shall I lift you up, sir?” asked the servant.

But Dan assured him that he was still capable of lifting himself up, and proved it. The man put the pillows behind him and then in a most surprising way swung the top of the stand around over the bed so that the tray was right under Dan’s nose. By this time, having got his eyes fully open, Dan saw that the man wore a swallow-tail coat and showed a vivid expanse of white shirt-front. Perhaps he wasn’t a servant, after all, Dan reflected.

“If there’s anything you want, sir, just ring the bell,” said the man. The bell, a little silver affair, stood on the tray. “One of the maids is in the hall, sir, and will hear it.”

“Thank you,” said Dan. “Are you the butler?”

“No, sir, I’m the second man.”

“Oh,” said Dan vaguely. “Thank you.” Then he took up his spoon and set to work and the servant left the room with noiseless tread. As he ate, Dan looked about him and sighed comfortably. There were lights on all sides of the big room but the pink silk shades subdued them so that the room was filled with a soft, roseate glow. On the big dresser the silver toilet articles and cut glass bottles caught the light and glimmered richly. The big roses on the walls were repeated in the draperies at the windows and looked so fresh and natural that Dan was almost convinced that he could pick them off were he able to reach them. Over the footboard of the gleaming brass bedstead lay a silk quilt, and that too, was a mass of pink roses. This, he concluded, was the guest chamber. He recalled the guest chamber at home. It had always seemed to him a very magnificent apartment until now. Then he recollected the fact that his soup was getting cold and that he was very hungry.

Ten minutes later that repast was only a memory and not a crumb was left to tell the tale. And he was still hungry. He wondered what would happen if he rang the bell and demanded a sirloin steak and a baked potato. Probably he would get it, but a sirloin steak in that room would seem a desecration, and he resisted the temptation. He found that he had only to swing the tray around to get it out of the way. That was interesting, and he amused himself for a minute in swinging it back and forth. Then he thumped the pillows and settled down in bed again. His burns smarted a good deal, but he told himself that it was worth a little pain to be installed in the midst of such luxury and be waited on by the second man. Presently he became sleepy again and dozed and awoke and dozed again and felt very comfortable and contented. Once, just what time it was he didn’t know, he got quite widely awake and found that tray and stand had disappeared and that all the lights were out save one. That, thought Dan sleepily, meant that it was bedtime. So he did the sensible thing and went to sleep in a business-like way and didn’t wake up again until the sunlight was streaming in at the two big east windows.

Breakfast appeared after awhile and Dan learned that he was free to get up and make his toilet and dress himself. The breakfast was as generous as the dinner had been frugal, and after he had finished it Dan was doubtful of his ability to get up. But a quarter of an hour later he was dressed and a maid knocked on the door and brought a message that Mr. Pennimore would like to see him downstairs. So Dan slicked his hair down again, glanced ruefully at his burnt coat and trousers and found the maid waiting for him outside. Dan was heartily glad of her assistance, for he was certain that he would never have reached Mr. Pennimore alone because the house was like a hotel, and doors and passages and stairways turned up everywhere. Mr. Pennimore was in the library, a big high-ceilinged apartment whose walls were hidden behind book-cases and tapestries. There was a cracking log fire in an immense stone fireplace half way down one side of the room, and in front of this Mr. Pennimore was standing reading some letters as the maid held aside the curtains at the door and Dan entered. Mr. Pennimore looked up and came forward to meet him.

“Well, my boy,” he said, “how do you feel?”

“All right, sir, thanks,” answered Dan as he shook hands. Mr. Pennimore led him to a big leather chair in front of the fire and pushed him gently into it. Then he laid the letters he held on the high stone mantel and took his stand on the hearth rug. What bothered Dan about Mr. Pennimore was the fact that he didn’t look at all as one would imagine a Steamship King ought to. There was nothing nautical in Mr. Pennimore’s appearance. Instead he looked like a retired banker. He was rather a small man, very trim, scrupulously attentive to details of attire, with a thoughtful face and a pair of black eyes that were kindly and shrewd. In age he appeared to be between fifty and fifty-five and his dark hair, grizzled a little at the temples, had not retreated very far from the forehead. He wore a mustache and a short beard and had, Dan soon noticed, a habit of tugging gently at the latter with thumb and forefinger. He was doing it now while Dan waited for him to speak.

“Well, Vinton, my boy has told me what happened yesterday and I quite agree with your estimate of him. He is a silly kid, as you remarked.” Mr. Pennimore smiled. Dan colored up.

“I didn’t mean that, Mr. Pennimore. What I meant was that he was silly to go into that house, sir.”

“I understand, my boy. But he is silly. By that I mean that he does a great many silly things such as he did yesterday. Unfortunately he hasn’t a mother; she died soon after he was born; and I am away from home a good deal. Gerald has an excellent tutor, but of course Mr. Faunce can’t look after him every minute, and so Gerald is frequently in scrapes. Yesterday he managed to outdo himself. The idea of shutting that poor dog in the play-house and then setting fire to it! Gerald had been reading some story or other about firemen, he tells me, and wanted to try his hand at a rescue. Of course he had no idea that the fire would get out of his control; and it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that the dog might smother to death before he was rescued. He is very fond of Jack; I gave the dog to him on his twelfth birthday; and he wouldn’t intentionally cause him any pain. The whole thing seems to have been a piece of childish thoughtlessness. What do you think, Vinton?”

“I don’t think he realized what he was doing,” answered Dan eagerly. “I was sort of out of patience with him, sir, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to hurt the dog anyway.”

Mr. Pennimore suppressed a smile. Gerald had told him that Dan had said he ought to be licked!

“Well, I’m pretty fond of that boy of mine,” continued Mr. Pennimore. “He’s the only child I’ve got, you see. I suppose I’m rather foolish about him, but parents are liable to get that way. And so what am I to say to you, my boy? What can I say that will express my feelings, my gratitude?”

Mr. Pennimore’s voice shook, and Dan, rather alarmed and very red and uncomfortable, wished himself away from there. Perhaps Mr. Pennimore saw his embarrassment, for he cleared his throat and went on in quite an ordinary tone of voice.

“All I can do is to thank you, Vinton, and I do that very earnestly. If you were a poor boy I could show my gratitude by making you a present. But as it is I suppose there’s nothing you want, nothing I can give you that you will accept?”

“Thank you, sir,” muttered Dan. “I don’t want anything.”

“You’re a lucky person,” said Mr. Pennimore with a little laugh. He sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “You have everything in the world that you want, then?”

“Yes, sir, at least—.” Dan stopped and his face broke into a smile.

“Oh, so there is something after all?”

“The only thing I want,” replied Dan with a laugh, “is to make the football team.”

“I see. Well, that, I fear, is something beyond me. I’m sorry, for there’s nothing in reason I wouldn’t gladly do for the boy that saved my boy’s life. I’d like you to feel sure of that, Vinton.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think I deserve much—much gratitude. You see, Mr. Pennimore, I ought to have kept him from going in there. But I didn’t have any idea he’d really do it. Why, the place was like a—a furnace, sir! It was mighty plucky of him to do it, sir!”

“Maybe it was, but I’m inclined to think,” answered Mr. Pennimore dryly, “that he didn’t know what he was in for. The real pluck and heroism, my boy, was yours, for you realized what it meant to go into that house. Didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did,” acknowledged Dan. “In fact—in fact I—I was scared to death, sir, and that’s the truth. I guess there wasn’t much heroism about me. I’d have given anything if I could have cut and run!”

“Then why didn’t you?” asked the other gently.

“Why—I—I couldn’t!” answered Dan, with a look of surprise at the questioner. “You wouldn’t have, would you, sir?”

“Not if my boy had been in there,” answered Mr. Pennimore thoughtfully, “but—if it had been anyone else, who knows whether I’d have found the courage?”

Dan laughed.

“You’d have gone all right, sir,” he answered with conviction.

“Well, I’d prefer to think that I would have, but I’m not too sure, Vinton. I’ve lived a good deal longer than you, my boy, and I’ve seen the time when a little heroism was hard to come at. Perhaps moral heroism is more difficult than physical, but—However, we’re not discussing such weighty questions this morning, eh? What’s your first name?”

“Dan, sir.”

“Dan, Dan Vinton. That’s a good-sounding name,” mused Mr. Pennimore. “I’ve often thought that there was a good deal in names. I mean that a person’s name maybe expresses his character if we were only able to read it aright. Now your name to me expresses courage and grit and fearlessness. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes, sir, I think so. But, you see, I was afraid, sir.”

“Yes, afraid to be afraid, my boy. That’s the right kind of fear. To take a risk when you’re not afraid is one thing and to take that risk when your heart’s in your boots is another. The biggest hero of all is the man that does a thing when he’s scared to death, merely because he knows that it’s right. Isn’t that so?”

“I suppose so, sir. I never thought much about it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Pennimore with a sudden laugh, “don’t think about it now; this is too fine a morning for problems. You’ll find when you get to know me better, Dan, that I have a weakness for problems. I call you Dan because you and I are going to be pretty good friends, I hope. Now tell me something about yourself. Where do you live when you’re at home?”

“In Graystone, Ohio, sir.”

“You have a mother and father living?”

“Yes, sir, and a sister. She’s thirteen.”

“What’s your father’s business, Dan?”

“He’s a little of everything, sir. He owns the flouring mills at Graystone and he’s president of the First National Bank and owns a lot of buildings and things all around. His name’s John W. Vinton, sir.” And Dan watched eagerly to see if Mr. Pennimore showed acquaintance with the name.

“Doubtless I’ve heard of your father,” said Mr. Pennimore, politely. “Is he like you, my boy? Has he got everything that he wants?”

Dan had to consider a moment. He had never thought about that.

“I don’t know, sir,” he answered finally. “But I guess he has. He doesn’t go in for much outside of his business. And when he wants anything he usually gets it,” added Dan with a trace of pride. “I guess the only thing he ever wanted that he hasn’t got is the new railroad.”

“What railroad is that?” asked Mr. Pennimore.

“The Sedalia, Dayton and Western. Father has been trying to get them to come through Graystone. He says the town needs a competing line, sir. But when I left home they’d finished the survey and father said the road was going past Graystone on the north.”

“Is your father interested in the road? Does he own stock in it?”

“I don’t think so. It’s an Eastern company that’s building. It’s a connecting line between two other systems.”

“Ah, I don’t seem to remember the—the Sedalia, Dayton and Western, you said?” Mr. Pennimore took out a small note-book and jotted down a word or two. “I must look it up. Perhaps I may know some of the interested parties. In that case, unless there are very good reasons why the road should leave Graystone out, I don’t see why your father shouldn’t have what he wants.” He smiled at Dan and slipped the book back into his pocket.

“That would be bully!” cried Dan. “Could—could you do that, sir?”

“I think so. I’ll look into it and let you know. Perhaps you will be able to present the Sedalia, Dayton and Western railroad to Graystone as a Christmas present. Like that, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dan eagerly. “Father would be awfully tickled. And—and so would I. Only I—I wouldn’t want you to do it just on account of what I did, Mr. Pennimore. It—it wasn’t worth it.”

“Perhaps I’m the better judge of what it was worth, my boy. Now I must be off. I telephoned to the school last evening, so that’s all right. I guess they won’t give you a licking, eh? Now I’m going to send Gerald down to see you and after awhile he will run you over to school in the car. I want you and Gerald to be friends, if you will. And you must come and see me often. I want you to take dinner some evening soon. Good-bye for the present, Dan.”

They shook hands, and Mr. Pennimore, with a kindly nod, went towards the door. But he had turned the next moment.

“Of course, Dan,” he said. “I want to replace those clothes that were burnt in my service. I’ll just mail you a check. And, by the way, the doctor promised to look in this morning. You’d better wait until he comes.”

“Yes, sir; but, if you don’t mind, I’d—I’d rather you wouldn’t pay for these clothes, sir. They are my oldest ones, and—and, anyway, I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

“Then I won’t,” was the answer. “I won’t insist, for I know you are able to replace them yourself. Good morning, Dan.”

After Mr. Pennimore’s departure Dan roamed around the big room, looking at the backs of the books and admiring without understanding the old tapestries. Presently he skirted the monstrous table—quite the largest table in the world, he was sure—and went to one of the half-dozen French windows that opened onto the broad red-tiled veranda with its massive stone balustrade and its bay-trees in big terra-cotta tubs. Beyond lay the green lawn and the flower-beds, the seawall and the blue, blue ocean. The sun was shining brightly and against an almost cloudless sky a flock of gulls dipped and wheeled. Dan’s heart responded to the glamour of the morning. It was a fine old world, he thought, and after all, a fellow didn’t have to be on a football team to be happy! At that moment there was a voice behind him and Dan turned from the window to Gerald Pennimore.

[CHAPTER XIII]
A RICH MAN’S SON

Gerald Pennimore was fourteen years of age, slight of build and very fair as to complexion, having hair that was almost corn-color, light blue eyes and a clear pink and white skin of the kind that doesn’t readily tan. He was good looking, but seemed far from robust. When he smiled his face was eminently attractive, but in repose it very often held an expression of discontent. As he greeted Dan he exhibited some embarrassment.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” answered Dan. “How are you feeling after it?”

“Pretty good, thank you.” He hesitated and seemed trying to get rid of a lump in his throat. Then, “They say you pulled me out of that place yesterday and saved my life—and Jack’s,” he said in low tones. “And—and I’m much obliged!”

Dan had to laugh a little, the thanks sounded so perfunctory. But he sympathized with Gerald’s embarrassment and answered in an off-hand way:

“Pshaw, I guess I didn’t do much. You’re welcome, though, of course. I’m glad you didn’t get burned or—or anything. How’s the dog?”

“He’s as fit as a fiddle,” answered the other eagerly. “You see, he was lying under the table and didn’t even get scorched! Say, I wouldn’t have had anything happen to Jack for anything in the world! I’d rather get burned up myself. You bet I’m glad you got him out!”

“But I didn’t—exactly,” laughed Dan. “I pulled you out and you pulled the dog out. You had hold of his collar, you see, and when you came he came, too.”

“Really? Then I did rescue him after all, didn’t I? I’m glad of that because I told him I would.” Then his face fell. “But I guess it was you, though, that did it.”

“Well, it doesn’t much matter, does it, as long as someone did it? I’m glad he wasn’t hurt. But I wouldn’t try that sort of thing again if I were you.”

“I guess not. Why, I didn’t know the place was so full of smoke. I thought the flames would leap out and then I’d break in the door with my axe and rescue Jack. I was making believe I was a fireman, you know.”

Dan nodded. “Well, there wasn’t any harm done as it happened; except the house. I suppose that burned down.”

“I guess so. That doesn’t matter. I haven’t used it for over a year. Say, are you a Yardley fellow?”

“Yes,” Dan replied.

“I wish I was! I want father to send me to Yardley but he won’t do it. I have a beastly old tutor. I don’t learn much, I guess. Did you ever have a tutor?” Dan shook his head. “Well, don’t you ever have one. They’re no good. I’d rather go to school.”

“Why won’t your father let you?” inquired Dan.

“Oh, he’s afraid something might happen to me, I guess. You’d think I was made of glass, the way he fusses about me. I’ve never had any good times in my life. If I want to do anything I have to have a tutor or somebody right with me.”

“I didn’t see any tutor around yesterday afternoon,” observed Dan, dryly.

Gerald grinned.

“He went over to town to buy something. I was supposed to be studying, but I wasn’t. He got fired this morning,” he added cheerfully.

“That’s a shame!” exclaimed Dan. Gerald looked surprised.

“Why is it?” he asked.

“Because he’s lost his place and it wasn’t his fault.”

“Yes, it was, though. Father told him he wasn’t to leave the place except after six in the evening. And he disobeyed. It served him right. I told father, though,” Gerald added magnanimously, “that I didn’t mind if he stayed. It might as well be Old Faunce as anyone else. But father said he had to go. He’s upstairs now, packing his things. I won’t have to do any studying until we get a new one. I hope it will take a long time to find one.”

“You don’t seem to care much about lessons,” said Dan, smilingly. Gerald looked doubtful.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Some things I like to study. I like Latin and French and German and English literature, but I hate mathematics and about the human body and botany.” Dan stared.

“Do you mean that you study all those things?” he asked.

“Yes, don’t you?”

“No, I have only Latin, French, mathematics and English this year; and gym work.”

“I’ve got a gymnasium upstairs. Want to see it?”

“I’d like to, but your father said the doctor was coming. And after that I must go back to school. Perhaps, though, you’ll let me see it some other time. Your father invited me to come over again, you know.”

“Oh, you’re coming lots of times,” answered Gerald promptly. “And I’ll show you my gymnasium and the stables and the kennels and my stamp collection. Do you collect stamps?”

“I used to,” answered Dan, “but I haven’t done much for a year or two.”

“I’ve got over two thousand,” said Gerald, “and some of them are corkers. I’ve got one that cost eighty dollars!”

“I’d like to see them,” said Dan, politely.

“All right. To-morrow? Will you come over to-morrow? I’ll send Higgins for you with the car if you will?” But Dan shook his head.

“Not to-morrow, I guess,” he replied. “I’ll have to make up for what I miss to-day, you see.”

Gerald’s face fell and he kicked disconsolately at the leg of a chair.

“That’s mean,” he said. “I guess, though, you could come if you wanted to. I suppose I’m too much of a kid.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dan. “I’d like to come, and I would if I could. But they’re pretty strict about class-work at Yardley and I don’t want to get behind. If you’ll let me come Friday I will.”

“All right.” Gerald’s face brightened. “And, say, I’m going to ask father if he will let me go over to see you some day. I’ve never been inside the school in my life. If I come will you show me your room and everything?”

“Glad to, but my room doesn’t amount to much. Do you like football?”

“You bet! Do you play?”

“Some. I was trying for the team until yesterday.”

“Didn’t you make it?”

“No, they kicked me out,” laughed Dan. Gerald looked incredulous.

“Why?” he asked indignantly. “I’ll bet you’re a dandy player! Why don’t you make them take you on?”

“It can’t be done. There are too many fellows who play a lot better than I do. What I was going to say, though, was that if your father will let you come over some day we’ll go down and watch practice if you’d like to.”

“You bet I would! I’ve seen the fellows playing sometimes from the road. Maybe I can come Saturday. Would that be all right? Where do you live?”

“Saturday would be all right. There is a game Saturday. I room in Clarke Hall, number 28. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, I’ll remember it all right. There’s the doctor. Shall we have him in here?”

“Wherever you say,” answered Dan.

The doctor’s visit was soon over. Dan’s burns were healing nicely and Gerald had nothing to show but a contusion on his head and a slight burn on one wrist. He had stumbled over Jack when he had gone into the play-house and had struck the edge of the table in falling. The blow had partially stunned him, and he declared that he didn’t remember a thing until he found himself outside on the grass. When the doctor had gone, the big chocolate-brown touring car swung up the drive to the steps and the two boys climbed in.

“Go around by the station, Higgins,” ordered Gerald. “That’s the longest way,” he added gleefully, for Dan’s benefit. Dan felt that he ought to insist on being taken back the quickest and shortest way, but he didn’t want to offend Gerald, and, besides, the idea of lengthening the drive was far from distasteful to him. The big car skimmed its way down the immaculate gravel roadway, past the gardener’s lodge, through the big stone gateway and out onto the village street. It was the nearest thing to flying that Dan had ever experienced, never having tried tobogganing, and he was quite content to lean back against the yielding cushions and just watch things whizz by. But Gerald demanded conversation. It was an event in his life to have someone of about his own age to talk with and he made the most of it. Around the station they flew, with a musical peal of the chimes, and darted along the straight stretch of road toward the school. Above the Yardley buildings dozed in the forenoon sunlight and Dan felt as though he was going home. Then came the winding ascent and the engine took on a gruffer tone as the big car charged upward. Then a quick turn to the right at the top of the hill, a sudden jarring of brakes and the car stood, quivering and chugging in front of Clarke.

Dan leaped out, shook hands with Gerald, nodded almost gratefully to the chauffeur, who touched his cap smilingly in response, promised again faithfully to see Gerald on Friday and then ran up the steps. As the door closed behind him he heard the automobile taking the hill again. When he opened the door of his room Tubby looked around from the window at which he was standing with a sardonic grin.

“I suppose you think you’re a blooming hero,” said Tubby.

[CHAPTER XIV]
DAN JOINS A CONSPIRACY

The story of Dan’s adventure had preceded him up Yardley Hill, and when he reached the locker room in the gymnasium at a few moments before half-past eleven there was a murmur of interest from the fellows who were getting into their gymnasium suits. Several of the fellows Dan knew well enough to speak to and these greeted him heartily, while one or two others, who had never before accorded him more than nods, now went out of their ways to call him by name. Joe Chambers, one of the editors of the Scholiast, had to have the story of the affair while Dan was changing his clothes.

“This isn’t for publication, Vinton,” he assured him seriously, “but—”

“Well, I should hope not!” laughed Dan. “If you go and put anything about it in your little old paper I’ll sue you for libel.”

“No, but go on and tell about it,” begged Chambers. Dan glanced rather embarrassedly about the little circle which had collected.

“Why, there isn’t much to tell, Chambers,” he said finally. “I was going along the path by the Pennimore grounds when I heard a dog howling. And then I smelled smoke and looked through the fence and saw young Pennimore—his name is Gerald—”

“I know,” said Chambers, “a regular little runt.”

“Well, he had started a fire in a play-house that stood down there by the fence and was going to have the fun of putting it out with fire-extinguishers. Somehow the dog, a dandy Irish setter, had got inside and when I got there he was howling like the mischief. So Gerald and I started to get him out. But by that time the place was pretty full of smoke and Gerald couldn’t see and fell and hit his head against a table. That knocked him out and so I went in and got him. It was pretty hot, of course, but there wasn’t any especial danger.”

“Didn’t you get burned at all?” asked a small boy on the edge of the circle.

“No, only a couple of little places on my arm and leg.”

“Let’s see,” said someone, eagerly.

“Oh, they are bandaged. They took Gerald and me up to the house and put us to bed. Mr. Pennimore was dandy and I had a great old time; had my dinner and breakfast in bed. Then—”

But at that moment the gong clanged and they swarmed upstairs to the gymnasium and took their places at the chest-weights. At dinner time Dan had to tell his story over again to the fellows at his table.

“Pshaw, that isn’t the way I heard it,” said Paul Rand. “I heard that it was the kennels that was on fire and that you and the Pennimore kid went in to rescue the dogs and that he was overcome by the smoke and you carried him out in your arms. I’ll bet you’re lying, Vinton.” Dan assured him earnestly that his version was the correct one and Rand finally believed him. But everyone was especially attentive to Dan that day and for a day or two afterwards, and the school proclaimed him a hero. The Third Class got quite puffed up about it and put on so many airs that the Fourth Class took umbrage and started a rumor to the effect that the truth of the matter was that Dan had been stealing apples, had been caught by one of the grooms or the gardener and locked up in the stable over night. As a result there were several pitched battles between Third and Fourth Class boys during the next few days. But I am anticipating.

After dinner Dan was summoned to the office which he found occupied by Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and Mr. Forisher, the secretary. Mr. Collins greeted him cordially and shook hands with him. Mr. Forisher looked up an instant from his work and bowed almost pleasantly.

“Well, Vinton,” said the Assistant Principal, “I hear you have been making a hero of yourself.”

“Not much of one, sir,” answered Dan.

“No? Well, Mr. John T. Pennimore tells a different story. What you did was very well done, I should say. Just come inside here a moment, please; the Doctor wants to see you.”

The door marked “Private” was opened and Dan passed through at Mr. Collins’ heels. In front of a big, old-fashioned walnut desk sat Doctor Hewitt. Dan had never spoken to the Principal and felt a trifle alarmed. Doctor Tobias Hewitt was short, thick-set and very sturdy looking. In spite of his years—for he was almost seventy—his cheeks were ruddy, his face singularly free from wrinkles and he held himself perfectly erect. He had a fine, kindly face and a very pleasant voice.

“Doctor, this is Vinton, of the Third,” said Mr. Collins.

“To be sure,” exclaimed the Doctor, rising from his chair and taking Dan’s hand. “And a credit to the school, Mr. Collins. I’m glad to make your nearer acquaintance, Vinton. You did a splendid thing yesterday. I thank you on my own behalf. I’m glad that one of my boys showed such admirable courage.”

“It wasn’t anything, sir,” said Dan, sheepishly.

“Your modesty is commendable,” replied the Principal, “but that is as it should be; bravery and modesty should go together. Mr. Pennimore has spoken very highly of you, my boy, and Mr. Pennimore is a gentleman whom we hold in excellent regard. By the way, Mr. Collins, Mr. Pennimore requested that Vinton should be allowed to visit his house. I think we can give that permission, can we not?”

“Certainly, sir. Vinton shall have permission to visit Mr. Pennimore whenever he likes outside of recitation hours. Of course should you wish to go there in the evening, Vinton, it will be necessary to obtain special permission.”

“Thank you, sir,” murmured Dan.

“You are getting along well with your work?” asked the Doctor, genially.

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“That’s well, that’s well. School work is your first duty, Vinton, to yourself and your parents, you know; and to us, too; yes, yes, to us, too. Well, that’s all, I fancy, Mr. Collins. Good morning, Vinton. I’m very glad to have seen you. I hope our meetings will always be as pleasant as this has been.” And the Doctor laughed merrily.

Dan muttered his thanks and followed Mr. Collins back into the outer office. Mr. Collins drew a chair up to his desk and pointed to it as he took his own seat.

“Sit down a moment, Vinton,” he said pleasantly. “You have no recitation coming?”

“Not until two, sir. I have English then.”

Mr. Collins glanced at the clock.

“We have half an hour, then, but I shan’t keep you more than ten minutes. I suppose you saw something of Mr. Pennimore’s son yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, tell me quite confidentially what you think of him.” Dan hesitated. “I mean give me your opinion of him, Vinton. What does he seem like? Clever? Manly? The sort of boy you’d like to know?”

“Well, sir, of course I didn’t see a great deal of him, but I rather liked him. He doesn’t look very strong, but I think he doesn’t get enough outdoor exercise. And he studies pretty hard, I guess, from what he told me. He has a private tutor, you know.”

“So I understand. Should you say he was—well, a bit spoiled, Vinton?”

“Well, a little, maybe, but not so much, sir. I think that if his father would send him to school and let him know other fellows it would do him good.”

“I think you’re right,” said Mr. Collins heartily. “Mr. Pennimore spoke once to the Doctor of sending the boy here, but that was over a year ago and we’ve heard nothing more about it. We’d like to have him, to tell the truth, Vinton. This is quite between ourselves, if you please; I’d rather you didn’t mention our little talk to anyone. The fact is that Broadwood is after Mr. Pennimore to have him send his boy there. I know that for a fact; we learn of these things, you know. And of course it will be something of a feather in Broadwood’s cap if they get him, just as it would be a feather in our cap if he should come here. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you hear Mr. Pennimore or the boy say anything about this matter?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I understood that he was to have a new tutor, sir.”

“I see. I suppose, now, that you will see something of Mr. Pennimore and the boy, eh? You’re likely to go to the house pretty often?”

“I hardly know, sir. Mr. Pennimore has asked me to come, and so has Gerald, and I promised to go over Friday. And Gerald is coming to see me Saturday.”

“Excellent! I wonder—” Mr. Collins paused and frowned at the ink-well. “No, better not, maybe,” he muttered. “You might show him around the school, Vinton, when he comes; let him see what sort of a place we have here, eh?”

“I thought I would, sir.”

“Do! Try and interest him in our school. Look here, I’m going to make a clean breast of it to you. I want to get that boy here at Yardley. I want to beat Broadwood. You can understand that, I guess? Of course it will be a good advertisement for the school to have Mr. Pennimore’s son come to us, and in this age it is as necessary for a school to advertise as it is for any other business. But aside from that I want to get ahead of Broadwood. Now, will you help me?”

“Why, yes, sir,” answered Dan. “I’d like to beat Broadwood, too. Only—it sounds like a conspiracy, doesn’t it? Do you think it would be fair?”

“Quite,” answered Mr. Collins decisively. “You can be open and aboveboard about it. Tell the boy that you want him to come here; tell Mr. Pennimore so, too. Try and interest them both in the school life, in our athletics. If you can, introduce the boy to some of your friends here; get him to come over and see you now and then. I was going to suggest that when he visited you Saturday you might bring him over and introduce him to the Doctor; all boys like the Doctor at first sight; but maybe that had better come later. We’ll call it a conspiracy, if you like, Vinton, but it will be an honest and open conspiracy. Now what do you say?”

“I’m in on it, sir!” answered Dan eagerly. “I’d like to beat Broadwood and I’d like to have Gerald come here to school, anyway. It would do him good, Mr. Collins. I’ll do what I can, sir. I know that Gerald would love to go to school somewhere and I guess he would just as lief come here as anywhere.”

“Good! Well, the conspiracy is started then,” said Mr. Collins with a smile. “You do what you can, Vinton, and let me know what progress you make. I’d like to meet the boy myself, but I don’t want to let him think we’re trying to kidnap him, so maybe I’d better keep out of it until the right moment comes. I’m much obliged for your help, Vinton, and if the time comes that I can be of assistance to you—of course I mean without detriment to my duty—I hope you’ll call on me.”

If Dan walked down the corridor and out of Oxford with a suggestion of a swagger you can hardly blame him. It seemed to him that he was getting to be a rather important person, and he felt a little bit proud about it. Even if he had failed at making the football team he had been asked to help the team to success, and now his services had been enlisted by the school office to recruit Gerald Pennimore. Things were quite different from two weeks ago when he had known practically no one in the school and had seemed like the merest nonentity! His mind was so full of Gerald Pennimore’s capture that Old Tige shook his head sadly and remarked to the class at large that heroism and rhetoric didn’t seem to step together. Dan blushed and the rest of the fellows laughed.

After class Dan went to his room to study, for he had missed Latin and mathematics that morning. To his relief he found that Tubby was absent. Perhaps he had been coaxed forth by the glory of the Fall weather or perhaps he had run out of reading matter and had gone to borrow a book somewhere. At all events, he was not at home, and Dan was very glad of it, for Tubby had shown an inclination to be extremely sarcastic and disagreeable over yesterday’s affair.

At half-past five there was a sharp knock on the door and in response to Dan’s “Come in, whoever you are!” Mr. Payson entered.

“Hello, Vinton,” he said. “How badly were you hurt in that little rescue act of yours?”

“Not at all, sir,” answered Dan as he pulled a chair forward for the visitor. “At least, I only got a little burn on my arm and one on my leg.”

“Can you use them?”

“Yes, sir, they don’t hurt; just smart a little at times.”

The coach looked troubled.

“Well, you know if you hadn’t cut practice yesterday you wouldn’t have got into trouble. I suppose it was just as well to keep away to-day, but I guess you’ll be fit to-morrow. You’d better see Mr. Ryan in the morning and let him see your burns.”

“But—” began Dan bewilderedly.

“Now, look here, Vinton,” interrupted Mr. Payson sharply, “I don’t want to be nasty, for you did a plucky thing yesterday and we’re all proud of you. But it’s got to be understood that cutting practice doesn’t go. You’re a new boy and probably you didn’t understand. The only way you can stay away from practice without getting into trouble with me is to see Mr. Ryan. If he says you can lay off, all right. Otherwise I want you to be on hand promptly every afternoon.”

“But—”

“If you can’t do that I want you to say so and I’ll accept your resignation from the squad.”

“But I’m not on the squad!” exclaimed Dan.

“Not what?”

“I’m not on the squad, sir! I guess you’ve forgotten. You dropped me, Mr. Payson.”

“I dropped you? Nothing of the sort, Vinton! I posted a list on the board Monday afternoon. You should have read it.”

“I did read it,” answered Dan, smiling. “My name wasn’t on it.” Mr. Payson looked nonplussed.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“You bet I am! I read it three or four times, sir.”

“Well, I don’t see how that happened,” mused the coach. “I meant to put you down. Then it was my fault. I’m glad. I was afraid you were going to turn out to be one of those fair-weather chaps who don’t like to come out when the grass is wet or the wind is blowing. I’m sorry I made such a fool blunder. But you be on hand to-morrow, Vinton; don’t forget. Glad you got out of your scrape as well as you did yesterday. You might have got pretty well singed from what I hear. You’d better come over to training table to-morrow. Good night.”

“Good night, sir,” answered Dan. “And—and thank you, sir.”

“What for?” asked the coach, turning at the doorway.

“For letting me stay on the squad,” replied Dan.

“Humph! Maybe you won’t thank me later on. I don’t believe there’s a ghost of a show for you to get on the First, Vinton, although you may get into the Broadwood game for a few minutes. Good-bye.”

When the door had closed Dan listened until Mr. Payson’s footsteps had died away down the corridor. Then he gave a bound onto his bed and turned a somersault, his heels landing with a thump against the wall and seriously impairing the appearance of the wall-paper. When Tubby came in a moment later he found Dan lying on his back with his feet on the pillow. Tubby snorted derisively.

“I guess it’s gone to your head,” he said.

[CHAPTER XV]
GERALD VISITS YARDLEY

The next afternoon Dan got into the scrimmage for a few minutes at left end on the Second and put up such a snappy game that many of the fellows opened their eyes, while Norton, whose place he had taken watched him anxiously from the side-line. The Second was using the forward pass and onside kick for all they were worth, and Ridge, the captain, had taught it two or three rather clever variations of these. The First was learning to hold its own, but now and then the forward pass was pulled off successfully. In the second half of the twenty minute scrimmage which followed practice Dan got by Dickenson twice and in each case captured the ball on a forward pass for a good gain, the second time getting away from the First Team players and landing the pigskin on the twelve yards before being downed by Capes. It was a run of forty yards and it brought the handful of watchers in the grandstand to their feet. King, the Second Team quarter, hugged him ecstatically. The First held and got the ball away and kicked out of danger, but it had been a near thing for them and after the whistle had blown and the players were back in the gymnasium Dan was viewed very respectfully by the First Team fellows.

“That was a nice little romp of yours,” said Loring. “Someone told me, though, that you weren’t playing any more.”

“That’s what I thought myself,” panted Dan as he struggled out of his togs. “Payson forgot to put my name on the list and so I didn’t show up yesterday or the day before. And yesterday afternoon Payson came up to the room and began to give me fits for not reporting. I told him he hadn’t put my name down.”

“That was one on him,” chuckled Loring. “He ought to give you a show on the First before long. Hope he does.”

“I guess he won’t though. He told me yesterday that I didn’t have any show for the First.”

“Candid, anyway, wasn’t he?” Loring laughed. “But don’t you care, Vinton. I’ll tell you something about Payson. He’s a good coach and a dandy fellow when you get to know him, but he never could size up his men. He’s been fooled time and again. Last year he kept Mitchell on the Second all season until just before the Broadwood game. Then Hughes got hurt and Mitchell was moved over to substitute Littleton. In two days he had Littleton looking like a base imitation, got his place at tackle and played the dandiest sort of game against Broadwood. And he’s one of our best men this year.”

“Oh, well, I’m willing to wait until next year,” answered Dan. “All I want is the fun of playing. Of course I’d like mighty well to get on your team, but Dickenson and Williams and Sayer are all better than I am.”

Loring pursed his lips and looked doubtful.

“Well, Dickenson is a dandy, all right,” he said, “and Norton is good, but—Still, it isn’t my place to criticise. It’s early yet, and there’ll be plenty of changes before the twenty-third of November. Now it’s me for the merry shower.” And with a blood-curdling yell Loring disappeared behind the rubber curtains.

Dan had telephoned Gerald Pennimore at noon that he would not be able to make his promised visit that day. Gerald had been very much disappointed, and a little bit sulky. Eventually, however, Dan had made his peace and Gerald had agreed to come to Yardley the next afternoon. He arrived at a little before two o’clock. There were no recitations Saturday afternoons and as the game with St. John’s Academy was not called until three Dan had a full hour in which to show Gerald about.

The automobile was sent home and Dan conducted Gerald from building to building. They did Oxford from top to bottom, saw the commons and peeked into the kitchens, visited Merle and Dudley and then went up to Dan’s room. Tubby was in and so he and Gerald were introduced. Tubby was not at his best, and that’s saying a good deal. Gerald had found everything very interesting and fascinating, but when he told Dan and Tubby so the latter at once began to compare Yardley and Broadwood, the result being decidedly unflattering to Yardley. That, thought Dan would never do, and so he suddenly recollected that it was time for him to get dressed for the game, and he hurried Gerald off before Tubby could do any more damage.

“You mustn’t mind Tubby Jones,” said Dan as they cut across the yard. “He’s a chronic kicker. If he was at Broadwood he’d want to be here. Nothing ever quite suits Tubby.”

“Do you like him much?” asked Gerald.

“Oh, we get on well enough,” answered Dan. “But Tubby isn’t exactly what you’d call a lovable character, although he really isn’t quite as bad as he makes you think.”

“I don’t like him,” said Gerald decisively.

Gerald was vastly interested in the gymnasium and tried all the apparatus in turn. Then they visited the trophy room, where Dan showed him the football and baseballs which, inscribed with names and dates, commemorated various victories on gridiron and diamond. There were cups, too, and one or two banners dating back nearly thirty years, and numerous framed photographs of Yardley teams. Gerald had a stream of questions to ask, many of them quite beyond Dan’s ability to answer. They looked into the boxing room and Gerald wanted Dan to show him how to box, but Dan assured him that he hadn’t taken it up yet and hurried him off downstairs. Gerald was allowed only a peep into the locker room, for the football fellows were in possession. Then he was sent back to the gymnasium to amuse himself until Dan had changed his clothes. Later they went down to the field together and Dan bought a ticket and placed Gerald in a lower seat on the stand. After the substitutes had been sent to the side-line, Dan took his place beside him and explained everything to the best of his ability. Gerald didn’t know football very well and there was plenty of work for Dan.

St. John’s Academy had sent a pretty green team to Wissining and after the first few minutes of play it was evident that Yardley would not have to work very hard. Mr. Payson had taught his team no new plays as yet and so only the simplest of old-fashioned football was used by the home team. St. John’s was light and fairly fast and had been coached to play an open game. There were numerous tries of the forward pass but Yardley had little trouble in frustrating them. For the most part Yardley kept the ball and used plays through the line, especially outside of tackle, for good gains. The first half ended with the score 18 to 0 in favor of the Blue.

Gerald became much excited as the game went on and yelled himself red in the face. By the time the struggle was over he had become a zealous Yardley partisan and Dan secretly congratulated himself on his success. In the second half most of the first string men were laid off and substitutes took their places. But even so, Yardley managed to pile up eleven more points, so that the contest terminated with the very satisfactory score of 29 to 0 in Yardley’s favor. Gerald climbed into the automobile at half-past five, declaring that he had had a dandy time and that he was going to make his father let him come to all the remaining football games. Dan promised to go down to Sound View the next day, Sunday, for luncheon at one o’clock and Gerald went off supremely contented.

“Getting pretty swell, aren’t we?” asked Tubby as Dan entered the room after seeing his guest off. “Riding around in automobiles and leaving cards on John T.”

“Don’t be nasty, Tubby,” answered Dan good-naturedly. “What did you think of Gerald?”

“Got so you call him that, have you? I suppose you call his father Uncle John, don’t you? Is he going to make you a present of a steamship line or two to play with?”

“Tubby, your sarcasm isn’t delicate enough to amuse me. Cut it out!”

“Oh, I dare say! Getting kind of particular these days, aren’t you? Sort of finicky and—and fastidious. I’ll bet you’ll be wearing lemon-colored gloves to church to-morrow!”

“Now, look here, Tubby,” said Dan warmly. “That’s as much of your ill-temper as I’m going to stand. If you can’t talk decently keep still until you can. If you don’t you and I’ll get into trouble.”

As physical combat was something that Tubby had no love for, he subsided promptly. He kept up an angry muttering for some minutes, but he maintained all the time a careful eye on Dan who was getting ready for dinner. After awhile he summoned sufficient courage to say defiantly:

“You might as well keep that little Pennimore chump out of this room while I’m in it, for I tell you right now, Dan Vinton, that he makes me sick and I don’t intend to be sweet to him and lick his shoes even if he is as rich as all get-out!”

“Tubby,” replied Dan very politely, “I never thought for a moment that you could be sweet to anyone.”

“Is that so?” Tubby growled. “You think you’re smart, don’t you? That little chump isn’t any better than I am, even if his father has money. So has mine, for that matter. How did old John T. make his money, anyhow? By grinding it out of the poor, that’s how! He’s just a great big trust; owns all the steamships and puts the prices up, and—”

“Well, don’t let you and I worry about it,” said Dan. “We haven’t got to buy any of his steamships. So the price doesn’t matter to us, Tubby.”

“Oh, I suppose you think he’s going to give you passes on them,” Tubby jeered. “Why, he’s one of the meanest men in the country; everyone knows that! I’ll bet you didn’t get anything but a bunch of thanks for pulling his kid out of the fire!”

“Tubby!” said Dan warningly. “Cut it out now. I told you once!”

“Huh!” said Tubby.

The next day Dan walked over to Sound View from church and found Gerald impatiently awaiting him at the lodge.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” exclaimed Gerald. “I’ve been waiting half an hour. Say, I told father about the football game and he’s promised to let me go again some time. Isn’t that great?”

Dan agreed that it was, and all the way along the winding road to the house Gerald talked football with the enthusiasm of a new convert. Dan had to promise to show him how to drop-kick and how to tackle.

“You’d soon get the hang of it, though,” said Dan, “if you’d go over in the afternoons and see the fellows practice. Then you could get your ball and try it yourself.”

“But father won’t let me go over there, I guess; at any rate, not unless my tutor goes along. And that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? I’d like to learn something about football now because I mean to go to school next year.”

“Will your father let you?”

“I’m going to keep after him until he does,” answered Gerald. “I wish I had some brothers and sisters,” he added gloomily.

“Yes, it wouldn’t be nearly so lonesome,” said Dan sympathetically.

“Oh, it isn’t that! But if father had some more children he wouldn’t be so blamed careful of me!”

“What school are you thinking about?” Dan asked carelessly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” was the vague reply. “Father used to talk about Broadwood a year or so ago. But I don’t want to go there. Then there is a school in New York City he fancies. I guess he likes that because I could live at home. But that wouldn’t be the same thing at all, would it? Say, are you going to be at Yardley next year?”

“Hope to,” answered Dan. Gerald was silent a moment. There was evidently something he wanted to say. Finally,

“I’d like to go to Yardley if you were going to be there,” he said rather shyly.

“I’d like to have you,” replied Dan heartily. “Why don’t you ask your father to let you come next Fall?”

“Do you think I could pass the examinations?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure you could. You ought to make the Third Class.”

“Would you be in that?”

“No, Second Class next year, unless I failed at my finals. You’d have to study fairly hard if you came to Yardley, but it would be lots easier than what you’re doing now, I guess. When you are going along with a lot of other fellows it doesn’t seem so bad.”

“No, that’s just it,” said Gerald aggrievedly. “There’s no fun in being the only fellow in class.”

“Has your father found a new tutor yet?”

“No.” Gerald’s face brightened. “And he can’t get one before Tuesday or Wednesday, anyhow. That gives me three days more vacation, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, if he doesn’t come until Wednesday,” answered Dan with a smile at the younger boy’s delight.

“Say,” said Gerald presently, “are you going to room with that Jones fellow next year?”

“Not if I—no, I don’t think so.” Dan was silent an instant, thinking hard. Then, “I tell you what,” he said. “You get your father to let you come to Yardley and then, if you like, you and I’ll arrange to room together. That is, if your father wanted you to.”

“Will you do that?” cried Gerald eagerly. “That would be fine! I’ll ask him to-day! He thinks you’re great, Vinton; he said so the other night. If I tell him I can room with you, maybe he will let me go! Come on, there he is on the terrace!”

[CHAPTER XVI]
AN AFTERNOON AFLOAT

Mr. Pennimore was awaiting them on the broad, red-tiled terrace outside the library. He had a pleasant smile and a firm hand-clasp for the visitor.

“Well, Dan, I’m glad to see you,” he said. “You don’t look as though you had been damaged much by your adventure. Where do you get that color in your cheeks? I wish my boy looked as healthy as you do.” He glanced from one face to the other and shook his head. “Gerald looks like a city boy beside you. What’s the secret, Dan?”

“Just being out of doors a lot, sir, I guess,” was the reply.

“But so is Gerald,” said Mr. Pennimore.

“Yes, but he doesn’t get the exercise I do,” Dan laughed. “He needs to play football and get his blood circulating.”

“Circulating out through his nose?” asked Mr. Pennimore dryly.

“Oh, we don’t get hurt much, sir. And, anyway, we don’t mind a few knocks. It makes it more fun.”

“Really. Well, everyone to his taste! But I don’t think Gerald would take kindly to having his teeth knocked out or—”