FOURTH DOWN

[IN THE VERY CENTER OF IT, PLUNGING, FIGHTING, WAS HEMING]

FOURTH DOWN!

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “THE PLAY THAT WON,”
“THE LOST DIRIGIBLE,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

FOURTH DOWN

CHAPTER I
BACK TO SCHOOL

“We ought to be there in about twenty minutes,” observed Arnold Deering, glancing at his watch.

One of his companions in the day-coach tossed the magazine he had been idly glancing through, to the top of the pile of suitcases beside him, yawned widely, and nodded without enthusiasm.

“If nothing happens,” he agreed.

“What’s going to happen, you chump?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Only, something might. There might be an earthquake, or the train might jump the track, or——”

“Or you might talk sense, Frank! As for jumping the track, this old train couldn’t jump a crack in the floor! I guess you’re wishing something would happen so you wouldn’t have to go back.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Frank Lamson answered doubtfully. “I guess I don’t mind—much. School’s all right after a day or two. It’s getting into the swing, just at first, that’s hard.”

“In the interest of education,” proclaimed Arnold pompously, “I move that summer vacations be abolished.”

“Put it the other way around,” said Frank, “and I’ll second the motion. Joking aside, though, summer vacations are fine, but they certainly spoil a chap for hard work.” He shook his head dolefully. He was a heavily-built youth of seventeen, but the heaviness was that of bone and sinew rather than of fat. With regular features, dark hair and eyes and a healthy skin, he was undeniably good-looking, although the mouth somehow suggested a sort of lazy arrogance and led an observer to the conclusion that he was not invariably as amiable as at present. He was almost painfully correct as to attire.

“Work!” sighed Arnold. “Why introduce unpleasant subjects? Ever since I struck Yardley fellows have dinned it into me that this year is the toughest of all. ‘If you think Third Class is hard,’ they said, ‘just wait till you’re in Second!’ It doesn’t sound good to me, Frank!”

“Piffle! Fellows always talk that way. Even First Class fellows shake their heads and tell you they’re the hardest worked bunch in school, and any one with a grain of sense knows that the last year’s a perfect cinch. Anyway, you don’t need to worry. You’re starting clean. I’ve got a condition to work off, worse luck. I’m the one who ought to be sore.”

“Too bad,” said Arnold sympathetically. “Still, ‘Old Tige’s’ bark is worse than his bite, Frank. You’ll get clear all right.”

“Hope so.” Frank leaned across the piled-up luggage to look through the window. A fleeting glimpse of the sun-flecked surface of Long Island Sound met his vision, and he frowned, mentally contrasting the lazy, frolic-filled days of the passing summer with the duties drawing nearer every minute. “Light House Point,” he said, nodding. “Greenburg in ten minutes.”

“If nothing happens,” quoted Arnold, with a smile. Like the boy opposite him, he was seventeen years of age, and, like him, too, he was extremely well-dressed. But in Arnold Deering’s case the attire appeared to stop short of effort, or it may have been that he was less conscious of it. While it is fair to call Frank good-looking it is no exaggeration to say that Arnold was handsome. A straight nose under a broad forehead, deep brown eyes, a mouth showing good-temper, and a round chin, all went to make up a countenance extremely attractive. He wore his dark brown hair brushed straight back, a style that went well both with his face and with his height and slenderness. There was nothing effeminate about him, though. He was not what fellows contemptuously call a “pretty boy” and his slim frame was well-muscled and suggested the best of physical condition.

“Don’t think I’d mind if something did happen,” answered Frank, rather disconsolately, “so long as it put off the evil day.”

“Cheer up, old thing!” laughed Arnold. “To-morrow you’ll be as gay as a lark, won’t he, Toby?”

The third member of the party, who, next the window, had been occupied with a magazine for the last half-hour, turned a pair of very blue eyes toward the speaker and smiled. Although he had been following the story closely, the conversation of his companions had not been entirely lost to him, and Arnold’s question had reached him between the last word on page 19 and the continuation on an elusive page 134. “I’d never expect to see Frank as gay as a lark,” he replied readily. “If you had said as happy as a seagull, though——” He returned to the search for page 134.

“Seagull?” protested Arnold. “The silly things never are happy! They’re always crying and making a fuss.”

“Oh, they’re happy enough,” said the other, with a twinkle in his eyes, “but they don’t want to think so!”

Arnold laughed and Frank said, “You go to the dickens, Toby,” but grinned a little as he said it. There had been a time when he would have taken Toby Tucker’s jest not so amiably, but closer intimacy with that youth had rendered his dignity less tender.

“Toby’s got you sized up, Frank,” laughed Arnold. “You do like to grouch a bit, you know.”

“We all do, at times,” said Toby, comfortingly. He found the page he was seeking and settled back again. But Arnold plucked the magazine from his hands and tossed it to the opposite seat.

“We’re nearly in Greenburg, T. Tucker,” he said. “Sit up like a gentleman and talk to us.”

Toby looked reproachfully at his friend and regretfully at the magazine. Then he smiled. He had rather a remarkable smile, had Toby. It made you forget that his nose was too short, his chin almost aggressively square, his tanned face too liberally freckled, his hair undeniably red. It made him almost good-looking and eminently likable. Tobias Tucker’s smile was a valuable asset to him, although he didn’t know it.

“What shall I talk about?” he asked. “Want me to tell you a dreadfully funny story?”

“What’s it about?” demanded Arnold, suspiciously.

“About old Cap’n Gaines,” replied Toby, innocently. “He——”

“Help!” cried the others with unflattering unanimity.

“If you ever try to tell that again, Toby,” added Arnold, very stern and very solemn, “we’ll——”

But what was to happen in such an event was never told, for what happened at that moment very effectually ended Arnold’s discourse. There was a terrific grinding of brakes, a loud hissing sound, and an irresistible tendency on the part of every one and everything in the day-coach to proceed hurriedly to the front door. Because of various obstructions none succeeded, but all did their best. Arnold landed in Frank’s lap and Toby draped himself over the piled-up luggage, his head hanging over the back of the seat ahead. A cloud of unsuspected dust filled the car as, with a series of emphatic and uncomfortable jerks, the train came to a standstill. To the accompaniment of a vocal confusion of cries, exclamations, and grunts, the occupants of the car disentangled themselves from each other or picked themselves from the floor.

“Get—off—me!” groaned Frank. “You’ve—broken—my neck!”

“What was it?” gasped Arnold, relieving the other of his unwelcome embrace. “Are we wrecked?”

“I am, anyway!” growled Frank. “Where’s my hat? Oh, thanks!” He accepted it from a dazed occupant of the seat ahead. Toby Tucker retired from his graceful position atop the suitcases and observed Arnold questioningly, his straw hat tilted down to the bridge of his nose. Arnold chuckled. “Guess it was Frank’s earthquake,” he said.

“Keep your places!” admonished a trainman, putting his head in the forward door. “Obstruction on the track! No danger!”

“Gee!” muttered Toby. “That was some stop, fellows!”

“It sure was!” agreed Frank emphatically, feeling doubtfully of his neck. “It nearly snapped my head off! And then Arn landed on me like a ton of bricks.”

“Let’s go see,” said Toby. “What’s this?” He raised a foot from which dangled Arnold’s hat. “I’m sorry. Sort of mussed, I’m afraid.”

Arnold took it, viewed it ruefully and put it on. “It’s all Frank’s fault,” he grumbled as he joined the exodus through the nearer door. “He insisted that something was going to happen, and it did!”

How near that something had come to being a catastrophe was revealed to them when they pushed their way through the throng at the head of the train. Not eighty feet distant from the pilot of the throbbing locomotive stood a lone box-car, its forward truck lodged against its rear. It was loaded and sealed and marked “Greenburg.” A curve in the track behind had hidden it from the fireman’s sight until there had remained just space in which to avert a collision.

“How do you suppose it got here?” asked Frank.

“Front truck got loose and the car broke its coupling, so they say,” volunteered a boy beside him.

“Hello, Billy,” greeted Frank. “You on the train? I didn’t see you. I suppose this will hold us up awhile, eh?”

“I thought they always had a caboose on the tail-end of a freight,” objected Arnold.

“I believe they do,” agreed Billy Temple, “but this car and some more were on a siding about a mile back and they were sort of switching ’em into the Greenburg yard. Hello, Tucker. What car were you fellows in?”

“Fourth, I guess,” answered Arnold. “If it hadn’t been for Frank, though, I’d have landed in the first when we stopped! Felt as if my spine was being pushed right through to the front of me!”

“Me too,” chuckled Temple. “There was an old codger in my car with a basket of eggs. He got on at that last stop we made. There wasn’t much room, so he kept the eggs in his lap. Then Mr. Engineer put the airbrakes on and—Bingo!”

“What happened?” demanded Arnold delightedly.

“Why, the old gentleman and the eggs went on top of a fat man in front. Talk about your omelets! Oh, boy!”

“Let’s go back and sit down,” suggested Toby when Temple’s narrative had been properly appreciated. “It’s too hot out here. And I suppose we won’t get started again for an hour.”

“More like two,” grumbled Frank. “They’ll have to send a wrecking train and lift that car out of the way. Rotten luck!”

“Hark to the plaintive wail of the seagull,” murmured Toby.

“That’s right, Frank,” Arnold chuckled. “Ten minutes ago you wanted something to happen to keep you from getting to Yardley, and now——”

“That’s all right,” answered Frank haughtily, “but it’s nearly four, and supper’s at six.”

“True, O Solomon! I get your viewpoint. There is much in what you say. Still, if we get moving again in an hour or so——”

“We might walk, if it wasn’t for the bags,” mused Toby. “It can’t be more than eight or nine miles.”

“Eight or nine miles!” moaned Arnold. “And on an empty stomach!”

“We-ell, I meant on the railroad,” said Toby demurely, “but if you prefer——”

“Wish we had a pack of cards,” said Frank gloomily as they returned to their car. “We might have a three-handed game of something. Or get Billy Temple in here.”

“I’m going to finish that story I was reading,” said Toby. “You two play.”

“Well, if we can find some cards,” began Arnold, leading the way to their seats. Then: “What’s the matter with the chap over there, Toby? Nose-bleed?” he asked.

Toby, following his friend’s gaze, saw a pale-faced, large-eyed boy of perhaps fifteen holding a crimson-stained handkerchief to his face. “Guess so,” said Toby. “Maybe he got bumped. Wonder if he knows how to stop it?”

“Do you?” Arnold asked, pushing by to his seat.

“Yes, I know four or five ways. Guess I’ll ask him.”

He left the others and walked back three seats to where the boy was hunched somewhat disconsolately beside an open window. He was a surprisingly unattractive chap, Toby thought, but maybe he couldn’t help that unwholesome white complexion. But he could help, Toby told himself a moment later, that very soiled collar he was wearing!

“Nose-bleed?” asked Toby smilingly.

The boy shook his head, looking up over the stained handkerchief with an expression of sullen suspicion in his staring brown eyes.

“What’s the trouble then?” Toby took the vacant seat. “Let me have a look, won’t you?”

After a second of hesitation the boy removed the handkerchief, revealing a short but deep cut on his upper lip. It was bleeding profusely. Toby clucked sympathetically. “How’d you get it?” he asked.

“I was getting a drink back there,” muttered the boy, “when the train stopped. It threw me against the arm of a seat, I guess. Anyway, first thing I knew I was on the floor.” His tone was resentful and his look seemed to hold Toby to blame for the accident.

“Too bad,” said the latter kindly. “Got another handkerchief with you?” The boy shook his head. “I’ll lend you one, then. I’ll get it and wash the cut well. You step back to the water tank.”

Toby returned to his seat and dragged his suitcase from the pile. “Fellow’s got a nasty cut on his lip,” he explained. “Fell down when the train slowed up and hit on something.”

“What are you going to do?” inquired Frank. “Operate on him?”

“Find a handkerchief for him.”

“Who is he? One of our chaps?” asked Arnold.

“I don’t know. He may be. Doesn’t look it. Get your enormous feet out of the way. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“If you want any one to administer the ether——” suggested Frank.

Toby laughed and joined his patient by the rear door. There he gave the wound a thorough washing, while the boy scowled and grunted. Then, seeing that the sides of the cut ought to be brought together, he left the other with a folded handkerchief pressed to the wound and made his way forward to the baggage car. When he returned he had a roll of surgeon’s tape and a wad of absorbent cotton. The boy protested in his sullen way against further repairs, but Toby overruled him. “You don’t want a nasty scar there,” he said cheerfully. “You hold this cotton there until I get the tape ready. That’s it. All right now. Hold steady, now. I’m not hurting you. There! Now we’ll roll this cotton in the handkerchief and you can stop the blood with it. I don’t think it will bleed much longer. Have you got far to go?”

“Wissining,” muttered the boy.

“Oh, do you live in Wissining?”

“No, I’m going to school there,” answered the other resentfully. “I thought maybe you were, too.”

“Why, yes, I am. You must be a new boy then.”

The other nodded. “I’ve never seen the rotten place,” he said.

“Really?” asked Toby rather coldly. “Well, I hope you’ll like it better than you think.”

The boy stared back in his sullen fashion. “Shan’t,” he muttered. Toby shrugged.

“That’s up to you, I guess.” He nodded curtly and moved away, feeling relieved at the parting. But the boy stopped his steps.

“Say, what’ll I do with this handkerchief?” he asked.

“Oh, throw it away, please,” said Toby.

If he had done so this story might have been different.

CHAPTER II
NEW QUARTERS

At eight o’clock that evening, having reached Wissining only a little more than an hour late and done full justice to supper, Toby and Arnold were busily unpacking and setting things to rights in Number 12 Whitson, which, as those who know Yardley Hall School will remember, is the granite dormitory building facing southward, flanked on the west by the equally venerable Oxford Hall and on the east by the more modern Clarke. There were those who liked the old-time atmosphere of Whitson; its wooden stairways, its low ceilings, its deep window embrasures and wide seats; who even forgave many a lack of convenience for the sake of the somewhat dingy home-likeness. Perhaps, too, they liked to feel themselves heirs to the legends and associations that clustered about the building. On the other hand, there were scoffers dwelling more luxuriously in Clarke or Dudley or Merle who declared that the true reason for Whitson’s popularity was that the dining hall, known at Yardley as Commons, occupied the lower floor and that fellows living in the building consequently enjoyed an advantage over those dwelling in the other dormitories.

Not all the Whitson rooms were desirable, however. On the third floor, for instance, was one that Toby, when he looked about the comparative grandeur of Number 12, remembered without regrets. He had passed last year under its sloping roof in an atmosphere of benzine and cooking. The benzine odor was due to the fact that he had conducted a fairly remunerative business in cleaning and pressing clothes, the smell of cooking to the fact that the room’s one window was directly above the basement kitchen. This year the atmosphere promised to be sweeter, for Number 12 was on the front of the building, away from the kitchen, and Toby had retired from business.

There were moments when he viewed his retirement with alarm, for, although his father had assured him that sufficient money would be forthcoming to meet expenses if Toby managed carefully, he couldn’t quite forget that, should anything interrupt the prosperity of the boat-building business at home, there would be nothing to fall back on. But Arnold had made the abandoning of the cleaning and pressing industry a condition of his invitation to a share of Number 12. “Homer’s not coming back, Toby,” he had announced in August. (Homer Wilkins had been Arnold’s roommate the preceding year.) “I wish you’d come down to Number 12 with me. It won’t cost you much more than that cell up in Poverty Row; and that’s an awful dive, anyway. Of course, you can’t go on with that beastly, smelly clothes-cleaning stunt, but you weren’t going to anyway, were you? I mean, since your father’s business has picked up so this spring and summer you won’t have to, eh?”

Frankly, Toby had fully intended to. Being even partly self-supporting gives one a feeling of independence that one hates to lose. But Toby said nothing of that. He thought it over and, because he was very fond of Arnold, as Arnold was of him, and because Number 22 had been pretty bad at times, he yielded. This evening he was very glad that he had, as, pausing with a crumpled pair of trousers in his hand midway between his battered trunk and his closet, he viewed again the quiet comfort of the big square room. Wilkins had removed a few things, but they were not missed, and Arnold’s folks were sending down another chair and a small bookcase from New York for Toby’s use. A fellow ought, he reflected, to be very happy in such a place; and he felt renewed gratitude to Arnold for choosing him to share its comforts. Arnold might easily have picked one of several fellows as a roommate without surprising Toby: Frank, for instance. Arnold had known Frank longer than he had known Toby. Reflecting in such fashion, Toby remained immovable so long that Arnold, who had for the moment abandoned more important business to put together a new loose-leaf notebook under the mellow glow of the droplight on the big table, looked across curiously.

“What’s your difficulty, T. Tucker?” he asked. “Gone to sleep on your feet? Reaction, I suppose, after the near-trainwreck!”

“I was just thinking,” answered Toby slowly, “that this is an awfully jolly room and that it was mighty good of you to let me come in with you.”

“Well, the room’s all right. (How in the dickens does this thing catch?) I like it a heap better than those mission-furnished rooms in Clarke. Of course, next year I suppose I’ll try for Dudley, with the rest of the First Class fellows, although I don’t know about that, either. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll stick here. It’s getting a whole lot like home, Toby. But as for its being good for me to have you with me here, why, that’s sort of funny, T. Tucker. Guess you’re not the only one that’s—er—that’s benefited, what? Rather like it myself, if you must know. Homer and I got on pretty well, all things considered, but that was mainly because he’s too lazy to quarrel with you about anything. Personally, Toby, I like a row now and then. It sort of—clears the atmosphere, so to speak. That’s why I thought of you. You’ve got such a perfectly beastly disposition and such a rotten temper that I can have a scrap whenever I feel the need of it. So, you see, it was pure selfishness, after all, old thing.”

Toby smiled and went over to the closet with his burden. “We started with a scrap, anyway,” he said. “Remember it, Arn?”

“Perfectly. I intimated that your hair was sort of reddish and you didn’t like it. So you came at me like a cyclone and we both went into the harbor. I remember it perfectly. It started because you wanted twenty-four cents a gallon for some gasoline.”

“Twenty-two. You said you paid only twenty in New York.”

“Anyway, I offered you less than you asked, and you said you’d pump it out of the tank again, and——”

“Good thing I didn’t have to try it,” laughed Toby. “That was only a little over a year ago, Arn! Why, it seems years!”

“Much has happened since then, T. Tucker,” replied Arnold, tossing the notebook on the table. “Events have transpired. In the short space of—let me see; this is September—in the short space of fifteen months you were rescued from a living-death in the Johnstown High School and became a person of prominence at Yardley Hall!”

“Prominent as a cleaner and presser of clothes,” laughed Toby.

“Nay, nay, prominent as one swell hockey player, Toby, and also, if I mistake not, as a rescuer of drowning youths. Don’t forget you’re a hero, old thing. By the way, I wonder if young Lingard’s back. For your sake, I hope he isn’t. His gratitude to you for saving him from a watery death was a bit embarrassing to you, I thought!”

Toby smiled ruefully. “You didn’t think, you knew,” he said grimly. Arnold laughed.

“To see you slinking around a corner to evade the kid was killing, Toby! And he is such a little rotter, too! While you were rescuing, why didn’t you pull out something a little more select?”

“Oh, Tommy isn’t a bad sort really,” responded Toby earnestly. “He—he just didn’t get the right sort of bringing-up, I suppose.”

“Maybe. Personally, I always feel like taking him over my knee and wearing out a shingle on him! Well, this won’t get our things unpacked. Let’s knock off after a bit and see who’s back. Funny none of the gang has been in. Wonder if Fan’s back. And Ted Halliday.”

“I saw Fanning at supper,” said Toby.

“We’ll run over to Dudley after awhile and look him up. You like him, don’t you, Toby?”

“Fanning? Yes, but I don’t really know him as well as some of the other fellows. He’s football captain this year, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Arnold nodded and then frowned. “Sometimes I wish we’d elected some one else: Ted, maybe, or Jim Rose.”

“Why? I thought you liked Fanning a lot. And he was the whole thing last year in the Broadwood game, wasn’t he?”

“I do like him. He’s a mighty fine chap. And he’s a whale of a player. Only, what sort of a captain will he make? He’s too easy, to my way of thinking. He’s likely to fall for a lot of fellows who can’t play much just because they’re friends of his. I don’t mean that he will intentionally show favoritism, but he’s too plaguy loyal to his friends, Toby. To tell the truth, I’m half inclined to stay out of it this fall—No, that isn’t so, either. What I do mean is that I’m scared that Fan may keep me on even if I don’t really make good. And I’d hate that worse than poison. I want to make the team, but I don’t want fellows to wink and laugh and look wise about me. You know the sort of stuff: ‘Oh, Deering, ye-es, he’s all right. But it’s lucky for him Fanning’s a friend of his!’ That sort of guff. Of course, this new coach, Lyle, may be a chap with a mind of his own and not stand for any of the friend-of-my-youth stuff. I hope so. I’d feel better anyway. By the way, you haven’t changed your mind, Toby?”

“About football? No.”

“I wish you would. Why don’t you?”

“Lots of reasons,” answered Toby smilingly. “In the first place, I tried it last fall. In the sec——”

“You call that trying? You just went out with a whole mob of fellows and loafed around until they got tired of walking on you. Besides, you were out for the Second. The First’s a different proposition, son, especially now that you’ve made good in hockey. Every one knows that you’ll be hockey captain next year.”

“It’s more than I know,” said Toby good-naturedly. “Anyhow——”

“And you’re at least fifteen pounds heavier than a year ago. They said you were too light, didn’t they?”

“They meant in the head,” replied the other gravely.

“They were dead right, too! But, honest, old thing, joking aside——”

“Arn, I haven’t got time for football and I can’t afford it.”

“That’s what you said about hockey last winter. And you were so pressed for time that you copped a Ripley Scholarship! As for ‘affording’ it, where’s the expense come in?”

“Togs and things,” answered Toby. “And traveling expenses. Arn, if I went in for football and made the team—which I couldn’t do in a million years—I’d have to go back to sponging coats and pressing trousers, and that would make the room awfully smelly, and you wouldn’t like it a bit.” And Toby ended with a laugh.

“Piffle! All right, have your own stubborn way. You’ll miss a whole lot of fun, though.”

“And a whole lot of bruises! Anyway, Arn, one football hero is enough in a family. I’ll stay at home and cut surgeon’s plaster for you and keep your crutches handy and hear your alibis.”

“Idiot,” said Arnold. “Come on, dump that truck on the chair and let’s go over to Dudley. I want to hear some sensible conversation for a change.”

“You don’t mean you’re going to keep quiet all evening, do you?” asked Toby with concern.

CHAPTER III
SID OFFERS ADVICE

The school year began the next morning. Many new faces confronted Toby in the recitation rooms and some familiar ones were missing. Toby’s list of friends had not been a long one last year, although acquaintances had been many. It had been his first year at Yardley Hall, which fact, coupled with a fairly retiring disposition, had left him rather on the outside. It is always a handicap to enter school in a class below your friends, which is what Toby had done. Arnold and Frank, both a year older, had been in the Third, while Toby had gone into the Fourth. Consequently the fellows he had met through Arnold—Frank had not counted greatly as a friend last year—had few interests that were Toby’s. To be sure, in early spring, after he had made a success of hockey, things had been somewhat different. But even then he had remained a pretty insignificant person among the three hundred and odd that made up the student body of Yardley Hall School. Not that Toby cared or thought much about it. He was too busy getting through the year without calling on his father for further financial assistance to pay much attention to the gentle art of acquiring friends.

One friend, however, Toby had had, whether or no. That was Tommy Lingard, a Preparatory Class youngster, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed, shy and, in appearance, the soul of innocence. That he wasn’t as spotless as he looked has nothing to do with this story. Toby had saved Tommy from drowning, and thereafter the younger boy had attached himself to his benefactor like a shadow. It had been very embarrassing at times, for saving a person’s life does not necessarily imply that you want to spend the rest of your life in that person’s company! Toby didn’t like Tommy, for which there was a reason, but he couldn’t be brutal to him, and short of being brutal there had seemed no way of evading Tommy’s doglike devotion and his unwelcome companionship. It had become a joke to Arnold and a few others, but Toby found it far from that. When June had brought the end of the school year Toby couldn’t have told you whether he was more delighted at finishing an Honor Man in his class or at getting rid of Tommy Lingard!

He had returned this fall with a grim determination to be rid of the boy at any cost short of murder, but to-day, glancing uneasily about as he passed from one recitation to another, he was not so sure of himself. Probably, he reflected discouragedly, when Tommy appeared and got those big blue eyes on him he wouldn’t find it in his heart to be unkind to the youngster, and the whole wretched, tiresome program would begin all over again. Therefore when, hurrying from his last morning recitation at twelve, he almost bumped into Tommy on the steps of Oxford, he was at once amazed and relieved when that youth said, “Hello, Toby,” in a most embarrassed voice and sidled past. At the foot of the steps Toby stopped and looked back. Could that be Tommy? Of course it was, but it was a very different Tommy. He had shot up during the summer like a weed. His clothes looked too small for him, too short of leg and sleeve. He was thinner of body and face, the pink-and-white complexion had muddied, the blue eyes were no longer luminous with truth and innocence and the voice had dropped several notes to a ridiculous bass! In short, Tommy had changed very suddenly from a blue-eyed cherub to a commonplace and awkward boy. And Toby was very, very glad, so glad that he went the rest of the way to Whitson whistling at the top of his voice; or should I say at the top of his whistle?

“Just shows,” he reflected as he skipped up the stairs, “that it doesn’t pay to worry about anything that may happen, because maybe it won’t!”

After a two o’clock séance with “Old Tige,” by which name Mr. Gaddis, English instructor, was popularly known, Toby went with Arnold down to the athletic field. September had still a week to run and the afternoon was almost uncomfortably hot. Across the river, the wide expanse of salt marsh was still green in places, and overhead the sky was unflecked by clouds. Fortunately a little westerly breeze mitigated the heat. Most of the tennis courts were occupied, a group of baseball enthusiasts were congregated over by the batting net and on the blue surface of the curving stream a few bright-hued canoes were moving slowly upstream or down. Toby found himself almost wishing that he had chosen a dip in the Sound instead of an hour or more of unexciting observation of some fourscore overheated youths going through football practice. However, the new grandstand, finished during the summer, was roofed, and as soon as Arnold left him to his own devices Toby meant to climb up there into the shade and sprawl in comfort. On the way they passed new boys here and there—it was easy to detect them if only by their too evident desire to seem quite at home—and they agreed gravely, pessimistically that they were a rum looking lot, and wondered what the school was coming to! Old friends and acquaintances hailed them from a distance or stopped to chat. Arnold was rather a popular fellow and knew a bewildering multitude of his schoolmates.

“Seems mighty nice to be back again,” Arnold observed after one such meeting. “Bet you we’re going to have a dandy time this year, T. Tucker.”

“Maybe you will,” answered the other dubiously, “but I don’t expect to unless they drop Latin from the curriclumum—curric—well, whatever you call it.”

“Call it the course, old thing,” laughed Arnold. “It’s easier on the tongue. But I thought you finished strong with Latin last year.”

“I did pretty well in spring term, but it looks tougher this fall. And I’ve got Collins this year, and every one says he’s a heap stricter than Townsend.”

“Well, he is, I suppose, but he’s a mighty good teacher. You get ahead faster with Collins, I think. Anyway, it won’t look so bad when you’ve got into it, Toby. Besides, I dare say I can help you a bit now and then.”

“You,” jeered Toby with a very, very hollow laugh. “You’ll be so full of football for the next two months you won’t know I’m alive! A nice outlook for me, I don’t think! When I’m not bathing you with arsenic—or is it arnica?—or strapping your broken fragments together I’ll have to listen to you yapping about how it was you missed a tackle, or got your signals mixed. Arn, as a companion you’ll be just about as much use as a—a——”

“Don’t overtax that giant intellect of yours, old thing. It’s too hot. Wonder where the crowd is. You don’t suppose those fellows are all that are going to report?”

“It’s not three yet. Probably the rest of them preferred to stay sensibly in the shade while they had the chance. Wish I had! Arn, is that what’s-his-name over there?”

“No, that’s thingumbob. Whom do you mean?”

“The little man in the blue sweater-coat talking to Fanning. See him?”

“Yes. I guess it must be. Isn’t very big, is he? Fan said last night, though, that he talked a heap of sense. I’m going over. Come along and meet him.”

“No, thanks. I’ll wait here.”

Arnold left him by the corner of the old grandstand and made his way toward where the new coach was in conversation with Captain Fanning. Toby saw Fanning introduce Arnold to Mr. Lyle and saw the two shake hands. Then something broad and heavy smote him disconcertingly between his shoulders and he swung around to find Sid Creel’s grinning, moon-like countenance before him.

“Hello, Toby!” greeted Sid, reaching for his hand. “I had a beastly fright. Just when I was lamming you I thought maybe it wasn’t you after all. You’ve sort of thickened up since last year. Rather embarrassing to find you’ve whacked a total stranger on the back, eh? Much obliged to you for being you, Toby. I’ll never forget it. What sort of a summer did you have? You’re looking hard as nails and more beautiful than ever!”

“Same to you, Sid. Are you going out for football?” Toby glanced at the other’s togs.

“No,” replied Sid gravely. “I’m going to tea at the Doctor’s.”

“Well,” laughed Toby, “that was sort of a fool question, but I didn’t know you were a football shark.”

“I’m not; I’m just a minnow. I’m trying for the Second. I always do. I’ve been trying for the Second Team for years and years. If I’m not here they postpone until next day. I should think you’d go in for the game, Toby. Ever tried it?”

“A little. I was out for the Second last fall, but I didn’t stay long.”

“That so? I don’t remember seeing you.”

“Funny, Sid; there were only about eighty of us the first day!”

“Well, I didn’t know you then, Toby. Why don’t you try again? Didn’t you like it?”

“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t have time to find out whether I did or didn’t. They said I was too light and fired me after three or four days.”

“Well, you certainly have enough weight now. Come on and join the goats. It’s lots of fun. You get action, son, and it lets you out of gymnasium work while you’re at it. That’s something! Come on!”

Toby smiled and shook his head. “Guess not, thanks. I never would make a football player.”

“You? You’re just the kind, Toby. You’re quick and you’ve got a good head, and you’re built right, too. Wish I had your build. Only thing I’m good for is center or, maybe, guard. I’m too bulky. It isn’t all fat, though, believe thou me. Feel them here biceps, son, if you doubt my word.”

“I kind of envied you your fat—I mean your muscular bulk, Sid—last winter,” answered Toby. “You could fall flat on the ice without hurting yourself. You just kind of bounced up and down a few times and didn’t mind it. When I fell I felt it!”

“Never mind about me bouncing,” said Sid good-naturedly, with a grin. “I got around the ice a heap faster than some of the chaps at that. But about football, Toby——”

“I haven’t got time for it, Sid; that’s another thing. I’ve got to put my nose to the grindstone, I guess, this year.”

“Well, haven’t I? Rather! But football won’t cut in on studying—much. Anyway, a fellow studies better for being out-of-doors and getting plenty of exercise and——”

“Yes, but I can be outdoors without playing football, Sid.”

“Gee, you’re the original little Excuse-Me! Well so be it. After all, some one’s got to stay out of it and be audience, and from the looks of things right now, Toby, you’re the only fellow left to sit in the grandstand and cheer us on to victory. Look at the gang coming down! There’s a fellow I want to see. So long! Better change your mind, though!”

Arnold came back for a minute and then left in answer to the plaintive squawking of a horn from farther along the side of the field. Fully eighty youths of assorted ages and sizes gathered about the new coach and the hubbub was stilled as the small man in the blue knitted jacket began to speak. Toby could hear an occasional word, but not enough to make sense, and, since it was no concern of his, he turned toward the grandstand and climbed up into the grateful shade. Forty or fifty others had already scattered themselves about the seats in couples or groups, most of them munching peanuts or popcorn bars, ready to be amused if amusement required no exertion on their parts. A lazy way to spend a perfectly good afternoon, reflected Toby. He wished he hadn’t let Arnold persuade him to come, but, being here, he lacked energy for the hot uphill walk back to the dormitory. He would stay awhile, he told himself; at least until the afternoon had cooled a little.

There was a salvo of polite handclapping from the group within sound of the coach’s voice and it broke up. Andy Ryan, the trainer, emptied a canvas bag of trickling footballs and they were pounced on and borne away to various parts of the field. The big group became half a dozen smaller ones. It was only “kindergarten stuff” to-day, even for the veterans; passing and falling and starting; not very interesting from the viewpoint of candidate or audience. Toby located Arnold working with a squad under big Jim Rose. Arn was, as Toby knew, pretty soft after a fairly lazy summer, and the boy in the shade of the big stand smiled unfeelingly as he saw his chum straighten himself slowly in deference to protesting muscles.

“He will be good and sore to-night,” thought Toby. “Sailing a boat all summer doesn’t keep a football man in very good trim, I guess!”

After that he lost interest in the scene before him, and, his somewhat battered straw hat on one knee and the lazy breeze drying his damp hair, let his thoughts carry him back to Greenhaven and the folks in the little white cottage on Harbor Road. It would be very pleasant there to-day on the vine-shaded steps, with the harbor and the white sails before him and the cheery click-clock of the caulking iron and mallet and the busy pip-pup, pip-pup of the gasoline engine sounding across from the boat yard. Better still, though, would it be to lie in the stern of a boat, main-sheet in hand, and slip merrily out past the island to where, even to-day, the white-caps would be dancing on the sunlit surface of the bay. He was getting the least bit homesick when the sound of approaching steps brought his wandering thoughts back. Climbing the aisle was a somewhat thin, carelessly dressed youth. His head was bent and so Toby couldn’t see his face well, but there was something dimly familiar about the figure. Toby wondered why, with several hundred empty seats to choose from, the boy, whoever he was, had to come stamping up here. He sighed and changed his position and was relapsing into his thoughts again when he saw to his annoyance that the approaching youth had stopped at the end of his row, two seats distant. Toby’s gaze lifted curiously to the boy’s face. Perhaps it was more the two strips of rather soiled surgeon’s plaster adorning the chap’s upper lip than the features that led Toby to recognize him. Mentally, Toby groaned. Aloud, trying to make his voice sound decently friendly, he said: “Hello! Well, how’s it going?”

CHAPTER IV
G. W. TUBB

“Hello,” answered the other gruffly.

To Toby’s further annoyance he slid into the end seat, as he did so producing a folded but rather crumpled handkerchief from a pocket. This he held across to Toby.

“’Tain’t very clean,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.”

“What is it?” asked Toby, accepting it doubtfully. “Oh, I see; my handkerchief. You needn’t have bothered. I told you to throw it away. Still, much obliged.” It had quite evidently been washed by the boy himself and ironed by the simple expedient of laying it while wet on some smooth surface, perhaps a windowpane. Faint brownish stains had defied the efforts of the amateur laundryman. Toby dropped it into a pocket, aware of the close and apparently hostile stare of the other. “Much obliged,” he repeated vaguely, for want of anything better to say.

“’At’s all right,” answered the other. “Too good a handkerchief to throw away.” An awkward silence followed. Toby wished the youth would take himself off, but that idea was apparently far from the latter’s mind. Instead, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, stretched his thin legs before him and scowled down at the busy scene. He looked to be about fifteen, Toby thought. His features were not bad in themselves, but his expression was sullen and dissatisfied and his complexion was too much the color of putty to be pleasant to look at. Also, his skin didn’t seem clean and healthy. The same was true of the youth as a whole. Toby thought a thorough application of hot water and soap would improve him a whole lot, at least externally. His clothes were of good enough material and fairly new. But they were full of creases and needed brushing. His shoes were scratched at the toes and would have been better for dressing and polishing. His collar was cleaner than yesterday, but creased and rumpled, and the blue four-in-hand scarf needed tightening. On the whole, this chap was not a prepossessing member of Yardley Hall society, and Toby had no desire to increase the acquaintance. But so long as he was here some sort of conversation seemed in order, and so, breaking the silence:

“How’s the cut getting on?” Toby asked.

“All right,” the other answered without turning his head. Then: “Say,” he challenged.

“Yes?”

“Your name’s Tucker, ain’t it?”

“Yes. What’s yours, by the way?” Toby was sorry he had asked as soon as the question was out.

“Tubb,” was the answer, “George Tubb.” There was a pause. Then, defiantly: “Middle name’s William. Go on and say it!”

“Say it? Why, George William Tubb,” responded Toby obligingly.

The other turned and viewed him suspiciously. Then he grunted. “Guess you don’t get it,” he muttered. “George W. Tubb, see?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” answered Toby indifferently.

“You would if you saw it written,” said Mr. Tubb gloomily. “Everybody does.” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “‘What’s the W. stand for? Wash?’ Gee, I’m sick of it. I tried to tell the guy in the office where you get registered that my middle name was Harris, but he said it couldn’t be that and begin with W. It’ll be W. in the catalogue, so you might as well know it now. Well, I’ve been ‘Wash-tub’ ever since I was a foot high, so I guess it don’t matter here!”

“What’s the difference?” asked Toby. “One nickname’s as good as another, isn’t it? Names don’t matter.”

“Some don’t. I suppose they call you ‘Red’ or ‘Carrot’ or something like that. I wouldn’t mind——”

“Hold on, Tubb!” Toby’s voice dropped a note. “No one calls me what you said. Some fellows have tried to, but they changed their minds. Understand?”

Tubb grinned. “Don’t like it, eh? Thought you said names didn’t matter! Well, I don’t like my nickname any more than you like yours; I mean what fellows started to call you.” The grin faded and Tubb’s countenance became overcast again with the settled expression of sullenness. “Anyway, what they call me here doesn’t cut any ice. I won’t be here long.”

“How’s that?” asked Toby, trying to make his question sound politely interested.

“I’m going to beat it. This ain’t any kind of a school for me, Tucker. Gee, what would I do here? Look at the gang of highbrows and mamma’s darlings! They’d stand for me about two days. I know the sort. Some of ’em come to our town in summer. Think they ever have anything to do with us town guys? Not on your life! We’re too common for ’em, the dear little Willie Boys!”

“Why did you come here then?” asked Toby coldly.

“It was Pop’s idea,” replied Tubb. “Aunt Sarah died last spring out in Michigan and she left Pop some money. The will said some of it was to go for my schooling. I wanted to go to Huckins’s, in Logansport. Know it? It’s an all-right school and two or three fellows from my town go there. It don’t cost much, either. But Pop was set on this dive. About ten years ago Pop was in partnership with a man named Mullins in the logging business, and this Mullins had a boy who went to school here. Pop thought a lot of the Mullinses, and when he learned about Aunt Sarah’s will he said right off I was to go here. He got the high school principal to coach me all summer. I kept telling him I wouldn’t like it here, kept telling him it wasn’t any place for a storekeeper’s son, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he’d lick the hide off me if I didn’t pass the examinations, and I knew he would. So I passed. He’ll lick me if I go back home, too, so I’ve got to go and get me a job somewhere. Guess I’ll enlist in the Navy. I’ll tell ’em I’m seventeen. They don’t care. I know a fellow got in when he was a couple of months younger than I am.”

Toby viewed Tubb distastefully during a brief silence. Then: “Seems to me,” he said slowly and emphatically, “the Navy is just the place for you, Tubb!”

“Sure,” began the other. Then something in Toby’s tone made him pause and view the other suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“Just what I said. What you need is discipline, Tubb, and a whole lot of it, and you’ll get it in the Navy. And I wish them joy of you!” Toby arose and crowded past to the aisle.

“Ah, go to thunder!” snarled Tubb. “You’re like all the rest of them, ain’t you? Silk-sox! Who cares what you think? Say, I hope you ain’t caught anything, sitting alongside me like that!”

There was more, but Toby didn’t hear it. Going down the aisle he was uncomfortably conscious of the curious looks bent on him by the occupants of the nearer seats who had been aroused from their sleepy occupation of following the practice by Tubb’s strident voice. He was glad when he had reached the ground and turned the corner of the stand. Passing between the busy tennis courts, he reflected that befriending strangers didn’t work out very satisfactorily for him. After this, he decided, smiling whimsically, fellows might drown or be cut to pieces for all the help he would offer!

Just before supper, when Arnold came back to Number 12, a trifle washed-out looking and not moving very spryly, Toby narrated the outcome of the incident in the train. By this time he was able to tell of the meeting with George W. Tubb with a touch of humor and Arnold listened amusedly, stretched at length on the window-seat.

“You’re right, Toby, the Navy’s just the place for friend Tubbs.”

“Tubb,” corrected Toby. “There’s only one of him, praise be!”

“We’re getting some strange freaks here of late, anyway,” reflected Arnold. “There were several on the field this afternoon. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world—or a football team! Say, T. Tucker, the new coach is a peach. Fan’s crazy about him, and so are the others. Did you hear the song-and-dance he gave us before practice? Some sane and sensible little speech, that was.”

“What did he say?” asked Toby.

“We-ell,” Arnold hesitated, “I don’t know that he said anything much different from what all coaches say at the start of the season. It was more the way he said it, I guess. Of course he insisted rather painfully on hard work, and told us what a fine, intelligent-looking lot we were.”

“Must be nearsighted,” murmured Toby.

“And said something nice about Fan. Oh, it was much the usual speech, only—well, it did sound different, somehow. One thing he did say, though, T. Tucker, may interest you.”

“You may proceed, Mr. Deering.”

“He said he wanted every fellow in school who had the possible making of a football player in him to report not later than Monday, and that if they didn’t volunteer he’d draft them! That ought to give you something to think about, old thing.”

“Meaning that I have somewhere concealed about me the making of a football player?” asked Toby.

“Exactly. You’d better keep out of Lyle’s way or he will grab you.”

After a moment Toby, who had armed himself with towel and soap-dish preparatory to a trip to the lavatory, moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “He can’t draft me, Arn,” he said.

“Why can’t he, I’d like to know?”

“Because I’m going out for the Second to-morrow.”

“What! Honest? When—How——”

But Toby had closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER V
WITH THE SECOND

Of recent years the custom of having separate organizations for the First and Second Teams from the very outset of the season had obtained at Yardley. In the old days the Second was made up, perhaps a fortnight after the school year had started, of players who were not needed on the First and those who, for one reason or another, were ineligible for it. As a result, the Second as an adversary for the First, or School, Team, never amounted to much until the season was half gone. Under the new system the Second came into being two or three days after the start of the fall term, with a coaching staff, small but sufficient, of its own, a captain elected the preceding year and a general organization similar to that of the First save as to size. The coach was inevitably some enthusiastic and patriotic fellow who had recently graduated and who gave his services free. At times—whenever possible, in fact—he summoned other graduates to his assistance. If he was a wise coach, he never had more than one assistant at a time. If he was unwise, he had—and chaos reigned.

This year the coach was Mr. Burtis. Burtis had, in his time, been a remarkable half-back and an equally remarkable kicker, both in preparatory school and college. He had left college last spring and was, consequently, but twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. Because Yardley Hall history accorded him much fame as a player and leader, a great deal was expected of him. Toby’s first look at Kendall Burtis produced more surprise than anything else. He found himself wondering how any man could be as utterly homely as the coach and yet look as attractive, how any one could have so many angles in his body and yet be so free from awkwardness! Burtis was rather large, ruggedly built, square of frame. His mouth was broad, his nose somewhat pug, his hair nondescript in hue. Yet in spite of these things the face was pleasing and attractive. Perhaps the very dark gray eyes, clear and steady and honest, were accountable. Or it may be that the mouth expressed kindliness. At all events, after that first instant of surprise and confusion, Toby liked the new coach immensely. Whether the new coach liked Toby I can’t say. It is quite probable that he didn’t see him, for Toby was only one of some forty-eight fellows drawn up in a group on the edge of the second diamond that Saturday afternoon.

Toby wondered what words of wisdom would fall from that generously-proportioned mouth, and he craned his head over Sid Creel’s shoulder that he might hear them all. What he did hear and see were hardly worth the exertion. Coach Burtis, a new football snuggled in his left elbow and his right hand thrust into a pocket of an old pair of gray trousers, looked pleasantly over the little throng for a moment. Then: “Well,” he said genially. “It looks like we had material for a good team here. Let’s get busy!”

That was all. Toby felt a trifle neglected and disappointed. But he had to acknowledge that perhaps getting busy was as important as listening to a speech. After that, for more than an hour and a half, he had very little opportunity for feeling neglected. There were moments when he wished he might. Coach and captain were both believers in hard work, and both buckled down resolutely to the task ahead of them. More than half the material was inexperienced, much of what remained was useless, and only some twelve or fourteen candidates combined experience with ability. To-day’s work was the veriest drudgery, and, although occasional halts were called, yet the September sun did unkind things to many. Toby, rather to his surprise, discovered that he was not nearly so hard and fit as he had thought. After ten minutes of passing and falling, he perspired from every pore, and ere the afternoon’s practice was finished, he felt very much like a wet rag. Also, he had somehow managed to develop a painful crick in his left shoulder, close to his neck. And the muscles in the backs of his legs felt as if some one had pounded them with a board. On the whole, he was far less enthusiastic than he had been at three o’clock, and even the shower failed of much reaction. Dragging a tired body from the gymnasium across the yard to Whitson, he wondered by just what mental process he had the day before arrived at the decision to play football!

As a matter of fact, there had been, so far as he could recall, no mental process at all. Arnold had threatened him with the First Team draft and almost without reflection he had announced that he was going out for the Second! Ten minutes before, or even three, he had had no more idea of a football career than he had had of jumping from the window. Well, reflected Toby ruefully, it just showed that you couldn’t be too careful of impulses!

He supposed that Sid Creel was mainly responsible for these aching muscles. He had resolutely refused to be persuaded by Sid’s arguments, and yet, apparently, he had been! Or else he had done it just to surprise Arnold. Maybe that was it. If it was, it was a mighty poor reason! Any amount of surprise on the part of Arnold wasn’t worth the soreness of those leg muscles! He groaned as he started up the stairs, but nearing the door of Number 12, he assumed a carefree and nonchalant air designed to deceive Arnold in case that youth was within.

He wasn’t, though, and Toby was thankful. It gave him a chance to lie down on the window seat, groaning as much as he pleased while doing it, without arousing curiosity. He dropped his cap—he had put by the straw hat—on the nearest object and divested himself of an unnecessary coat. It was while he was getting rid of the latter article of apparel that his eyes fell on an envelope propped against the base of the droplight on his side of the table. It bore his name in funny up-and-down characters, like the writing of a boy of ten, and the postmark showed that it was mailed in Wissining that morning. Of course, it might be only an invitation to deal at one of the few local stores, but there was evidence against that premise; such as the lack of any address in the corner, the queer writing and a brownish smudge along the flap suggesting that unclean hands had sealed the envelope. He bore it to the window seat, settled himself cautiously against the pile of cushions, stretched his aching legs out and tore open the letter. A single sheet of blue-ruled paper emerged. Toby read it frowningly.

Dear Tucker: I’m sorry for what I said this afternoon. I didn’t mean it because you are the only fellow at this place who has been decent towards me since I came here. I got mad and I wish I hadn’t and I’m sorry. I wish you’d forgive me, please, Tucker. I guess what you said was true about the Navy, I mean, and maybe I’ll do like I said. Every one here shows plain that I am not wanted at this school and I guess the sooner I beat it the better. If more fellows were like you maybe I could stick it out. I am not afraid of the studies. It is not that, but the fellows here are not my kind I suppose. You are not either, but you acted like you did not think much about that. I am just writing this because you were decent to me in the train that day, more than any other fellow has been, and I do not want you to think I am no good at all, with no gratitude. If I do not see you again, good-by and good luck, from Yours Truly, Geo. W. Tubb.

Toward the end of the queer epistle Toby’s frown disappeared, and when he had read it once he read it again. After that he laid it down and looked out over the woods below the railroad cut, at the foot of the Prospect, and so to the blue expanse of Long Island Sound. A sail boat dipped slowly along the shore and afar out a cocky tug was leading a draggled parade of three coal barges. Presently the frown crept back again, and he lifted the letter, folded it and put it back in its envelope.

“Suppose I ought to answer it,” he thought, “only, what can I say? Tell him I don’t mind what he said, I suppose, although it happens that I do mind. At least, I ought to. He’s a very objectionable, soggy-minded, unclean fellow, and I don’t want any more to do with him. Still, that doesn’t say that he isn’t having a horribly messy time here. Of course fellows don’t take to him. He looks dirty and bad-tempered and he talks worse than he looks. He doesn’t belong here. Seems to realize it, too. Shows he has some sense, doesn’t it? Well, I didn’t say he didn’t have sense. Trouble with him is he’s been left to do as he likes too much, I guess. Bet you I know that father of his. Severe as anything when things go wrong, and the rest of the time doesn’t pay any attention to the kid. He didn’t say anything about a mother or brothers or sisters. Probably there’s just the two of them in one of those mean little towns where nothing ever happens that’s worth while. Bet you there isn’t even a movie theater there! Dad puts out the lamp at nine o’clock and goes to bed and the kid has to go, too, and the only way he can have any excitement is to sneak down the rain-spout and get into mischief! Oh, well, it’s no affair of mine. Still, I am sort of sorry for Tubb. ‘Washtub.’ Beastly nickname! Wonder who his adviser is. Probably hasn’t been near him, and would only growl and be ugly if he went. Best thing can happen to George W. Tubb is to seek pastures new.”

Toby yawned and closed his eyes. The faint breath of cool evening air that blew in through the open window beside him made him feel very sleepy. He would write a couple of lines to Tibb—no, Tubb—after supper. Tell him it’s all right, and——

Toby fell asleep.

Ten minutes later he dreamed that he was falling down innumerable flights of stairs, bounding from one to another with ever increasing momentum. He didn’t seem concerned about the process of falling, but he knew that when he reached the bottom, if he ever did, there would be an awful smash! In case there shouldn’t be enough left of him to groan then, maybe he had better do it now. So he did, quite frightfully. And opened his eyes to find Arnold and Frank tugging at him and laughing.

“Wake up, Toby! It isn’t true!”

“N-no,” agreed Toby doubtfully. “But—I’m glad you stopped me before I got to the bottom!”

“Nightmare?” asked Frank. “I have it sometimes. Get a move on. We’re going to get supper early and beat it over to Greenburg for the first house at the movies.”

“I don’t see any use in my spending good money to see movies,” demurred Toby, sitting up sleepily, “when all I’ve got to do is go to sleep and have movies of my own!”

Arnold grinned. “How did practice go?” he asked significantly.

“Fine.” Toby was quite cheerful and nonchalant. “Made me sleepy, though, I guess.”

“Hope you’re not tired or lame or anything like that? You had such a lot of fun ragging me yesterday, you know. Too bad if you—er——”

“Me? Oh, well, it was pretty warm, of course, but when you’re in good hard condition——”

“What’s the matter?” asked Arnold, grinning.

“Matter? Why?”

“I thought you made a face when you stood up. My mistake, of course!”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” declared Toby with great dignity. “If you think that a little football practice—ouch! Gee!” He sat down again on the window seat and rubbed his back ruefully, while the others laughed with wicked glee.

“It won’t do, old thing! There’s no use stalling. You’re as bad as I was yesterday, when you had the beautiful cheek to sit there and read me a lecture on not keeping fit! Where does it hurt worst?”

“All over,” groaned Toby. “I’ll be all right after I move around a while, though. That’s one advantage of being in fine physical condition: you may get a bit lame but you get right over it!”

“Isn’t he the wonderful bluffer?” asked Arnold admiringly to Frank. “Well, go ahead and move around, old thing. It’s five minutes of, and we want to get over there before seven.”

“Tell me one thing first,” begged Toby, squirming about from his waist up. “Do they have cushions on the seats at the movie house?”

“Oh, yes, and they’ll give you a couple of pillows at the ticket office if you ask for ’em,” answered Frank. “Hustle now!”

“What you tell me sounds perfectly beautiful,” said Toby sadly, “but I’m afraid it isn’t true.”

Thereupon Arnold thrust towel and soap into his hands, Frank held the door open and between them they pushed him, groaning and remonstrating, into the corridor and headed him toward the lavatory.

“It’s really an awful joke on him,” chuckled Arnold as Toby’s lagging footsteps receded down the hall. “He thought he was as hard as nails, and had a fine time crowing over me yesterday. Said it took more than sailing a boat to keep a fellow in shape!”

“I guess the only way to keep fit enough for football,” said Frank, feelingly, “is to chop trees all summer. I was just about all in last night. How did you manage to persuade him to take up football, anyway, Arn? I thought he was dead set against it.”

“So did I. I didn’t persuade him. I don’t know who did—or what! He sprung it on me suddenly yesterday. I’m glad, though. I think there’s a good football player in Toby, Frank.”

CHAPTER VI
SIGNALS

Although Toby was back in Whitson before nine that evening, it is needless to say that the note he had promised himself to write to George Tubb did not get written. In fact Toby forgot all about it until the next morning, when Arnold found Tubb’s letter on the floor and asked Toby if it was anything he wanted to keep.

“No, throw it in the basket,” answered Toby. “Hold on, though! Guess I’ll keep it. I’ve got to answer it to-day. Stick it on the table, Arn.”

Later it got buried under a book and so during the course of a busy day or two Toby again forgot it. He might have remembered it on Sunday, which, as at every preparatory school in the land, was the recognized letter-writing day of the week at Yardley, but he didn’t. He wrote to his folks in the afternoon until Arn, who never spent much time on his correspondence, dragged him away to the river and a certain shining blue canoe. Then he finished the epistle in the evening just before bedtime, and retired with a fine feeling of duty performed. Monday witnessed a change in temperature. There was a light frost on the ground when Toby and Arnold hurried over to chapel, and, although the middle of the day was bright and warm, by the time practice began on the gridirons there was enough nip in the air to make work with the pigskin more agreeable.

Toby found himself on a squad of fellows of much his own age and football experience—or lack of it. It didn’t seem to him that he showed much promise of ever being better than a dub at the game, and while he did rather enjoy the work, he was not vastly concerned over the prospect of being dropped. He had been dropped very promptly last fall, and he expected a similar fate this season. Of course, he was heavier now than then, but he guessed football required something more than weight of a fellow. Sid Creel was playing center on another squad in signal drill that Monday afternoon, so far as Toby could discern, conducting himself in a highly meritorious fashion. Sid had weight and, apparently, ability, and Toby decided that this year his good-natured perseverance was to be rewarded.

After three quarters of an hour of “baby-play” the Second Team candidates were summoned to the bench and Coach Burtis announced the first scrimmage. “Who have we for center on B Team, Harris?” he asked the trainer.

“Center? Well, there’s Galvin and that tow-headed chap over there, Coach. And Creel. Creel’s got the build, all right. Want to try him?”

“Yes. And Burnett and Hodgson for guards. And—what’s your name, you chap?”

“Thorson, sir.”

“Well, Thorson, you take left tackle on B. I want another tackle now. Who wants to play tackle? All right, I’ll take you: the fellow in the green sweater. Now, a couple of ends, Harris. Yes, they’ll do. Burns at quarter. Come on, Burns! And Folwell and——”

“Nelson’s played half, Mr. Burtis,” suggested Grover Beech.

“I want him on A Team. Who else is there? Fosdick? All right. And that fellow down there, whatever his name is, for full-back. All right, get out there, fellows! You referee, Harris, please. I’ll be ump. I want all the rest of you chaps to follow the play closely and learn all you can. We’ll play two ten-minute periods, Harris. Team A takes the ball and north goal. Now then, let’s see what you fellows know about the game!”

At first it didn’t seem that they knew very much, for signals went wrong, fumble followed fumble and the players became occasionally so inextricably mixed up that scrimmage had to be halted while they were disentangled. But Coach Burtis, alternately umpire and critic, was possessed of a vast patience, and toward the last of the first ten minutes things went better. Team A worked down to the opponent’s twelve yards and would have scored if the line had held. But a B Team tackle trickled through and laid White on his back before he was well started on a wide run, and after that Frick, quarter-back on the attacking side, missed a try-at-goal by many yards.

A five-minute rest followed, during which the coach and the trainer and Grover Beech lectured and criticized, and then, with many changes in each line-up, the scrimmage began again. Toby still decorated a bench, looking rather colorful with his red thatch obtruding from a blue blanket. Toby had dutifully watched the efforts of the players, but it cannot be truthfully said that he learned much. Perhaps he was too attentive to the performance and fortunes of Sid Creel at center on Team B. Sid appeared to be playing his position rather well, Toby thought, although he didn’t pretend to be anything of a judge. At least, Sid lasted longer than most fellows of his team, returning breathless to the bench only when the last period was more than half over. He squirmed into a place beside Toby, pulling a blanket about his broad shoulders.

“I guess he didn’t have much on me,” Sid panted, “if he is ten pounds heavier!”

“Who?” asked Toby.

“Watson. He didn’t get past me once, and I turned him twice. Did you notice?”

“Who’s Watson? Their center?”

“Yes. If they’d given us a couple of decent guards we’d have put it all over that bunch. Burnett isn’t so bad, but Hodgson laid down every time any one looked at him! You didn’t get in, did you? What are you trying for?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering, Sid.”

“I mean what position.”

“How do I know? End, I suppose. Or half. Search me!”

“Well, you’d better make up your mind. When Coach yells for an end the next time, sing out and race on there. That’s the only way you’ll get a chance. Beat the other fellow to it, Toby.”

“I’d be afraid he’d take me,” answered Toby dryly. “I don’t know any more about playing end than—than you do center!”

Sid grinned. “You watch me, Toby. I’m going to fade Watson before this season’s much older, my child. Honest, I really believe I’ve got a chance to stick this year. Of course, it’s a bit early yet, but——”

“What’s he yelling?” interrupted Toby. Play had paused, a youth was limping to the side-line and Coach Burtis was shouting toward the bench.

“Quarter,” said Sid. He looked left and right along the benches. Here and there a player squirmed indecisively but none appeared to have enough courage to offer his services. “Guess all the quarters are used up,” mused Sid.

Trainer Harris added his voice to the coach’s. “Aren’t there any quarter-backs over there? Get a move on, somebody! Any of you!”

“Coming!” shouted Toby, throwing aside his blanket and jumping to his feet.

“He said quarter, you idiot!” hissed Sid. “You aren’t a quarter!”

“How do you know?” laughed Toby. “I don’t!”

“All right, this way,” greeted the Coach, as Toby raced on. “What’s the name?”

“Tucker, sir.”

“Ever played quarter, Tucker?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then what the mischief——”

“Trainer said any of us, sir.”

Mr. Burtis frowned, smiled and nodded shortly. “Go ahead then. Let’s see what you can do. Know the signals?”

“Yes, sir.” Toby was pretty certain that he had forgotten them, but it wouldn’t do to say so! Turning, he caught the amused smile of Captain Beech. Toby dropped the lid of his left eye gravely and stepped to position behind center.

“Look what you’re doing, Tucker,” warned the coach. “Third down and four to go.” There was amusement in his tone and Toby flushed. Third down and four, he thought hurriedly. That meant that a line play wasn’t the thing. What was, then? He hesitated and glanced doubtfully at the backs. The trainer blew his whistle. Something had to be done and done quickly. If B Team hadn’t been having luck with A’s line there was no use trying to get four yards between tackles, even on a third down. The teams were near the middle of the field, and A had three men back, evidently expecting an open play. Then why not——

“14—23—8——” Toby’s voice sounded very weak and small to Toby. “14—23——”

“Signals! Signals!” The whole back-field was remonstrating, it seemed! His heart sank. He had got his signals wrong! But how? No, he was right. It was the others who were wrong!

“Signals!” he cried, scowling at the nearer of the three backs behind him. “14—27—8—196——”

The team awoke to action. Full-back dashed headlong upon him, took the pass and went, twisting and boring, into the mêlée. Toby threw himself behind, triumphant. His signals had been right, just as he had known! (It wasn’t until after practice was over that he learned that he had changed them the second time!) The play went through for well over three yards, the unfeasible for once proving feasible, and B Team exulted and looked approval at Toby. Toby tried to be modest about it, which, considering that he had called for the play in sheer desperation, not remembering at the moment anything else to call for, wasn’t hard! Some one, too, had walked on his face, and that helped him toward humility.

Realizing that he had established a reputation for generalship, Toby tried hard to live up to it, but although B did not get the necessary eighteen inches or so on the next down, the succeeding play failed dismally and B lost nearly all she had gained. Toby tried to assure himself that the fault was the right half-back’s, but something told him that an end run from balanced formation was predestined to fail and that another time he would remember that there was such thing as a shift! Perhaps he would have vindicated the reputation gained from his first lucky play if the scrimmage hadn’t ended then and there; or perhaps he would have become exposed for the impostor he knew himself to be. At all events, Toby welcomed the whistle heartily.

Afterwards, in the gymnasium, Grover Beech detained him on his way from the shower. “Snappy work, Tucker,” he said, smilingly. “Glad to see you with us.”

Toby reflected the other’s smile in somewhat sickly fashion. “Thanks,” he answered lamely. “Of course, I didn’t know anything about playing quarter, Beech——”

“Well, you got away with it, anyway! That’s the main thing. And that plunge at guard when we were looking for a pass was clever strategy.” There was a twinkle in his eye, however. Toby’s smile broadened.

“Have a heart!” he begged. “I didn’t know whether that play was going to right or left, Beech!”

“Well, I’m glad it went to the right,” laughed the Second Team captain, “for if it had come my way I’d have been just as unready for it as Weld was! Going to try for quarter, Tucker?”

“Gee, no! I’ve had all I want of it, thanks. I just did it as a sort of joke. I’m no football player, Beech, and you’ll miss my shining countenance in a day or two.”

“Oh, I hope not,” answered the other. “Better stick it out.”

“And you will, if I have my say,” he added to himself as Toby went off.

CHAPTER VII
TOBY MAKES A CALL

That evening Tubb’s letter fell to the floor when Toby moved a book on the study table, and Toby, with a qualm of conscience, rescued it and re-read it, a perplexed frown on his countenance. Then he drew a pad of paper toward him and poised his pen above it. But that is as far as he got. After a minute of thought he put the pen down and resolutely, if reluctantly, pushed back his chair. “How late is the office open, Arn?” he asked.

“Eight, I think,” replied his roommate, without raising his eyes from his work. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I—just want to find out where some one lives. Back after a bit.”

Toby made his way downstairs and followed the walk to Oxford. At the end of the corridor the ground-glass panel marked “Office” still glowed with light, and when Toby pushed it open, Mr. Forisher, the secretary, was still at work beyond the railing. Toby made known his wants and the secretary silently pointed with his pen toward a list tacked to a board beside the door. The names of the students were there, arranged alphabetically, and Toby found the T’s and went down the list: Tolliver, Tooker, Traine, Tubb, Tucker——

“Whoa!” murmured Toby. “‘Tubb, G. W., Fremont, N. H., 4 C., W. 31.’ What do you know? Right over my head! That’s the room Felter and Dunphy had last year. He and I are side by side on the list. Hope that isn’t a what-you-call-it—omen!” He retraced his steps to Whitson and ascended two flights of worn stairs. The upper corridor awakened memories, some pleasant, some otherwise. As ever, it was but dimly lighted by a single gas-jet near the head of the stairs, and its farther ends were pockets of gloom. For some reason electricity as a lighting method had never penetrated to Whitson, although the other buildings had it. Toby glanced toward the door of his old room ere he turned his back to it and made his way along the rough boards of the hall. Number 31 was on the front of the building, about halfway between stair-well and corridor end. It was too dark to read the single card thumb-tacked to the portal and Toby knocked instead. There was a noticeable interim of silence before a voice that was strange to the caller called an ungracious “Come in!”

Toby accepted the invitation. The only light in the room came from the green-shaded droplight on the littered table directly before the door, and its radius was small, leaving most of the room in shadow. For a moment Toby thought he had imagined the voice and that the room was empty. Then, however, his eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom, he saw a blur of white and gray beyond the table that gradually evolved into the form of George Tubb. Tubb was minus coat and waistcoat, and one suspender had escaped from a shoulder.

“Hello,” said Toby uncertainly. There was something in the strained silence of the room that made him uncomfortable. “I got your note, Tubb,” he went on awkwardly, “and I meant to answer it——”

“That’s all right,” growled Tubb. “Forget it. I had a brain-storm.”

Toby had advanced to the side of the table, and now his host was plainly revealed. Tubb had a towel in one hand and with it, as he spoke, he dabbed at his face. Each time the towel came away there was a new stain on it.

“Hasn’t that cut healed yet?” asked Toby in surprise.

“Doesn’t look so, does it?” muttered Tubb. He pulled the dropped suspender over his shoulder and turned as though in search of his coat.

“But——” began Toby.

“It was all right till I landed on it!” interrupted a strident voice from the other side of the room. “I hope he bleeds to death!”

Startledly, Toby swung about and peered into the shadows. Tubb laughed mirthlessly. “That’s what I’ve got to live with,” he announced. “Its name’s Ramsey. Have a look at it, Tucker. Show the gentleman your face, Percy.”

“You big bully! You—you country jay! You wait! I’ll get square, all right. You’ll have——”

“What is this?” broke in Toby, disgusted and resentful. “You fellows been scrapping?” He stepped around to where the second occupant of the room could be discerned beyond the confusing radiance of the droplight. The appearance of the unhealthily-stout youth confronting him answered the question. Ramsey’s nose was bleeding profusely, and an already overworked handkerchief was doing little to disguise the fact. The boy’s face, pale save for flaming disks of red about the cheek bones, was convulsed with childish, helpless passion, and his dark eyes flashed as venomously as a snake’s.

“You ought to be proud of your friend,” he exclaimed in a voice still high and trembling with anger. “The country jay! All he can do is call names and—and use his fists. I’ll get even, though! I guess the faculty will have something to say! I’ve stood all I’m going to from the dirty-neck——”

“Drop it!” shouted Tubb, springing toward him. Toby pushed him back.

“Listen, you two,” he said vehemently. “There’s been enough of this. I don’t know what it’s all about, but you ought both to be ashamed of yourselves. Any one would think you were a couple of—of gutter kids! This sort of thing doesn’t go here, and you’d better learn that right now. Get a towel, Ramsey, and wash your face. Best way to stop that bleeding is to keep a cold bandage there. You——”

“No one asked your advice,” sputtered Ramsey. “He’s broken my nose——”

“I hope so,” growled Tubb. “I’d like to break your fat neck, Percy!”

“That’s what he does!” Ramsey fairly shrieked. “You heard him! He’s always doing it! I’m going to the Office——”

“What is it he’s always doing?” asked Toby, puzzled and impatient. Ramsey became incoherent; but Tubb, with a laugh of derision, explained.

“He doesn’t like being called Percy.”

“Then why——”

“Because that’s what he is, a regular Percy. Besides, Percy isn’t any worse than Horace, and that’s his real name!”

“Yes, and you call me by it! I’d rather be named Horace than Tubb any day! At least, I wash my neck sometimes, and that’s more than you do, you dirty——”

“I told you to drop it,” growled Tubb, again trying to push past Toby. “I’m as clean as you are, you fat sissy! One more crack about my neck and I’ll finish you for keeps!”

“No, you won’t do anything of the kind,” said Toby severely. “Stop calling each other names and keep quiet a minute. The first thing you know you’ll have a faculty up here! What’s the matter with you fellows? Are you crazy?”

“He’s always nagging me!” Ramsey’s wrath was turning to grief, and there was a sob in his voice. “He’s always calling me Percy——”

“Then let me alone,” retorted Tubb. “It’s bad enough having to room with a mother’s pet like you, without getting your lip all the time. I’ve warned you fifty times, haven’t I? Tell the truth now! Haven’t I told you over and over that I wouldn’t stand for your sneers and your silly jokes?”

“I’m not afraid of you, you big——”

“Stop!” commanded Toby sternly. “I’ll take a hand myself now, and the first one of you who calls names will get a licking from me. I mean it. It may not be my business, but I’m going to make it that. Tubb, you sit down in that chair. Ramsey, you sit in the other one.”

Tubb, with a fleeting grin, obeyed unhesitatingly. Horace Ramsey looked rebellious, muttered, smeared his face anew with the gory handkerchief and finally subsided. There was no lavatory on the third floor of Whitson and the rooms up there were supplied with washstands. Toby poured water from pitcher to bowl and soaked a towel in it. Silence reigned save for occasional muffled gasps from Ramsey. Toby wrung the towel half dry.

“Hold that tight to your nose, Ramsey, and keep your head back as far as you can,” he directed. Ramsey twitched his heavy shoulders resentfully, but Toby tipped his chin back and planked the folded towel over the leaking nose. “That’s it. Hold it there with your hand. It will stop in a minute, I guess. Anyway, cold water will take the soreness out.”

“Yes, it will,” snuffled Ramsey. “I don’t think! He’s broken it, I tell you! I ought to see the doctor.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Toby reassuringly. “Noses don’t break very easily. They feel broken lots of times when they’re just bruised.”

“I didn’t hit him hard enough——” began Tubb.

“You did, too! You—you hammered me!”

“No, I didn’t,” the other growled, “but I will the next time!”

“There isn’t going to be any next time,” said Toby quietly. He found a chair beside one of the beds and set it in front of the belligerents. Secretly, he was rather amused at the rôle he had assumed. He was no more than a year older than Tubb, and he might be Ramsey’s senior by even less; and he was far from certain that, should he be required to fulfill his threat, he was much more than a match for Tubb when it came to a fight. But he kept his doubts to himself and viewed the two with assurance. “Let’s get this cleared up now,” he went on pleasantly. “You two fellows will have to room together at least until Christmas recess, and you might just as well make up your minds to do it peacefully. What’s your objection to Tubb, Ramsey? You shut up, Tubb: you’ll have your say in a minute.”

“He doesn’t like me,” said Ramsey, after a moment’s hesitation, “and he’s always nagging at me. He calls me Percy and makes fun of me because I wear decent socks and underwear and things——”

“You ought to see ’em,” muttered Tubb scathingly.

“Please!” said Toby. “Ramsey’s doing the talking now. And what else, Ramsey?”

“Well, he’s—he’s always at it! It would make any fellow mad, I guess! And he says I’m fat!”

“All right. Now, Tubb, what’s your grouch?”

“Oh, he makes me sick, Tucker! Look at him! How’d you like to live with him all the time? Looks like a fat white toad!”

“I’d rather be a toad——” But Ramsey stopped under Toby’s warning look, and subsided in mutters.

“He says I don’t wash my neck and that I’m a country greenhorn,” resumed Tubb. “He’s one of these Willie Boys from the city who think they know it all. He wears lavender and old-rose socks and the cutest little union suits you ever saw, Tucker. And—oh, he makes me tired!”

“Fine!” said Toby. “Now I’ll talk.” He turned to Ramsey. “Tubb says you’re fat, and so you are, Ramsey. You’re disgustingly soft and fat. You ought to be ashamed of it. If I were you I’d get rid of twenty pounds if I had to lose sleep to do it. Stop eating sweet stuff for a month, get outdoors and exercise. As for lavender socks, that’s your affair. If you don’t like being called Percy, don’t act Percy.” He turned to Tubb. “Ramsey says you don’t wash your neck, Tubb, and you don’t. At least, you don’t wash it enough. It’s not clean. I’ve noticed that myself. As for being from the country, why, you are, aren’t you? There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that, and if you aren’t ashamed of it you won’t mind being reminded of it. Now the real trouble with you two fellows is just this. You are both of you too much concerned with yourselves. You need to think about something else for awhile. Neither of you has a good big interest in life, and you need one. Know any game, Ramsey?”

“Game?” repeated the boy vaguely.

“Well, sport, then. Ever play football or tennis or golf?”

“I’ve played tennis,” said Ramsey uninterestedly. “I don’t care for sports.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. But wouldn’t you rather play tennis or golf, or even football, than have to take an hour in the gymnasium every day?”

“I don’t think so,” muttered Ramsey.

“You’ll change your mind presently, then. What about you, Tubb? You’ve played baseball, I guess.”

“Sure.”

“Football?”

“Some.”

“Good enough! I’ll get you started to-morrow. Got any togs?”

Tubb shook his head. “I didn’t bring ’em. They weren’t—weren’t dressy enough for this dump!”

“Can you afford to buy some new ones?”

“Yes, if I want to.” Tubb sounded defiant.

“Get some to-morrow before three, then. There are two or three stores in Greenburg where you can get fixed up. I’ll come up here for you at three sharp. What hour have you got free in the morning, Ramsey, on Tuesdays?”

“Nine to ten,” replied Ramsey, after consideration.

“Good! So have I. Meet me at the tennis courts at five past nine. Got a racket?” Ramsey nodded. “All right. That’s settled. Now I want you fellows to promise me something.” He eyed them both sternly. “I want you to promise me that you’ll both keep silent the rest of the evening. You’re not to speak a word, either of you, until you wake up in the morning. That is,” he added, smiling, “after I go. And I’m going now. Nine-five at the courts, Ramsey. Three sharp up here, Tubb. Good-night!”

A sort of dazed silence held them both until the door was almost shut on Toby. Then:

“Good-night,” stammered Ramsey, and:

“Go to thunder!” growled Tubb.

CHAPTER VIII
TUBB TRIES FOOTBALL

Arnold was interested and amused, but he didn’t approve, and he said so. “You’ll have those freaks hanging around your neck for the rest of the year, T. Tucker,” he remonstrated. “You can’t make over a poor thing like this Tubb, or the other chap, from what you say of him. What do you expect to do? Play tennis with Rumsey——”

“Ramsey,” Toby corrected meekly.

“Rum is more like it, I guess,” accepted Arnold grimly. “Anyhow, do you mean to take him on at tennis every day until he loses his fat and—and finds a soul? Besides, you can’t play tennis for beans!”

“N-no, but I dare say I’m good enough for Ramsey. Oh, I guess I have made a faux pas, as we say in French, but, hang it, Arn, you can’t see a couple of idiots making fools of themselves——”

“Idiots generally are fools, aren’t they? Look here, Toby, something’s gone wrong with your alleged intellect. You didn’t used to hunt trouble like this. You were beautifully—er—what’s the word?—beautifully aloof. Used to mind your own business better than any chap I ever knew. Now look at you! Going out of your way to get mixed up with all sorts of queer fellows like this Tubb and this other freak. Isn’t young Lingard enough of a warning to you?”

“Tommy doesn’t love me any more,” answered Toby pathetically. “And I just must have affection, Arn!”

“Affection!” grunted his chum. “What you need is a swift kick, my son! All right, all right, go on with your missionary work, but don’t ask me to help you out. And, for the love of lemons, Toby, don’t have these weird friends of yours in here!”

“Well, I shan’t encourage them to call, but, of course, Arn, if they should——” Toby smiled innocently.

“Well, if they do I’ll beat it. Now shut up and let me study this beastly math.”

But although Toby pretended to be undisturbed by Arnold’s predictions, secretly he was regretful. Why, he wondered, as he tried to fix his mind on the subject of French nouns, had he insisted on assuming the part of guide and mentor to those two unpromising chaps in Number 31? Of course, neither of them would keep the engagements he had made for them. Things wouldn’t happen as easy as that. Well, in that case he would have a good excuse to drop them, he reflected. After all, it wasn’t his business to look after their welfare. Besides, he was going to be far too busy, what with lessons and football, to fuss with them. Busy? Gee, he’d say he was! He meant to go after another scholarship this term, and that meant real work. He ought never to have taken on football. It wasn’t worth risking a scholarship for. No, sir, it just wasn’t! And he’d drop it the end of the week surely—if it didn’t drop him first!

To his surprise, Ramsey was awaiting him at the tennis courts when he reached them, a minute or two late, the next forenoon. Ramsey was appropriately attired in white flannels and looked less objectionable this morning, even though his nose was still somewhat larger than normal. He greeted Toby rather sheepishly, as if ashamed of having kept the appointment. But Toby pretended that there was nothing unusual in the situation, and greeted Ramsey cheerily. Perhaps he was a little bit disappointed at finding the other there, though. If he was we can scarcely blame him.

Ramsey proved to be a better player than Toby had anticipated. He had a puzzling service and a good back-hand stroke, and was rather crafty at placing. In short, if Ramsey had had half as much speed as science he would have run away with the first set. As it was, Toby finally captured it, 7 to 5. Ramsey wasn’t enthusiastic about a second set, but Toby refused to heed his reluctance and they went at it again. Now, however, Ramsey’s skill was more than offset by weariness, and Toby did pretty much as he liked with his opponent. He might have secured the victory very easily, but he purposely allowed Ramsey to take the fourth and sixth games, determined that the latter’s first dose should be a strong one. The morning was sufficiently warm to put even Toby in a perspiration, and Ramsey literally oozed moisture. The second set went as far as 4 to 2 and then recitations called them back to Oxford. There had been little conversation during the playing, but returning up the hill Ramsey became rather communicative.

“I guess I could beat you, Tucker,” he said, mopping his flushed face with a sodden handkerchief, “if I wasn’t so out of practice. I haven’t played much for a couple of years. My heart isn’t very strong, you see, and my mother doesn’t like me to do much of it. In fact, one set at a time is my usual limit.”

“Yes, you’d beat me easily if you weighed fifteen pounds less,” agreed Toby. “Who told you your heart isn’t strong?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied the other vaguely. “It’s always been that way, ever since I was a kid. Mother says I had scarlet fever or something when I was five or six, and that sort of weakened it. I dare say it isn’t really dangerous, you know, but you can’t help thinking about it sometimes. I get tired very easily. It was about all I could do to keep on my feet toward the last, back there. My breath gives out and my heart gets to pounding horribly. I’m strong enough other ways, though.”

Toby surveyed him gravely. “You would be if you took care of yourself,” he said. “If you didn’t eat too much and took plenty of exercise you’d do, I guess. You’re as soft as a lump of dough now, though,” he added unfeelingly. “How much do you weigh?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been weighed for a long time.” Ramsey’s tone was aggrieved.

“Run into the gym the first chance you get and find out. And make a note of it, Ramsey. Well, see you again. I enjoyed playing. Maybe we can have another game some day.” He was purposely careless and vague, and found his reward in the flicker of disappointment in Ramsey’s eyes.

“I’d like it, too,” murmured the boy. “I suppose you’re pretty busy, though.”

“Fairly, yes. I tell you what, I’ll drop around some evening and we’ll compare schedules. Maybe we can get in an hour now and then in the mornings. If I were you, though, Ramsey, I’d try to find some fellow to play with meanwhile. Take your racket down to the court in the afternoon and hang around. You can generally run across some one looking for a game. So long!”

They parted in the corridor and Toby, hurrying along the west hall, told himself that perhaps, after all, Horace Ramsey was worth troubling about. Anyway, no harm had been done, and if Ramsey did take up tennis again positive good would result. All the boy needed was to get rid of a lot of fat by healthful exercise and wise eating. “Got to get that bum heart notion out of his head, though,” Toby added. “Probably got as good a heart as I have, or any other chap. Fine scheme to bring a boy up with the idea that he can’t play tennis or take exercise because his heart is weak! Swell way to strengthen it, loafing around and eating everything that’s rich and soggy! Of course, he may have something wrong with it; it’s possible; but I don’t believe it. I’ll get him to go to Mr. Bendix and see what he says.”

At three o’clock Toby rapped on the portal of Number 31 according to agreement. Tubb bade him enter. Tubb was not, as Toby observed, ready for football. In fact, Tubb didn’t look to be ready for anything but to make himself disagreeable. Ramsey was not there.

“Thought you were going to be all ready,” announced Toby as he closed the door behind him. “Get a move on, Tubb, it’s three now. Where are your togs?”

“I didn’t get any,” answered the other defiantly.

“Why not? Didn’t they have them? Did you try——”

“Oh, what’s the use? I’m not going out for football. What chance would I have? I don’t know any one and I haven’t any pull. And I ain’t much good at it, anyway.”

“You can learn, can’t you? There isn’t time to argue about it, Tubb. You can get your togs to-morrow. I’ll get you fixed out all right for to-day. I’ve got an old pair of pants in my locker, and we can borrow shoes. You’ve got an old sweater, haven’t you?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” growled Tubb stubbornly.

“I haven’t,” replied Toby pleasantly. “Come on now! We’ve got to hustle! I told them I was going to bring you, and they’ll be disappointed if I don’t.”

Tubb inelegantly expressed unbelief. “Told who?” he demanded.

“Never mind who,” said Toby, “you come on and see.” To be very truthful, Toby had quite casually mentioned to Grover Beech at noon that he was bringing another Second Team candidate out with him in the afternoon, and Beech had nodded approvingly, but that Beech would be disappointed was somewhat problematical.

“Well,” said Tubb, “I can’t go to-day. Maybe to-morrow——”

Toby stepped forward and to Tubb’s vast surprise pulled the latter swiftly to his feet. “Where’s that sweater?” he demanded. Tubb blinked, his mouth open for words that didn’t come. “Which is your closet?” continued Toby quickly. Tubb’s eyes shifted to the left and Toby pulled open a door, fumbled through the few garments hanging beyond it and pulled out a faded brown coat-sweater. “This isn’t the kind you want, but it’ll have to do,” he said briskly. He tossed it over his arm and threw back the door into the corridor. “All right! Beat it!”

Tubb’s face expressed a queer mingling of resentment and relief. But even yet he managed to find objections. “Oh, what’s the good?” he growled. “I don’t want to play football, anyway. I don’t want——”

What he didn’t want was quickly changed to what he did want, for he found himself suddenly outside in the corridor, the door closed behind him and Toby’s firm, impelling clutch on his neck. “Wait! I want my hat!” he begged.

“You don’t need a hat,” was the inexorable answer. “Go on! I tell you it’s getting late, and we’ve got to change yet. Hustle, G. W. Tubb!”

Somewhat to Toby’s surprise, Tubb hustled. He tried to make a pretense of hanging back, but he nevertheless covered the ground between dormitory and gymnasium in very good time. The locker-room in the basement was fairly packed with First and Second Team candidates, and Toby was aware of an occasional curious glance, but for the most part the occupants of the room were too busy to pay attention to him or his charge. He found the old football trousers, borrowed a pair of shoes from one neighbor and stockings from a second, and presently Tubb, presenting a rather dilapidated appearance, was attired for business. He nevertheless looked, Toby thought, a bit more presentable in the battle-scarred togs than in the shapeless and wrinkled clothes he had removed. During the operation of dressing Tubb grumbled and sneered continuously, but he was no longer fooling Toby. It was plain to be seen that Tubb was really quite as anxious to get to the field as Toby was to have him!

Several other newcomers reported that afternoon, and so Tubb was not alone as a tyro. Toby haled him at once to Sam Wansworth, the manager, and Tubb replied grumpily to the few stereotyped questions asked. Then practice was started and the two parted, Toby joining his usual squad and Tubb the bunch of latest recruits. It was an afternoon of good football weather, bright and crisp, with a straight breeze blowing down the field from the marshes across the glistening river. Beyond, on the First Team gridiron, a half-dozen punters and drop-kickers were busy in front of the north goal, and the pigskins arose and fell against the blue distance. Just above the boathouse the single occupant of a bright yellow canoe was struggling gamely against wind and tide, the sunlight flashing on the dripping paddle.

Twenty minutes of passing and starting, and then Toby’s squad was trotted over to the tackling dummies and he had his first clutch at the moving, swaying canvas effigy. That his first clutch wasn’t a firm one is easily understood by those who have been through his experience. “Gyp” Harris was in charge, and Gyp wasn’t one to be easily satisfied. Working the rope that sent the dummy rattling along the cable between the posts with one hand, he used the other to point and gesticulate. Toby thought he had never seen any one more eloquent with one hand than the trainer! Not, however, that Gyp was dumb, or even tongue-tied. On the contrary, he had a strong voice and an effective vocabulary, and he kept both busy in a sort of sing-song fashion.

“Next man! Feet together! Let ’er go! Off on the left! Get him! Hold him! Pull him down! Rotten, perfectly rotten! You tackled too high again! Next man!...”

Occasionally there was pause while Gyp left the pulley and strode over to the head of the line and gave an illustration or criticized with ample detail some glaringly unfortunate attempt. “What have I told you about getting your body in front of the dummy, Bowen? Can’t you understand that when you tackle a runner from behind he’s going to drag you a way before you can stop him? Get in front of him so that your body blocks him. A man can’t push with his legs below the knees when he’s on his feet. Of course, you’re supposed to get to him hard enough to put him off his feet. But if he has slowed up to meet you your game is to lift him and throw him back toward his own goal. You can’t do that if you’re behind him because he will throw his weight forward. Get your body in front, lock his knees and lift. And don’t land on your stomach when you dive, Bowen. Land on your hip. See if you can’t get it right the next time.”

Toby came to the conclusion that he was more than ordinarily stupid, but it is probable that he did as well as any of the others that first day. Presently they were dismissed, though not with the trainer’s blessing, and another squad took their place. Coach Burtis and Captain Beech had formed a tentative team of the more experienced or more likely candidates, and these were trotting around the field in signal work with Frick at quarter-back. Toby and three other fellows were sent across to the further side of the gridiron to catch punts, or, failing the catch, to recover them as best they could. At that game Toby found himself rather clever. He seemed able to judge the wobbling, descending balls with more certainty than his companions and to hold them better when they reached him. Having got a ball, he trotted back part way across and threw it the rest of the distance. He would have liked to punt it, but this was forbidden.

Still later, he was set to taking snap-backs and passes from Watson, one of the candidates for center. He gathered that Watson had shown himself deficient in that branch of his play. It wasn’t very interesting work, for Watson was earnest and determined and erratic, and Toby spent half of his time chasing around after the pigskin. Once, taking passes from a distance of five yards and at an angle, or trying to, he became aware that some one was looking on and turned to discover Coach Burtis behind him. The coach nodded encouragingly. “Not bad, Tucker. Try to be a little more shifty on your feet, though. Keep on your toes, ready to go in any direction. In play it’s rather disastrous to let the ball get past you, you know.”

He went on, leaving Toby surprised and gratified that he had remembered his name.

There was no scrimmage to-day, and practice ended with a two-lap trot around the gridiron and then up to the gymnasium, where most of them arrived very much out of breath. During practice Toby had caught an occasional glimpse of Tubb looking harassed and mutinous, but it wasn’t until they met in the locker-room that Toby had an opportunity to speak to him. Tubb sank onto the bench with a grunt of weariness and disgust and savagely attacked the laces of his borrowed shoes. Toby, hiding a grin, asked pleasantly:

“Well, how did it go, Tubb?”

“Rotten! There’s no sense to that sort of stuff. I thought I was going to play football, not bean-bag!”

“It is rather tiresome at first,” said Toby, “but you’ll soon be through with that. To-morrow——”

“Yes, I’m through with it right now,” growled Tubb. “I’ve had all I want, thanks, Tucker.”

“Oh, piffle, Tubb! You’re not going to quit like that!”

“Ain’t I? You watch me!” replied the other grimly.

“Better give it a fair trial. After all, there’s a certain amount of drudgery to be gone through with, no matter what you take up. Learning to handle the ball is quite necessary, Tubb.”

“A whole afternoon of it isn’t necessary, I guess. Anyway, I’m through.” Tubb kicked the shoes aside scowlingly. “I knew how it would be. A few fellows get all the pickings and the others play the goat. All you’ll get out of it, Tucker, is a lot of hard work, and then they’ll give you the bounce.”

“What of it if I have a good time before they do?” asked Toby cheerfully.

“A good time!” sneered the other.

“Sure. Come on and have a shower and you’ll feel better, Tubb.”

“I don’t want any shower,” muttered Tubb.

“Well, I do. As a favor to me, I wish you’d keep on for the rest of this week, Tubb.” Toby spoke earnestly and smiled. Tubb caught the smile. After a moment he growled hesitantly:

“Oh, well—I’ll see.”

“Thanks. That’s a promise!”

“’Tain’t either! I didn’t say——”

But Toby was off and Tubb’s protest went unfinished.

CHAPTER IX
YARDLEY PLAYS GREENBURG

Two mornings later Toby again played tennis with Horace Ramsey. This time Horace captured the first set, mainly on his serve, and made Toby work hard to keep ahead in the second. Horace had followed Toby’s advice and had sought and found an opponent the day before, and he was fast reviving his enthusiasm for the game. Although it was perhaps only imagination, Toby thought that the younger boy already showed evidences of benefit from the exercise. To-day he made Horace promise to have Mr. Bendix, the physical director, give him a thorough examination, and on Saturday Horace reported the result of it.

“I suppose he knows,” said Horace dubiously, “but it’s funny he didn’t say anything about my heart until I asked him.”

“What did he say then?” inquired Toby.

“Well, he said there was nothing the matter with it.” Horace was evidently thoroughly puzzled. “He said it was just as good as his. Maybe he didn’t want to frighten me, though. Do you think that’s it, Tucker?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Toby bluntly. “I think he told the truth. If there ever was anything wrong with your heart you’ve outgrown it, Ramsey. Don’t worry about his trying to let you down easy. He wouldn’t. I know that he’s mighty careful about weak hearts. He’s kept lots of fellows out of track work and baseball just because of that trouble. No, sir, Ramsey, if ‘Muscles’ says your heart is all right, you may depend upon it that it is all right. How about your weight? Dropped any yet?”

Horace’s brow cleared magically. “Haven’t I?” he exclaimed. “Two and a quarter pounds since I weighed Tuesday! How’s that?”

“Fine—for a start,” answered Toby. “Keep it up. You’ve only begun!”

Meanwhile, Tubb had kept on at football, although under constant protest. He had bought himself togs, and very good ones they were; a fact which led Toby to hope and believe that, in spite of his growls, Tubb really meant to keep on. Whenever they met, however, Tubb wearied Toby sadly with his grouches. He insisted on holding Toby responsible for every bruise and every tired muscle. While he didn’t say it in so many words, he made Toby understand that he had remained in the Second Team squad merely to oblige the other. A martyr is bad enough to have to listen to, but when the martyr has a grouch he is even more irritating. There were times when Toby would have given much for the privilege of kicking Tubb. But he didn’t. He didn’t even tell him to dry up and blow away. He kept his temper and listened to the boy’s growls without a murmur. Naturally, he didn’t seek Tubb’s society. In fact, whenever he could do so without having it seem too apparent, he avoided the pale-faced youth as he would have avoided any other pest.

By that Saturday, however, the word pale-faced no longer applied to Tubb as it had a week before. Four very warm days such as frequently visit Connecticut around the first of October had brushed Tubb’s cheeks with red and set his nose to peeling. Perhaps the change hadn’t benefited the lad’s appearance much, but Toby noted it hopefully. Toby himself had added another shade of brown to a complexion already well sunburned by a summer spent largely on the water, and his blue eyes looked lighter than ever in comparison with the surrounding territory of mahogany hue.

Something quite unlooked for and, to Toby, extremely disconcerting had happened the middle of that week. On Wednesday there had been a summons to quarter-back candidates to the lower end of the field for punting practice. Toby had remained serenely unaffected on the bench, whither he had retired after a strenuous bout with the tackling dummy, until he had been awakened by the challenge of Coach Burtis.

“Where are you, Tucker? Didn’t you hear the call?” Mr. Burtis was a trifle incisive as to voice, for prompt obedience was something he insisted on. Toby, alarmed, jumped to his feet and looked wildly about him.

“N-no, sir! What—where——”

“Well, hurry up.” The coach waved a hand toward the north goal. “Quarter-backs down there for punting.”

Toby stared, opened his mouth, closed it, stood irresolute until Mr. Burtis asked sharply: “Well, what’s wrong? You’re trying for quarter, aren’t you?”

“N-n——” Toby gulped hard. “Yes, sir!”

“Well, get busy then! Want me to lead you by the hand?”

Toby found his feet and hurried away, pursued by the laughter of the others along the bench.

“So I’m a quarter-back, am I?” he asked himself bewilderedly as he ran. “Gee, that’s a new one on me! Well, it’s fine to know what you are, even if you know you aren’t! I guess he will change his mind after he’s seen me try it!”

There were four other fellows there when he reached the scene: Frick, Stair, Rawson, and Bird. Stillwell was coaching. Toby knew very little about punting as a science, although he could kick a football for varying distances from five yards to thirty—if he didn’t miss it altogether! There was very little actual punting that day, for Stillwell had a lot to say on the theory of it, and for the most part the pupils practiced holding the ball and dropping it, standing and stepping forward and swinging the leg. At the end Stillwell let them try a few punts, and Toby, for his part, hoped that Coach Burtis wasn’t watching! That evening he had a brand-new lot of aches situate in the right hip and down the right leg. “Stillwell,” he confided ruefully to Arnold, “thought he was coaching a bunch of ballet dancers. He was never happy unless we were standing on the left foot and pointing the right toe straight at the zenith, whatever the zenith is! I don’t feel happy on both feet, Arn. Mind if I tuck one over the transom?”

“You’re mighty lucky to get a chance at quarter,” answered his chum severely. “Don’t you know that?”

“Oh, yes,” said Toby, “I’m painfully aware of it!”

By Saturday he had forgotten his aches and the lameness was gone and he could toe the pigskin in a fairly creditable manner and for decent distances, so long as direction was not important. But when he was told to place a punt near the right side line about thirty yards distant, either he sent it toward the left side line or down the middle of the field. Or if by any possible chance he got the direction right, then the ball went fifteen yards instead of thirty. There was, he allowed, a lot more to punting than he had suspected. Of course, life wasn’t all swinging a scuffed shoe against a stained and battered football those days. There was signal work, too. And some experimenting in forward passing. And other things. And Toby frequently regretted the fact that he had not dared to tell Coach Burtis the truth when he had been accused of quarter-back aspirations. Still, when things weren’t at their worst, he enjoyed it. No one took him seriously as a quarter, not even Grover Beech; and when scrimmaging began Frick and Rawson and Stair had the call over him. Only once that week had Toby worked at quarter, and then for only a matter of five minutes or so on B Squad. For many days he disliked to recall the event, for he had dared a quarter-back run and Farquhar, an opposing tackle, had chased him back and back until, in sheer fear of being forced over his own goal line, he had toppled to earth, snuggling the ball, a good fifteen yards back of where he had started from! It was a very sheepish Toby who scrambled to his feet again, for there was a ripple of laughter from the bench and many amused faces about him. For the few remaining moments of play he was too wretched to be of much use. Fortunately for him, perhaps, A Squad had the ball and Toby was able to retire up-field and nurse his wounded feelings in solitude. Afterwards he reached the pleasing conclusion that he was not necessarily dishonored for life, but it was some time before he cared to recall the incident.

On Saturday practice was over early in order that the Second might profit by watching the First Team play Greenburg High School. High School wasn’t a formidable opponent even for a first game of the season. Yardley had started her schedule with High School for many years, generally winning by a comfortable margin of points. The contest served to try out a large number of players, and it was usually on the Monday following the Greenburg game that the first cut in the squad was made. In consequence to-day’s battle meant a good deal to some candidates who felt their positions to be none too secure, and there were many anxious faces amongst the substitutes who graced the bench after the game had started.

Toby and the rest of the Second Team fellows didn’t reach the scene until the second period had begun. Then they perched themselves, still wrapped in their blankets like so many Indians, in the nearer corner of the old stand and proceeded to be extremely critical. Sid Creel squeezed into a place beside Toby with a huge sigh of enjoyment. “Nothing to do but watch a lot of poor boobs work themselves deaf, dumb, and blind,” he said with relish. “Who’s at center for them, Toby?”

“Simpson.”

“Well, he’s the best they’ve got, to my thinking. He’s light, though.”

“Oh, well, his weight’s where it ought to be, Sid.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s got brains. So many centers haven’t, you know.”

“Huh? ’S at so? Well, let me inform you—Oh, good work, Phil! How’s that for a neat little canter, Toby? More than twenty yards! What’s eating that referee? Oh, my word! Offside—no, holding! I didn’t see any holding, did you? That referee’s crazy!”

“No, I didn’t see any holding unless you call it holding to nearly pull a fellow’s arm off him!”

“Who did that?”

“Ted Halliday.”

“Idiot! Look what it’s cost them! Say, is Deering playing?”

“No, that’s Bates at right half. And Roover at left. Arn will get in, of course. Maybe he’s been in. Mr. Lyle will use about every fellow he’s got to-day, I suppose.”

“Yes, he’ll use a lot to-day and lose a lot to-morrow or Monday. Look at that line of victims over there. A good third of them will be missing next week.”

“Yes, and some of them will be playing on the Second, Sid. I wouldn’t wonder if we got a good center pretty soon.”

“Soon! we’ve got one right now. I don’t want to seem boastful, but—Gee, what a rotten punt! Who was that? Snowden, eh? Well, Larry wants to do better than that or he will lose his job! Gee, I could kick a ball farther than that myself!”

Followed a Greenburg fumble, a quick recovery for a loss and a weird attempt at an end run almost under High School’s goal. Then a kick on second down and the ball floated into the waiting arms of Will Curran, the Yardley quarter, just past the center of the field. Curran was still the old Curran, it seemed, for he was off like a shot, side-stepped an adversary, broke through the nearer field of mingled friend and foe, and was off on a long, straight dash for the Greenburg goal. Toby and Sid cheered prodigiously as Curran fooled the anxious quarter and romped over the last white line between the posts. Snowden missed the goal and the figures on the score-board stood 11 to 0. The half ended a moment later and the big squad of blue-legged players trailed off to the gymnasium. Sid ambled off to find some fellow who had borrowed a dollar from him last spring, his round face set in determined lines, and a moment later George Tubb took the vacant place at Toby’s side.

“Pretty punk game, isn’t it?” he said.

Toby concealed his displeasure as best he could. “Well, it’s the first one, you know. Can’t expect much of a first game. How did you get on to-day?”

“Pretty good.” Toby was actually startled. Never before had he heard Tubb approach so close to enthusiasm! Even the rest of his response couldn’t altogether spoil the first part. “I’m through to-day, though. I only agreed to keep on for the week, you know. Well, here’s your fat friend coming back, and I’ll beat it. So long, Tucker.”

“So long,” answered Toby. To himself he added viciously, “I’d like to punch your silly head!”

CHAPTER X
TOBY EMPTIES HIS LOCKER

“The cheek of him!” exclaimed Sid, seating himself. “What do you think he asked me to do?”

“Go away?” hazarded Toby.

“Asked me to lend him another half! Said he’d pay it all back next Wednesday, when he gets his allowance. What do you know about that? That fellow’s got the makings of a financier!”

“Or a grafter,” laughed Toby. Sid shook his head.

“No, his method is too high-class. He will be a J. Pierpont Rockefeller at thirty. Well, anyway, I told him what I thought of him.”

“Then you didn’t get your dollar, eh? Look here, if you’re hard-up, Sid, I can lend you——”

“No, thanks. I’m all right. I don’t need that dollar just now, but he’s been owing it since three days before the end of last term, and I thought it was time he paid it. That was all. Maybe he will on Wednesday. If he doesn’t I’ll land on his neck! Not that I care so much about the dollar and a half, but it’s the principle of the——”

“Dollar, you mean, don’t you?”

“Dollar? Dollar and a half. He owed me a dollar before.”

“Do you mean that you lent him the half?” exclaimed Toby incredulously. Sid looked surprised.

“I told you, didn’t I? That’s what I was kicking about.”

“But—but you didn’t have to lend him any more, did you?”

“Have to? N-no, I didn’t have to, but what are you going to do when a fellow comes at you like that? Oh, he will come across some day. I’m not worrying.”

Toby laughed. “You’re easy, Sid,” he said. “I suppose next Wednesday he will borrow another fifty cents from you! If fellows were all like you I could be a Rockefeller myself! Here they come!”

Yardley managed to chalk up twelve more points in the last two periods and to keep Greenburg High from scoring. Greenburg weakened badly toward the last, although, like her opponent, she made constant changes in her line-up. During the final period there were moments when the stream of incoming substitutes from the Yardley bench was almost unbroken. Mr. Lyle used three full elevens that afternoon, and then threw in a couple more players just for good measure. There were occasional flashes of brilliancy on the part of the Blue, but for the most part the contest was uninteresting and the playing ragged. Greenburg certainly deserved to lose, but it is doubtful if Yardley deserved to win. However, no one expected much from the team in that game, and no one was very critical.

That evening, alone for awhile in Number 12, Arnold had gone to a lecture in Assembly Hall,—Toby forced himself to face a decision regarding football. Earlier in the week he had promised himself to quit to-day, but now he discovered that he didn’t want to quit. This quarter-back business was mighty interesting, he acknowledged. Not that he supposed for a minute that he would make good on the job: he would never get so that he could rival Frick; never, perhaps, equal Rawson; but a fellow needed some sort of exercise and football provided it. It was really his duty to keep himself in training for hockey.

On the other hand, Latin was proving quite as difficult as he had predicted, and one or two other courses promised to claim lots of his time. If he really meant to win a scholarship next term he couldn’t afford too many distractions. It was easy enough to say that football work need not interfere with studies, but football work had a way of doing that very thing. It wasn’t so much the time spent in actual practice or play that counted as it was the time a fellow gave to thinking about football. The sport had a way of seizing a fellow’s interest to the exclusion of all else. And toward the end of the season, as the Big Game loomed near, it was just about as easy for a football player to give serious attention to his studies as it was for a boy with a new red sled to display enthusiasm for the woodpile! Toby had learned this solely from observation, but he knew it was so.

Toby’s father was a boat-builder, and while the past season had seen a remarkable revival of the business, yet there were four of them in the family, and while business had increased so had living costs. It behooved Toby to get through the year as economically as possible, and a scholarship award of perhaps eighty dollars would make a big difference. He must do his level best to secure that. That decided, had he the right to give the necessary time to football? Especially as, after the Christmas recess, hockey would claim him. If it came to choosing between the two, he would choose hockey. Hockey was Toby’s game. He had proved himself in that. In football he might never become more than a second-rate player, or even a third. If he resolutely gave up football this minute and worked hard at his studies until Christmas, he wouldn’t have to worry about the time he gave to hockey. Hockey didn’t make the demands that football did, anyway. Well, then——

Toby frowned and thought, and made up his mind and unmade it several times, during the succeeding hour. Then Arnold came bustling in and what his final decision was Toby never knew. But when he awoke Sunday morning he discovered that his mind had attended to the matter by itself while he slept, and in the afternoon, returning from a walk with Arnold and Frank along the river, he excused himself and ran into the gymnasium and down to the locker-room. When he overtook his companions he carried an armful of football togs.

“What—what——” exclaimed Arnold.

“I’ve decided not to play football, after all,” explained Toby calmly, “so I thought I might as well clear out my locker to-day. There aren’t enough of them to go around, you know.”

“Oh, you make me tired!” wailed Arnold. “I thought that was all settled.”

“It is, now,” responded Toby cheerfully.

“But why?” demanded Arnold impatiently.

Toby explained, but Arnold refused to be satisfied. Somewhat to Toby’s relief, Frank interrupted soothingly. “Let him alone, Arn. I guess he’s right about it. It isn’t as if—well, what I mean is, he’s not absolutely necessary, you know. It isn’t as if he was on the First Team. The Second’s got plenty of material, and Toby’s not fooling himself into thinking he’s a wonderful player. They’ll worry along without him. No use spoiling a good hockey man to make a—a——”

“Punk football man,” supplied Toby pleasantly. “You aren’t flattering, Frank, but I guess you’re right.”

“No, he isn’t, he’s dead wrong,” said Arnold vehemently. “You could be a rattling good football player, Toby, a corking one! I know it! And now you’re queering everything. You make me sick. If you don’t dump those things back in that locker the first thing to-morrow morning I’ll—I’ll never forgive you, Toby!”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said Toby. “You’re quite wrong about me as a football player, Arn. I’m pretty sure of that. Anyway, as Frank says, they don’t need me, and I do need that scholarship.”

“I hope you choke on it,” growled Arnold disgustedly, and relapsed into aggrieved silence.

But in spite of the certainty that he had decided wisely and rightly, Toby felt a trifle dissatisfied the next afternoon, and somewhat at a loose end. He determined to devote the first hour and a half after his final recitation to hard study, telling himself that he would have the room to himself and that Whitson would be delightfully quiet and conducive to work. Afterwards he would walk over and watch First Team practice for awhile. But, although he found the quietude and solitude he expected, it wasn’t so easy to put his mind on his books. The sunlit world outside called loudly, he couldn’t get comfortable in the chair and, in spite of good intentions, his mind insisted on wandering toward the gridiron. But he stuck it out to the prescribed moment and then fairly ran downstairs and into the late afternoon sunshine, uncomfortably conscious that he had spent an hour and a half to no purpose. Still, to-morrow he would do better, he promised. By the time he had seated himself in the grandstand, watching the First Team in a spirited practice game, he had recovered his spirits. On the further gridiron the Second was hard at it, but Toby decided to stay away from that quarter to-day. Grover Beech might say unpleasant things about “quitters,” and while Toby’s conscience was quite clear, he realized that the Second Team captain would have his own point of view. But although he managed to evade Beech for the time, a meeting was inevitable, and it occurred after supper that evening. They both left their tables at the same moment and came together at the door. Beech looked a trifle huffy.

“What’s the stupendous idea, Tucker?” he demanded. “You know we practice on Mondays just like any other day.”

“Why, I—Didn’t Gyp tell you?”

“Gyp? Yes, he said something about your not reporting to-day, but that didn’t mean anything to me. What’s the scheme, old man?”

Toby explained, not very eloquently because Beech’s expression became momentarily more and more disapproving. Once or twice the captain uttered a dry “Huh!” or gestured impatience, but he heard Toby through. Then, however, he broke out with force and emphasis. Toby, backed up against the long hatrack, was aware of the curious looks bent on him by those who passed, and even read sympathy in some glances. Doubtless Beech’s attitude looked rather threatening!

“You poor fish!” said the captain pityingly. “Hasn’t any one ever told you about duty? What do you think you are, anyway? A—a real, sure-enough Person? You’re not, Tucker my lad, you’re just a simple little cog in the Wheel of Progress. You’re not at all important as an individual. You’re merely an entity. Now——”

“Hold on! I’m not sure I ought to let you call me that!”

“Shut up! I’ll call you worse in a minute, maybe a microbe or a protoplasm. Look here, Tucker, joking aside, you can’t do this, you know. Every fellow has a duty to the School——”

“I know, and every fellow has a duty to himself, Beech. I need that scholarship——”

“Get it! I’m not objecting, my son! But don’t throw the team down to do it. Shucks, you can play football for a month or six weeks longer without losing the scholarship! Come on, Tucker, don’t be a worm!”

“But—but what difference does it make?” pleaded Toby. “I’m no football wonder. You’ve got half a dozen fellows to fill in for me. It isn’t like I was any account, Beech!”

“What are you doing? Fishing for compliments? Come on and quit your kidding! Do you suppose Burtis would have put you with the quarters if he hadn’t seen that you had the stuff in you?”

“But I haven’t! I can’t play quarter-back for a cent, Beech, honest! Besides, there’s Frick and Rawson and Stair——”

“Listen, Tucker, I know who we’ve got just as well as you do. Those fellows are all right, but not one of them has any better chance of copping the job than you have. And we want the best fellow to get it. So you come on back to-morrow, Tucker my lad, and be properly ashamed of yourself. And don’t let’s have any more talk about scholarships and things. If you can’t play a little football and keep your end up in classes you’re less of a man than I thought you were. And that’s that!”

“Well, I’ll see,” answered Toby dubiously. “It’s all well enough——”

“You’ll see nothing,” said Beech sternly. “You’ll be on the field to-morrow at three-fifteen dressed to play. By the way, where’d you get hold of that chap Tubbs?”

“Why, I just happened to run across him. He was having sort of a poor time of it and I thought if I could get him interested in something he might pull himself together.” Toby was rather apologetic. “He didn’t want to do it and I was afraid he wouldn’t stick it long.”

“How do you mean, wouldn’t stick it?”

“Why, he’s quit, hasn’t he? He told me Saturday he was going to.”

“He was out to-day all right. Shucks, he isn’t going to quit. He’s stringing you. He’s liking it well enough now, and unless I miss my guess he’s going to make a few of our bunch sit up and take notice. The boy’s a natural-born end! Well, see you to-morrow, old man. So long!”

George Tubb a “natural-born end”! Toby forgot for the moment the complication just introduced into his own affairs in surprise over Beech’s appraisal of Tubb. That the latter would make good on the gridiron Toby had never for an instant believed. He had only hoped that the dissatisfied youth would find in football a new and sufficient interest to reconcile him to the school and, perhaps, a means of making friends. Well, he was certainly quite as pleased as he was surprised! In view of what Beech had just told him, however, he wondered why Tubb had threatened only two days ago to quit; and, still wondering, he kept on to the third floor instead of stopping at the second and knocked at the door of Number 31.

CHAPTER XI
TOM FANNING, OPTIMIST

Only Horace Ramsey was at home when Toby entered Number 31. Ramsey appeared very glad to see the visitor, and he was quite fussed-up during the process of getting Toby comfortably seated. The room was one of the better ones on the third floor, and one of the occupants, probably Ramsey, had added to the scanty equipment supplied by the school. Although the evening had turned decidedly cool, both windows were wide open, and it was not until Toby had glanced at them a bit uneasily several times that Ramsey took the hint.

“It is sort of cold in here, I guess,” he said, as he closed the windows. “I’m used to a cold room, though. Plenty of fresh air is what I like. Mr. Bendix says you can’t have too much of it. George doesn’t like it much, though, and we scrap a good deal about having the windows open.”

“George? Oh, you mean Tubb. How are you and he getting on now? Hitting it off any better?”

Horace Ramsey smiled. “Oh, yes, we get on all right. He’s a cranky chap, though. I have to handle him carefully. He gets the most awful grouches you ever saw. Gets positively ugly and hates himself. Still, he’s been some better the last few days.” Ramsey chuckled. “Guess I have, too. At first I used to let go of my temper and—well, you found us at it one night. Remember? Now I just let him growl and he gets over it after a bit. He’s really not a bad sort when you get to know him.”

“I thought I might find him in,” explained Toby. Then a faint expression of disappointment on the other’s face made him add: “And then I wanted to see how you were getting on, too, Ramsey. You’re looking pretty fit. Been playing much tennis?”

“Every day. A fellow named Lingard, a Fourth Class fellow, and I have been at it a lot. Don’t know if you know him, Tucker. Sort of a lanky chap, with——”

“Yes, I know Tommy. Didn’t know he was a tennis player, though.”

“He isn’t,” laughed Ramsey. “At least, not much of one. But neither am I just now, and I sort of like to play with a chap I can lick now and then. Maybe it isn’t good practice, though. There’s a fellow named Colcord who gave me a couple of sets this afternoon. He’s pretty good at it. Beat me both sets, 6 to 3. I’d like to take you on again, Tucker. I guess I could give you a better fight now that I’ve had some practice. Mr. Bendix says it’ll take several weeks to get my muscles loosened up.”

“I dare say. Had much trouble with your heart lately?”

“N-no, very little. I get out of breath pretty easily, but Mr. Bendix says that’s because I’m carrying too much weight. Maybe my heart’s all right after all, just as he says it is. He sort of—what I mean is, you can’t help believing what he says, can you? He’s supposed to know a lot about physical training and—and all that, isn’t he?” Toby nodded assent. “I like him a lot, anyway, and I’m doing just what he tells me, even to nearly freezing in here with the windows open.”

Toby laughed. “Thought you said you were used to cold rooms, Ramsey!”

“Well, I—I meant I was getting used to them,” answered the other, grinning.

“Tubb is still with the Second Team, I hear,” said Toby.

“Yes. That reminds me! He was quite excited this afternoon because you weren’t on the field. Don’t know what business it is of his, but he kept chewing the rag about it.”

“No, I—I cut practice to-day. Fact is, I——” Then he stopped. He had been about to add that he was through with football for the season, but he suddenly realized that it wasn’t true, that to-morrow would find him back again. “How’s Tubb getting on?” he asked instead.

“Oh, pretty well, I guess. He hasn’t said so, but when he doesn’t growl about a thing I know it’s all right. Last week he kept telling how hard they made him work and saying he was going to quit, but he’s shut up about it lately.”

A few minutes afterward, going down to the floor below, Toby shook his head dubiously. “It’s funny the way I make up my mind to things lately without knowing it. When I went upstairs I thought I was going to be firm with Beech and stay out of it. Then, first thing I knew, I’d decided to keep on! Wonder if there’s something wrong with my bean!”

Back in Number 12, Toby found a scrawl from Arnold bidding him follow to Frank’s room in Clarke, but he crumpled it up and, after a moment’s reflection, dropped it in the waste-basket and settled himself at the table. He got in some good licks of study that evening and was annoyingly superior and virtuous when Arnold returned at bedtime.

The next afternoon Toby took his togs back to the gymnasium. Fortunately, although he had given up his locker, no one had secured it. If Coach Burtis knew of his defection the day before he made no sign. Grover Beech, however, nodded commendingly, and, or so Toby thought, Roy Frick, at present the most promising of the quarter-backs, viewed his return with a noticeable lack of cordiality. For several afternoons Toby toiled and drudged willingly and contentedly. Mr. Burtis was allowing but three scrimmages a week, and in none of them did Toby appear. The fact puzzled the boy considerably, but he kept his puzzlement to himself. Even Bird, who could not be considered first-class quarter-back material by any stretch of imagination, got in for a few minutes in each practice game. Toby invariably retired to the bench when the line-up came and, blanket-swathed, watched and wondered throughout the ten or fifteen minute periods. On one such occasion he found a seat beside George Tubb. He and George had met and spoken before, but only briefly. To-day Toby viewed George with real surprise. Seen at close quarters, the younger fellow showed the results of a week of football work very plainly. He had a much better color, looked several pounds thinner—and considerably harder—and had lost some of the discontent usually so eloquently expressed by his countenance. But there was plenty of the old George W. Tubb left, as Toby soon discovered.

“They’ve got me playing end,” said George. “It’s a rotten position. I told that big guy with the swelled head that I wanted——”

“Meaning the coach?” asked Toby.

“Sure! I told him I was a half-back, but he thinks he knows it all.”

“Too bad,” commented Toby innocently, “because, of course, a fellow can’t do good work out of his right position. I suppose you’re making rather a mess of end, Tubb.”

“Who says that?” demanded George, with a scowl.

“Why, no one. I just thought, from what you said——”

“Well, I guess I’m doing as well as Connell; and he’s been playing two years at it. But this business doesn’t get a fellow anywhere. What’s it amount to, anyway? They say we’ll play a couple of dozen games with the First and run up against two or three bum teams around here, and then it’s all over, and the First Team gets the glory. Maybe I’ll stick it out awhile longer, but life’s too short to spend a month and a half at this sort of stuff.”

He glanced sidewise at Toby as he finished, and Toby caught the glance and understood. George had no intention of quitting, and never had had since the first day! What he wanted was Toby to ask him not to! Toby suppressed a smile.

“I wouldn’t do that, Tubb,” he said earnestly. “I—I wish you wouldn’t. You see, I have a hunch that you’ve got in you to make a pretty good player, and—well, I wish you’d give yourself a fair chance. As a favor to me, Tubb, I wish you’d try to stick it out.”

George growled and scowled, but Toby didn’t miss the look of satisfaction that flickered for an instant in his eyes. After a moment of weighty hesitation George sighed wearily. “Well, I guess another week or two won’t hurt me,” he said ungraciously. “I’ll stick around until I get Connell’s number, anyway. You got me into this, Tucker, and——” George stopped abruptly, leaped to his feet and dropped his blanket. “I’ve got to go in! See you later!”

Then he legged it to where Coach Burtis was beckoning, leaving Toby grinning broadly. “He’s just the biggest kind of a kid,” thought Toby. “Wants friendship and hasn’t the slightest idea how to get it!”

But if Toby was allowed no opportunity to achieve glory that week, at least none begrudged him hard work. He was allowed to labor to his heart’s content. Nay, he was urged to! Coach Burtis seemed to be distinctly unhappy if Toby happened on a moment’s idleness during practice time, and he or Captain Beech was forever at hand to suggest a new activity. Toby got to hate the tackling dummy with a deep and bitter hatred. He told Arnold he couldn’t enjoy his meals any longer because his mouth was always filled with dirt. Arnold advised him to close his mouth when he did his tackling.

For the First Team, on which Arnold was alternating with Bates at right half-back, life had become real and earnest. Coach Lyle had made a wholesale cut in the squad and fellows who were “up” in football affairs professed themselves already able to tell you what the line-up would be in the final game of the season with Broadwood. And a good many did tell—if you’d listen. Frank Lamson was also trying for a half-back position, but Frank’s chances were not considered brilliant. At least, though, he survived the cut, and when, on Saturday, the team played its second game, with Tyron School, Frank displaced Roover in the last quarter and sent his stock up tremendously by a slashing fourteen-yard run that netted Yardley’s last score. Toby saw the final half of the game from the bleachers and yelled like a Comanche when Frank fairly smashed his way through the Tyron backs and went over the line near the corner of the field with two of the enemy clinging to him like limpets. Yardley’s work showed the effect of a week’s hard practice and some indication of promise. Teamwork was totally lacking, however, and it was individual brilliancy that ran the score up to 29 points. Curran, at quarter-back, and Noyes, who substituted for him, handled the team well. On the whole, although Tyron had managed to secure 6 points by two easy field-goals, Yardley Hall was satisfied with her team’s showing, and felt that there was reason to expect a successful season. As, however, October was still but a few days old, the conclusion may have been a trifle premature.

Captain Fanning, naturally optimistic, viewed the future very cheerfully indeed that evening. He was a tall, fine-looking chap, was Tom, and immensely popular. If he had any discernible fault it was that popularity meant a little too much to him, that he was a bit too dependent on the goodwill of his fellows. Criticism didn’t agree with Tom. It didn’t make him angry, but it hurt his feelings. On the other hand, praise was meat and drink to him, and if you wanted to hear him purr you had only to stroke him. But every one liked him, the juniors in Merle Hall, the First Class fellows in Dudley and the faculty members as well. And he was a really remarkable football player, as he had proved last season. His more ardent admirers went so far as to believe that so long as Tom Fanning played left tackle it didn’t matter much who else was on that side of center. Like most brilliant players, though, he was better offensively than defensively. As a captain Tom had yet to be proved, for neither personal popularity nor individual ability necessarily insures leadership. Tom believed very thoroughly in himself, however, and if any one held doubts as to his fitness for the captaincy that person was not Tom.

To-night, tilted back in a chair against Toby’s bed, his long legs stretched before him, his hands in his trousers pockets, and a contented smile on his good-looking countenance, Tom was doing his own stroking. “Really, Arnold,” he was saying, “we’ve got a ripping lot of fellows this year, now haven’t we? Take the line from end to end, you can’t beat it! I don’t care whether Candee or Orlie Simpson plays center or whether Jim Rose or Twining plays left guard. Any way you look at it it’s a corking line. That’s the beauty of having really good substitutes. As for the back-field, why, with you and Larry and Roover and Curran—or Noyes, for that matter—there won’t be a better one in this corner of the world this fall!”

“Say, Tom, how do you get that way?” asked Arnold, who was struggling into a clean collar. “The team’s all right, old dear, but we haven’t won the Broadwood game quite yet. To listen to you a fellow would think we’d just hung the ball in the Trophy Room!”

Tom laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I’ve picked out a place for it, Arn! Oh, we’ll have our little setbacks and we’ll lose a game or two one way or another, but that isn’t troubling me any. Why——”

“All right, but don’t talk like that so the fellows can hear you,” protested Arnold, more than half serious. “The worst thing that can happen to a team is for it to get the happy, confident feeling. Just as soon as it does it gets a silly grin on its face—or faces, rather—and dies in its tracks. I’d like it better if you’d cultivate a fine grouch, Tom.”

“Maybe I shall later, but you can’t make me grouchy to-night. I tell you, Arn, we showed what we had to-day. Take the team as it played this afternoon and teach it to work together and you’ve got a real machine, son. And Broadwood’ll know it some day!”

“I know. We have got some good players, and that’s no dream, but just at present it’s too much of an all-star aggregation to make a hit with me. There’s a heap of work ahead of us, old dear, before we get to be a real football team, and don’t you forget that for a little minute!”

“Oh, you’re a regular Calamity Jane,” jeered Tom. “Come on, or we’ll be late. Where’s Tucker? Isn’t he coming?”

“Yes, he will be here in a minute, I guess. And Frank’s going, too.”

“Lamson?” Tom’s brow clouded for an instant. “Say, Arn, he made a nifty touchdown to-day, didn’t he?”

“I thought so. But you needn’t cry about it.”

“I’m not. I was only wondering—You know, to my mind, Morris Roover’s the right chap there, Arn. Now suppose Lamson keeps on as he did this afternoon, eh?”

“Why, he will get the place, won’t he? You want the best man there, don’t you?”

“Rather! But Roover’s tried pretty hard for it. I mean, I’d be sorry if he lost out. He had hard luck last fall, you know. Got sick in the middle of the season and didn’t even get his letter. I suppose he’s hoping to make good this year.”

“What of it? He’s got another year after this. The trouble with you, Tom, is that you can’t forget your friendships on the gridiron. It won’t do, believe me. Friendship ceases at three-fifteen, or it ought to, when you’re captain. If it wasn’t for Mr. Lyle you’d have Sim Clarke playing end and Snow at guard and—and all the rest of your cronies—including me—on the team, and it would be a bum outfit. Friendship’s no good when it comes to picking a team, Tom.”

“Nonsense!” retorted the other. He didn’t seem displeased, though. “Of course I’d like to have my friends on the team; any fellow would; but they won’t get any favoritism from me.”

“Oh, no, none at all!” answered Arnold, buttoning his vest. “Look here, old dear, if I ever suspect that you’re trying to put me across because I’m a friend I’ll quit the team cold!”

“Oh, rot! You know perfectly well that you and Bates are the best we have for the position, and as far as I’m concerned I don’t care which of you gets it.”

“Stick to that and all will be well! What time have you got? I wonder what’s happened to Frank and——”

Toby’s appearance interrupted him and a minute later they were on their way, picking up Frank Lamson outside. They were going to the movies in Greenburg, the larger town across the river. There was a small moving picture theater in Wissining, no more than half a mile from school, that was well patronized by Yardley, but in Greenburg there were three of them to choose from, and to-night the boys had secured leave for the whole evening and so had plenty of time to make the longer journey. Besides, at Greenburg you got two pictures and listened to real music from an organ, while at the local house your entertainment was over in an hour and the piano was very tin-panny. Tom Fanning ranged beside Toby on the way down the hill and Arnold and Frank followed. Tom was still full of football and optimism, and Toby heard a good deal about the team’s wonderful prospects and didn’t have to do any of the talking. By the time the bridge was reached, however, Tom had worked off some of his enthusiasm and inquired about Toby’s fortunes.

“Arn says he finally persuaded you to try for the Second,” he said. “Like it?”

“Yes, I like it very well,” answered Toby. “Only I can’t seem to take it as seriously as most of the fellows. Ought I to, Fanning? What I mean is, just how important is playing football on the Second Team? I wanted to quit last week and Arnold had a fit and Grover Beech read the riot act to me. I thought football, especially Second Team football, was a lark, but I’m beginning to think that it’s not!”

“Well, I suppose we do take football rather too seriously,” replied Tom leniently. “But, hang it, Tucker, if you’re going to do a thing why not do it well? Why not put your whole heart into it? Of course, the Second Team isn’t as important as the First, but it’s just as well for the fellows who play on it to think it is. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t work so hard and we wouldn’t turn out such a good Second Team. And, after all, a good Second is important, because it gives us practice.”

“When do you begin playing us?” asked Toby.

“Next week. Tuesday, probably. What are you trying for?”

“Quarter. Sounds conceited, doesn’t it?”

“Not a bit! Why? A quarter-back isn’t any better than a guard or an end, is he? It takes just as much ability to play one position well as it does another.”

“Y-yes, I suppose so, but—it seems to me a fellow’s got to know a whole lot in order to run the team right.”

“Oh, yes, he has. But it comes down to knowing a few plays and when to call for them, and remembering your signals. After all, it’s the captain that’s the general. Half the time a quarter doesn’t get much chance to boss the thing. The coach maps the game out beforehand, the captain holds the reins and the quarter-back does the yelling.” Tom laughed. “Anyway, that’s pretty close to it, Tucker.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Toby said in relieved tones. “I was sort of scared, you see; thought I might have to run the whole business if I happened to get put in some time. I’d make rather a mess of it if I did, I guess!”

“Not you, Tucker. You’re rather the type to make good, I’d say. I hope you get the place.”

“Thanks,” answered Toby, dubiously. “You mean kindly, no doubt, but I guess I’d just as lief some one else got it. Frick has it now and I dare say he will keep it. He will so far as I’m concerned!”

“You don’t seem to have a very high notion of your ability,” laughed Tom. “Don’t be too humble, Tucker, or folks will begin to think the way you talk. And, look here, there’ll be a chance for you on the First next year, for both Curran and Noyes will be gone, and the rest of the lot aren’t very promising. So just you keep going, Tucker.”

“Oh, I’ll keep going all right,” replied Toby sadly. “They won’t let me do anything else. They’re always picking on me.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Burtis and Beech. They sit up together until daylight finding stunts for me to do the next day!”

“Sounds to me,” said Tom thoughtfully, “as if you were better than you make yourself out, old man. Or else you imagine things.”

“Let’s say the last guess is right,” laughed Toby.

They visited two theaters before they found one whose bill promised the sort of entertainment they wanted, and found seats just before the house darkened. During the announcement of coming attractions some one tapped Toby on the shoulder and he looked around in the half-gloom and saw Horace Ramsey seated behind him in company with George Tubb. Horace was evidently pleased when Toby recognized him and spoke to him, but George’s only response to Toby’s whispered greeting was a nod and a scowl.

Going homeward, two hours later, the quartet grew to a round dozen as other Yardley boys joined it, and Arnold observed that maybe it was just as well there were plenty of them as the “town thugs,” as he called them, had been getting “fresh” lately. “Casement and another chap were coming back the other night and got into a fine old scrap with a gang of the toughs,” he explained. “They had to beat it finally. Loring got a beautiful black eye out of it. He says there were four of them against him and the other chap. Hence the retreat.”

“That’s something new, isn’t it?” asked a boy on the other side of Arnold. “We never used to have any trouble with the town fellows.”

“They’re chaps from the new mill they built last year, I believe. Rather a tough lot, I guess. They’ll get all they want, though, if they keep on. Wouldn’t be a bad thing for some of them to turn up now and try to start something,” Arnold chuckled. “They won’t, though, when they see the size of our party.” And, although their progress out of Greenburg was anything but quiet, none disputed their way.

CHAPTER XII
FIRST TEAM VS. SECOND

The Second Team started its training table Monday. The First had done so a week earlier. The tables, each accommodating eighteen persons, occupied the two farther corners of the dining-hall. That of the First Team was given a certain degree of privacy by two oak screens similar to the one that stood before the door leading to the pantry, but the Second Team consumed its meals in full view of the world. Joining the training table, Toby discovered, added no luxuries to your menu. Rather, it did quite otherwise, for pastry and puddings, save for one or two very simple concoctions, were sternly barred. You got rather more beef and lamb—too underdone to please Toby—and eggs were a drug on the market. Potatoes were served sparingly and only in the baked condition. On the whole, there was a notable monotony to the training table fare, but as the fellows were generally extremely hungry that didn’t trouble them greatly.

Toby’s presence at the Second Team board was somewhat of a surprise to Toby, since, as there were places for only seventeen players,—Coach Burtis sat at the head of the table,—it seemed to him that he was displacing more deserving talent. Why he should be there and Stair and Bird not there, was a conundrum, a conundrum that was partly answered for him that Monday afternoon.

“You’re on B Team, Tucker,” announced Mr. Burtis when, at four o’clock, the players were called back to the bench. “Show me what you’ve learned the last week. You’ll have Lippman at half and I want you to use him whenever you can. Play him hard. He will stand it. And don’t neglect your kicking game just because your punters aren’t the best. The only way for them to learn is to have it to do. Keep to simple plays; B Team doesn’t know anything complicated; and speed it up all you know how.”

“Y-yes, sir,” agreed Toby. Then he shed his blanket and wondered whether he had learned anything the last week, and if he had what it was! However, it wouldn’t do to let either the coach or the players guess the trepidation he felt, and so he pulled on his head-guard quite snappily and limbered up his legs, as, he judged, was the approved thing to do, and looked as smiling and care-free as possible. Then the two teams trotted out, A with the ball, and Gyp blew a whistle and his troubles had begun.

But, after all, the troubles weren’t so many, nor so formidable. He made mistakes, and he shared in a perfectly ghastly fumble on A’s twenty-six yards, and twice he got his signals so badly mixed that the whole team howled at him. But, on the other hand, he put vim into his fellows and followed the coach’s directions regarding Lippman and the kicking game and the use of simple plays, and before the period had ended he had the exquisite pleasure of watching the pigskin skin the enemy’s cross-bar for a three-point tally. He could have wept tears of joy on Crawford’s neck for that thirty-yard drop-kick, and A Team’s sullen resentment was an added delight. But B had to pay for her cheekiness. Already A had scored a touchdown, and now, bitterly resentful, she set to work to wreak vengeance. And she did it finally, for three long runs by Nelson and White took the ball back to B’s thirty-five yards and White plugged along for another down through a crumbling right side in spite of Toby’s shrill exhortations, and Stover banged into Sid Creel, at center, and piled through to the eighteen. Toby was very glad when time was called for Sid’s recovery, for B was on the run and becoming more disorganized each moment. He spent a precious two minutes ranging the line and “talking Dutch,” and when Sid, looking vague and dizzy, shuffled into his position again there was a perceptible stiffening of the defense. But it couldn’t last against A’s battering-ram tactics, and presently it was crumbling again. Short gains but steady, and B was on her last white line, and it was second down and every one was shouting or grunting. Toby gritted his teeth and danced about and hurled defiance across the bent backs before him, all the time trying with the intensity of despair to guess the play that was coming. He did guess, but he guessed wrong, and Nelson shot unexpectedly outside right tackle, straight for the center of the goal, and the only satisfaction Toby got was in sitting on Nelson’s head after he had been pulled down by Crawford. Bowen grinned miserably, and every B Team fellow was very, very careful not so much as to look at him; for Bowen was right tackle and had been most ingloriously eliminated. After that the horn squawked and the half was over.

Toby and several others who had played through the whole twelve minutes were dismissed to the showers, although all would have preferred staying and watching the second half. Instead, they argued hotly all the way up to the gymnasium—the two teams being very equally represented—and still argued, though with diminished heat, while the showers hissed. Toby was secretly rather well satisfied with his performance that afternoon until, later, he learned that B Team, under Roy Frick’s generalship, had actually scored a touchdown in the last period of play!

On Tuesday, after a half-hour of light practice, the Second trotted over to the First Team field and, before a large and interested audience, was badly mauled and beaten. Frick and Rawson played quarter through two twelve-minute halves, and Toby and Stair—Bird, it seemed, had retired to private life—sat on the bench and watched and worried, trying to believe that things would have gone no better for the Second if they had taken part. Second used most of her substitutes in a vain effort to stave off, not defeat, for that was inevitable, but dishonor, and could make nothing of it. First Team piled up the scores with a merciless and monotonous succession and the audience yawned and drifted away.

“What’s that?” asked Lou Stair drearily. “Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-six,” answered Toby glumly.

“Gee-jiminy-gosh!” groaned Stair. “Say, what’s the matter with the Second, anyway? What’s got into ’em, Tucker! Look at Smith, will you? Why doesn’t he get down? Why doesn’t Frick get after him? He thinks he’s a skyscraper! And there goes Dawson off-side again! Gee, our bunch is playing like sand-lot kids! Well, he got away with it, and that’s something!”

“What of it?” asked Toby dully. “We didn’t make enough to plant a row of beans on! That’s third. White’ll have to punt.”

“Yeah, as much as ten yards!” jeered Stair. “What’d I tell you? Guess he’s got a friend on the side-line, the way he kicked the ball there! Well, here’s where First scores again!”

And presently First did that very thing, Toby’s gloom being slightly relieved by the fact that it was Arnold who took the ball over by a slashing run from the Second’s eighteen yards. Gloom enveloped the whole blanketed line of watchers that second half, for they had been doing a good deal of talking as to what was to happen to the First Team when they tried conclusions. In fact, Second had even gone so far as to hint that the real reason Coach Lyle hadn’t let his team face the Second before was his fear of a disastrous defeat. Toby wondered how Coach Burtis, pacing tranquilly to and fro along the side-line, his hands buried in his trousers pockets, could maintain his expression of unconcern in the face of such direful happenings! Toby would have felt a heap better if Mr. Burtis had scowled or kicked at a pebble or shown distress in some other manner. The coach’s unruffled demeanor seemed to Toby to smack of treason! He was very glad when that farcical game came to an end with a final score of 33 to 0.

Second, fagged, disheveled, outraged, climbed a weary path to the gymnasium, muttering threats of vengeance; hearing which Coach Burtis smiled a secret smile of satisfaction. Toby felt quite disgraced until the lapse of an hour or two brought a realization of the fact that such things had happened before and would happen again, and that no one took them very seriously. At supper Mr. Burtis ate quite as much as usual and with as much enjoyment, and talked and jested in his accustomed manner; which encouraged Toby to satisfy a really ravenous hunger. After a steak and a baked potato and the usual trimmings he found that he could view the afternoon’s Waterloo with equanimity. There was, he reflected, another day coming!

Wednesday found Toby learning A Team signals, his allegiance transferred to that squad by order of the coach. In the scrimmage Rawson led B Team and Toby adorned the bench until near the end of the second half. Then Frick came out and Toby went in and received an evil and portentous wink from Sid Creel. That wink said very plainly: “You wait till I get at you, you renegade!” Just at first it was a bit disconcerting to find himself slamming into his former teammates and to realize that they not only no longer loved him but were eager to grind his face in the earth and otherwise degrade him! Before the game was over, though, he had very effectually forgotten the old ties and was glorying in every foot of territory conquered by A Team. It was remarkable what a healthy antagonism existed between the two squads. Before the scrimmage they were all Second Team fellows, and afterwards, in the locker-room, they fraternized nicely, but while the game lasted they were enemies and aliens, and neither side asked quarter. Toby, during a busy six or seven minutes of play that afternoon, was rather rudely handled by his former comrades, and made his way up the hill with a ruddy nose and several assorted contusions. But he had the satisfaction of a touchdown and a brief word of commendation from Coach Burtis; and nothing else much mattered.

Thursday they went against the First again and, while they were once more decisively trimmed, they made a far better showing. Toby got in for the whole of the second half and, after recovering from a bad attack of stage fright, gave a fairly good account of himself. Toby wasn’t one to seek personal glory, and there were times when he might have taken the ball himself and didn’t. He did get off one good twenty-yard sprint with the pigskin clasped in the cradle of his elbow, and got a hearty thump on his back from Arnold as he trotted by that member of the enemy forces and a rousing acclaim from the stands. But for the rest Toby stayed modestly in position, letting Nelson and White and, less frequently, Stover, perform the back-field stunts—or try to. First Team was fast rounding into a hard-working, aggressive, snappy organization, and facing her was no child’s play. That the Second held her to four scores that day, and credited herself with a field-goal, speaks well for Coach Burtis’ charges. Second didn’t consider that she had actually wiped out the stigma of Tuesday’s overwhelming defeat, but she derived a lot of comfort from her showing, and White, whose capable foot had secured that goal from the field, was a twenty-four hour hero. It was even whispered that Coach Lyle had been seen looking hard at White and that the latter’s transfer to the First Team was inevitable. Which, while it may have brought pleasant anticipations to the Second Team while full-back, filled the rest of the fellows with gloomy forebodings.

“That’s the way they do,” lamented Farquhar, the rangy left tackle. “Just as soon as we get a fellow so’s he’s some use to us they nab him for the First. What’s the use of that? If they want us to give ’em good practice they ought to let us have some decent players. But they don’t. Last year they swiped three of our fellows two weeks before the Broadwood game. They make me very weary!”

However, it seemed that Second’s fears might be groundless, for Friday found White still with them, and he was still with them the following day when the First went up against Forest Hill School.

CHAPTER XIII
TEAM-MATES FALL OUT

It was a brute of a day, with a chilling, drizzling rain and a sodden, sloppy field. Toby had been out of sorts since the moment of his awakening to a dimly-lighted room and the sound of dripping eaves. He had pecked at his breakfast, more than usually averse to the ruddiness of his steak and willing to exchange a whole pitcher of milk for one heartening cup of hot coffee. Recitations went badly. There was an evident listlessness on the part of the students and a consequent lack of sympathy on the part of the instructors. In Latin Toby made a horrid mess of things, his brain having apparently forgotten to function, and “Chawles,” as Mr. Coburn was known among the boys, became quite testy and rendered a lengthy oration on the shortcomings of the class, which, while intended for the entire assemblage, was aimed directly at Toby. I mention these incidents that you may better understand what happened in the afternoon when the Second Team stood rather morosely around in the drizzle and waited for practice to start and Toby, hands rolled in his sweater, glowered across to where the First Team was warming up for the Forest Hill contest and damp but enthusiastic cheers arose from the stands. It seemed to Toby that a whole lot of fellows, including T. Tucker, were wasting the golden moments of life in vain pursuits. Could Toby have chosen an occupation just then he would have been a bearded and brawny pirate afloat on a tropic sea, a cutlass between his teeth and an assortment of pistols thrust in his blood-red sash. Which shows that Toby’s normally gentle and sane disposition had a bad kink in it to-day.

And at such an inopportune moment Roy Frick, whose disposition, unlike Toby’s, was never worthy of being termed gentle, saw fit to make himself obnoxious. In justice to Frick it should be explained that he had an inherent dislike for the sensation of raindrops trickling down the back of his neck, which sensation he was now having. Frick was a sturdily-made, hard-muscled fellow of seventeen with a broad, not ill-favored face. He was vain, arrogant and pugnacious, although there were those who said that he liked to talk fight better than he liked to fight. Perhaps in an effort to forget his misery, Frick had taken a ball from the canvas sack in which they were brought to the field and was passing with Lippman. Frick was behind Toby, but the latter was dimly aware of what was going on, just as he was aware of the late-comers, George Tubb among them, who were dawdling down from the gymnasium. Once the pigskin, made slippery by the rain, escaped from Frick and bobbed across the wet turf to where Toby stood, and Toby sent it trickling back with a touch of his foot. Perhaps there was something antagonistic in the brief, careless glance exchanged with Frick, for Toby felt antagonistic to everything at the moment. In any case, Frick doubtless resented that look, and a minute later the football collided with a dull, damp thump against the back of Toby’s head.

“Sorry!” called Frick grinning. “The ball’s slippery, Tucker.”

Toby flushed, walked onto the gridiron, where the pigskin was wobbling erratically about, and picked it up. Then, facing the longest stretch of the field and trying to recall all he had learned of punting, he swung his right foot against the dropping ball and was rewarded with a very healthy-sounding thump. Such a performance in a game would have won him applause, for the ball, in spite of its sodden condition, arched toward the further corner of the field in a fine, long flight and came to earth a full forty-five yards away. But there was no applause on this occasion, unless the amused glances of those who happened to see the feat could have been construed as applausive. Frick came running, his face redder than Toby’s had been.

“What’s the idea, Tucker?” he demanded threateningly. “You go and fetch that now!”

“Not likely,” answered Toby in a growl.

“Yes, you will, or I’ll knock your red head off! You get it, do you hear?”

Toby’s face paled from red to white. “Yes, I hear,” he said in a low and steady voice. He covered the distance of a scant yard that separated them in one quick step. “I hear a lot I don’t take stock in, Frick. I hear you’re a fighter, for instance!”

Frick’s right arm went back, elbow crooked, hand clenched, and his right foot moved back with it, but Toby didn’t wait. Instead, he stepped suddenly forward with his own left foot and thrust shoulder and flattened hand against Frick’s chest with the result that the latter staggered back, failed to recover his balance and sat down hard. He was up in an instant, his eyes blazing, silent, and just a bit doubtful. And Toby, who had followed, stood ready. But, while a fight would have been a welcome relief from boredom, the others interposed. Watson and Farquhar and Sid Creel and several more got between the opponents with words of caution and displeasure.

“Cut it, you chumps!” said the big center, pushing Frick away. “Here comes Mr. Burtis!”

“What do I care?” cried Frick. “Think he’s going to knock me down and get away with it? Let go of me, Ben, or I’ll—I’ll smash you! I will! Take your hands——”

But Watson wouldn’t, and Farquhar was there too, soothing and ridiculing, and every one had mixed in and the incident was perforce closed. And lest Toby, who really seemed quite calm and peaceable, should attempt to continue the discussion, Sid Creel and Stover stood guard over him. And onto the scene strode Coach Burtis and Captain Beech, suspicious but asking no questions, and every one strolled casually somewhere else and looked very innocent.

“What was the trouble?” whispered Sid Creel as he and Toby wandered along the side-line. Toby related the incident in a few words, and Sid observed him curiously.

“Gee, you must have had a grouch,” he exclaimed wonderingly. “Never knew you had a temper like that, Toby!”

“Well, I have,” answered Toby dryly. “Of course, it was a silly thing to do, but he had no business lamming me with that wet ball!”

Sid grinned. “Well, it wasn’t his fault the ball was wet, was it?” he asked.

Toby managed a weak smile. “It’s his fault he will have to chase after it,” he answered.

But of course Frick didn’t have to do any such thing. There is always some obliging person about in such an emergency, and it was young Lovett, hopeful candidate for end position, who scurried off and brought it back to an indignant Gyp. Then practice began and every one had other things to think of for the succeeding hour. Now and again Toby and Roy Frick encountered each other, on which occasions Frick glowered or sneered and Toby pretended to have forgotten the other’s existence. Toby was rather ashamed of himself by now and quite willing to consider the affair closed.

There was no scrimmage this afternoon, and at a little after four the squad was dismissed. Taking only time enough to wrap themselves in blankets, the Second hurried in a body across to the other gridiron and won a ripple of laughter as they appeared like so many blue wraiths, around the corner of the covered stand. It seemed like an accident, but possibly wasn’t, that George Tubb scuttled into the seat next to Toby.

“Guess that guy would have mopped the ground up with you if the fellows hadn’t butted in,” observed George with one of his malicious grins. “He’s a lot heavier than you, Tucker.”

“I had a lucky escape then,” replied Toby. “Know what the score is here?”

“Nothing to nothing. Forest Hill’s too fast for those First Team yaps. Say, I wish Frick would try to get gay with me some day! I don’t like that blow-hard.”

“Perhaps he will,” said Toby pleasantly. “At least, you can hope, Tubb.”

George eyed him suspiciously. Toby’s tone had suggested that he viewed the idea with favor. George grunted. “Well, if he ever does he will get a lot more’n he expects,” he growled. “You ought to have handed him a punch instead of just pushing him, Tucker. He’ll be after you the first chance he gets. They say he’s a clever scrapper, too.”

“Do they?” asked Toby indifferently. “Then there’ll probably be enough left for you to tackle, Tubb.”

The third period ended just then, and Toby’s gaze, turning away from the players, encountered Tubb’s. For some reason Tubb colored, and then blurted: “Say, you never came around to the room like you said you were going to, Tucker. You’re getting sort of choosey, too, I suppose.”

“I called last week, Tubb. You were out. Didn’t Ramsey tell you?”

“Yes. I forgot. How’d you know I’d be out?” Again that objectionable grin! Toby frowned.

“I didn’t,” he said shortly. Then: “Can’t you ever be decent, Tubb?” he asked. “This thing of always having a chip on your shoulder is a bit tiresome.”

“I haven’t any chip.” Tubb laughed a mixture of apology and defiance. “I’ve got some—some pride, though! No fellow needs to know me if he doesn’t want to!”

“That goes without saying,” answered Toby dryly.

George scowled darkly. “Well, it’s so. A lot of you guys with wrist-watches make me tired! Gee, if——”

“I don’t happen to wear a wrist-watch, Tubb, and making you tired is nothing in my young life,” said Toby wearily. “Let’s cut out the love-pats. I’m not feeling awfully gay to-day. How do you like playing end?”

“All right,” replied George after a moment. “If Mr. Burtis wasn’t a bonehead, though, he’d let me play half. I always have played half.”

“Always?” asked Toby, idly, watching Snowden kick-off to Forest Hill. “How long is ‘always’?”

“Well, last year and some the year before. I was the best back on our team, anyway!”

“I didn’t know you had played so much. When I asked you——”

“Oh, well, you sounded so blamed patronizing,” growled George.

“Didn’t mean to. I’m glad you stuck it out on the squad, Tubb. Beech said the other day that—well, he seemed to think you were going to make a pretty good end.”

“Huh!” said George scornfully. “I could show him some real end playing right now if he’d give me a chance! But he’s stuck on Mawson and Connell.” In spite of his words, Toby got the idea that George was nevertheless pleased by the compliment to his playing. “I suppose they belong to the same Society Beech does!”

“No, as a matter of fact, Tubb, Beech is Cambridge and Connell is Oxford. I don’t know which Mawson is, but I don’t think it matters. I wouldn’t make remarks of that sort if I were you. Fellows don’t like them.”

If Tubb made any reply Toby didn’t hear it, for Halliday had got away around Forest Hill’s left and pulled down a long and desperate forward-pass, and now he was streaking up the field with the ball and the stand was on its feet, shouting and imploring. Halliday dodged the first of the enemy and sped on. Then the Forest Hill quarter was on him, there was a confusion of rolling bodies and Ted was free again to go plunging on toward the nearing goal-line. The pursuit gained but never quite reached him, and Ted at last subsided between the posts. That was all the scoring done by either team, and shortly after Captain Fanning had missed an easy goal the game ended. The visitors considered, and not without reason, that they had virtually won the honors of the day and departed cheering through the twilight drizzle.

CHAPTER XIV
TOBY AT QUARTER

The outcome of the Forest Hill game was a favorite topic of discussion during the next few days. Although Yardley had won in the last four minutes, by means of a well-earned touchdown following a forward pass, the general opinion was that the Blue had been largely outplayed by a lighter but much faster eleven. Of course, reverses were to be expected, but after Yardley’s showing in the Tyron game it did seem that she should have done better against a “small school team” like Forest Hill. On the other hand, the local football historians reminded that some six seasons ago, Forest Hill had actually won from Yardley, 5 to 3, and that it was no uncommon thing for the smaller school to score against the Blue.

Rumors of changes in the line-up spread, and it was whispered that all was not serene between captain and coach. Arnold was decidedly glum that Saturday evening, and, although the usual excursion to Greenburg in search of moving picture thrills was made, he was no great addition to the company. Afterwards, when they were preparing for bed, Toby told him that he was foolish to let football worry him so. “Any one might think you were captain of the eleven instead of Fanning,” said Toby. “You act——”

“I wish I was—were—was——”

“‘Were’ will do. Why do you wish you was—were?”

“Because I’d drop two or three of the ‘dead-ones’ and have a team instead of a bunch of stars!”

Toby weighed that in silence. Finally: “Who are the ‘dead-ones’?” he asked.

Arnold shook his head. “Guess I oughtn’t to talk about it,” he muttered. “It’s not my business.”

“Right you are! Just remember that. If it’s not your business, don’t worry about it.”

“That’s easy enough to say,” Arnold grumbled. After a moment he said explosively, dropping a shoe to the floor in emphasis: “Why Mr. Lyle doesn’t jump in and fire a couple of those fellows is what gets me! If he hasn’t got the backbone to stand up against Tom he oughtn’t to be coach.”

“Oh, well, the season’s young yet,” answered Toby easily. “Maybe Mr. Lyle is sort of ‘watchful waiting.’ I’m thinking of going to sleep. When you get through holding your foot in your hand and making faces you might put out the light. It works quite easily. You just turn the thingumbob there. Don’t blow it out, please, because——”

“Because it might stop your chatter! All right. Good-night.”

The rumored changes in the First Team line-up didn’t materialize, however; at least not during the following week. Arnold reported that things were going better and gave credit to Mr. Lyle, who, it seemed, had delivered a few well-chosen words on Monday, before practice. “He’s really got some of the loafers at work,” said Arnold. “Even Stone is showing a little animation!”

“Stone being one of the ‘dead-ones’?”

“Well, he hasn’t looked very much alive until this week,” answered Arnold. “I dare say we’ll get our gait by Saturday. They say Brown and Young’s is a tough bunch of scrappers. I hope they are. We need to go up against something that has a wallop!”

“You did that very thing yesterday,” said Toby.

“You’re not far off, at that,” agreed the other. “Your team put up a mighty pretty scrap. If you’d been half as good on defense as you were on attack——”

“Oh, well, I noticed that we held you fellows twice inside our thirty. Hold your horses. We’ll be beating you badly by the end of the month!”

“Rather fancy yourself, don’t you?” jeered Arnold. “By the way, was that your friend Tubbs who played left end for you in the last half?”

“Tubb is the gentleman’s name. What did you think of him?”

“Why, he acted like a crazy Indian! He made me nervous looking at him, and hearing him!”

Toby laughed. “That’s his style, Arn. It’s psychological, you see. He distracts the attention of the opponent from the game. All that jumping and up and down and running around and talking is just to get your goat!”

“Well, he came near getting it, all right! He made as much row as a Broadwood shortstop with the bases full and two down! But he seemed to me to be playing a pretty good game, just the same. He was into everything!”

“Beech says he’s a comer, Arn. If he could only get over the idea that he’s being imposed on by every one he’d get on a heap better.”

“He’s a chronic sorehead and kicker, I suppose. I’ve met one or two like him. Maybe he will get over it in time. How’s that other protégé of yours, the tennis fiend?”

“Ramsey? I don’t see much of him nowadays. But I know that he’s got in with a fairly decent lot of chaps and looks about fifty per cent better than he did. I told you about his freezing me one night when I went to see him? Had both windows wide open and told me he couldn’t get along without plenty of fresh air. Bet you anything he’d never slept with a window open in his life until Muscles got at him! You know, I think I can take a bit of credit for the—the rejuvenation of friend Ramsey!”

“Well, that’s some word, but I dare say you’re right. Now all you’ve got to do is make Mr. Tubbs over and you’re through.”

“Tubb is a hard-boiled one, Arn, and I haven’t much hope of him. If I liked him a bit better I suppose I’d take more interest in his career——”

“I wish you’d stop talking like a blooming dictionary,” groaned Arnold. “Now dry up and let me take a fall out of this math.”

That week saw two changes in the Second Team. Sid Creel displaced Watson at center and George Tubb was shifted from B Team to A. He and Mawson were used impartially and in the four games that the Second played against the First that week there appeared to be little choice between them. The same could be as truthfully said of Toby and Roy Frick. Sometimes one started the game and sometimes the other, but each had an equal chance. Toby had his shortcomings and so did his rival, Toby’s concerning individual play and Frick’s generalship. Or, perhaps, leadership would be a better word to use. Somehow, or so it seemed to those whose business it was to note such things, the Second Team showed more life and aggressiveness when Toby’s shrill voice called the signals. For Toby’s voice was shrill when he played quarter, though at other times it was an ordinary tenor of middle register, with a pleasant touch of Long Island fog in it. But that first day, when unexpectedly called on to act as quarter-back, Toby’s nervousness had sent his voice several notes up the scale, and for some reason it had never come down again so long as he was giving signals. Arnold likened it to the yelping of a fox terrier one day, and on the next occasion Toby tried hard to bring it back to normal, with the result that it sounded as hoarse as a frog with a bad cold, and no one could hear him!

But at individual playing of the position, Roy Frick was better. Frick was a tricky runner and frequently squirmed outside tackles for needed gains. And he was a dependable punter. Possibly Toby would have showed up better beside Frick at this time if he had had more faith in his own ability, but he was chary of trusting to his own efforts to advance the ball. On catching punts and running them in, he was not much behind his rival, and at punting he was fast catching up with him. But there was no doubt that from the spectator’s point of view Frick was the man for the job.

There had been no resumption of hostilities between the two. Toby was willing to forgive and forget, although he secretly disliked Frick for the latter’s overbearing manner. For his part, Frick had evidently neither forgiven nor forgotten, but he seemed satisfied to let the matter rest as it was. Toby had an idea that the other frequently ridiculed his playing, for sometimes he caught looks of stifled amusement on the faces of Frick’s cronies. As, however, they were seldom on the bench at the same time and, being in different classes and having different circles of friends, scarcely ever encountered each other off the football field, there was little chance for a clash. At training table Frick sat four places from Toby on the same side of the board; and, anyway, at table personal animosities would not be allowed to flourish. Save for an occasional Sunday, Coach Burtis was always in his place at the head, and he had a watchful eye and a careful ear.

On Friday, contrary to custom, the Second Team was led across to the other gridiron for a twelve-minute bout with the First. The First had not pleased Coach Lyle since the Forest Hill game, and the morrow’s contest, with Brown and Young’s School would demand all the Blue had. Toby was sent in at quarter. He noted two changes in the First Team’s line. Casement was playing right guard in place of Snow and Candee was at center in Simpson’s stead. Coach Burtis had instructed him to give the First’s center and right side the brunt of the line attack, and Toby understood now that the substitutes there were to be put to the test. He wondered if either of them suspected and whether their own coach had instigated the ordeal. He felt a bit sorry for Snow, who was rather light for a guard, and hoped he wouldn’t get used too roughly.

There was no kick-off to-day. Instead, Second was given the ball in the middle of the field. Coaches and trainers hovered about like hawks around a chicken yard, and there was much exhorting and last-moment instructing. First Team had been keyed up to the minute, and faces showed strain and poised bodies tension. Toby had Nelson, Lippman, and Crawford behind him, and it was Lippman he chose for that first attack. His voice yelped, Farquhar, left tackle, trotted over to the right of the line, the signal came, and Lippman, seizing the ball at a hand-pass, smashed ahead. Crawford and Toby piled in behind. The First Team line buckled and snapped back again. Jim Rose, big and pink-cheeked, roared defiance. “Second down! Nine!” shouted the referee. Toby grabbed an arm and pulled Lippman out of the pile. Already he was shouting new signals. Again Farquhar shifted, again Lippman took the pass. But this time he shot obliquely to the left, the whole back-field behind him, and plunged at Snow. Through he went, fighting, squirming, turning! two yards—three—four—Then the rout was stayed. A faint “Down” and the blowing of the whistle came together. Toby arose from some one’s unquiet legs and added another note to his voice:

“That’s the stuff, Second! That’s working! Come on, now! Let’s get ’em again! Signal!”

“Five to go!” cried the referee, skipping away.

“Hold that side! Hold that side!” shouted Fanning.

“That was on you, Snow!” Mr. Lyle’s voice was ice-cold. “Don’t let them do it again!”

“Come on, Yardley! Throw ’em back!” called Curran, up-field. “Watch for a forward, there, Ted!”

Again Second smashed at the First’s right guard and center, and again the latter yielded. But Crawford had made only a yard and a half, and now it was fourth down and the forty-yard line was still a good ten feet distant. Grover Beech pulled Toby’s head down and whispered, and Toby gave back a doubtful glance. But Beech’s word was law so long as it didn’t transgress the coach’s instructions, and Toby yielded. “Farquhar back!” he called. “Hold that line, Second!” Farquhar trotted to a kicking position and Nelson slipped into the line. First scented a fake, but covered her field nevertheless. Then the ball shot back to Lippman and he set out around his end, Toby leading. For a moment the play looked good, for First had drawn her back-field away, but Sanford eluded Connell and sent Toby sprawling and Roover got Lippman two yards short of the distance.

First made two at the Second’s left and then kicked. Crawford misjudged the ball badly on his twenty-five yards and it went over his head. Toby fell on it on his fifteen, and two First Team men fell on him. Second plugged the center again for two, and again for one. Then, on a delayed pass, Crawford squirmed through Snow for eight yards and first down. What a scolding there was then! Coach Lyle fairly raised welts. Some one called for time, and Toby, still short of breath from being sat on by the First Team ends, was very glad. Beech led him back.

“Watch Stone,” he said. “He’s coming away in on those plays. Slip one through outside him, Tucker. There’s a fine hole there!”

Toby nodded. “Got to bang the center, though, Beech. Coach’s orders. I’ll try it, though, first time they tighten.”

Toby shifted his line to the left, and First massed to meet the attack. Lippman failed at center, Candee standing like a rock. On a fake-kick, Crawford struck the line hard, but made less than a yard. Crawford gained three through Snow. Farquhar dropped back and Lippman dashed outside Stone and reeled off six yards before he was stopped. With one to go on fourth down, Toby elected to punt, and Farquhar dropped the pigskin on the First’s thirty-yard line. Roover brought it back to near the center of the field before Beech pulled him down.

First worked a neat forward-pass that netted seventeen yards and then smashed through center for five more. Second held twice and First booted over the line. On the twenty-five Toby returned to the attack on Snow and Candee and gained six in three downs. A fake-kick resulted in a fumble and the pigskin went to First on the opponent’s twenty-two. There was no holding the First Team then and she scored in seven plays, Snowden landing the ball near the corner of the field. The punt-out was not allowed and the teams went back to the fifty. Coach Lyle took pity on Snow and that much-mauled youth was removed in favor of Casement. For the Second, Stover and White came on for Lippman and Crawford, and George Tubb for Mawson. Again the kick-off was barred and Second given the ball. Toby tried the new right guard with no gain, got Stover around left for three, failed once more at center and himself punted to First’s twenty. First kicked on second down, Snowden getting nearly fifty yards. Stover caught and dodged back for ten. From the forty, Tubb swung around back and gained midfield on a fine run around the enemy’s left end. Then Toby fumbled and Rose captured the ball for the First. Another forward pass, Curran to Halliday, took the First to the Second’s twenty-four, and from there the First battered her way across for the second score. Before she got it, however, Toby retired groggily and Frick took his place. Toby had ill-advisedly allowed Snowden to sit on his stomach. Frick’s labor was soon over, however, for the First Team’s second touchdown practically ended the game.

CHAPTER XV
THE “TOUGH BUNCH”

No one seemed satisfied with the day’s performance. The First resented the enemy’s gains through their line and the Second declared stoutly that if they had been taught a decent defense against forward-passes the First would never have scored. Arnold told Toby later that Coach Lyle had read the riot act afterwards. “I didn’t know he could be so rude,” said Arnold sadly.

“Why didn’t you get in to-day?” Toby asked from the window-seat where, propped on many cushions, he looked pale and interesting.

“Lyle wanted to give you fellows a show.”

“Well, Bates didn’t do a whole lot,” said Toby. “You’re pretty punk, Arn, but you’ve got it over him. Gee, if I hadn’t made that rotten fumble on the fifty yards that time we might have held you fellows to a measly six points!”

“Yes, not! Son, that fumble of yours didn’t affect the game a mite. It was forward-passing that beat you chaps. Your ends were no good at all. Even your friend Mr. Tubb was fast asleep.”

“I know. We’ve got no sort of a defense for forward-passes. I called the turn on that second one, but Farquhar was away out of position and Tubb let Roover get right by him. You wait another week, though! We’re getting your measure, Arn! What about to-morrow? Are you going to play?”

“Ask Mr. Lyle. I suppose I’ll get a show sometime, though. I sure want to. They say Brown and Young’s are regular bearcats! What time is it getting to be? I’m as hungry as the dickens. Let’s go!”

The Second Team had no practice Saturday, which, for some of its members, was fortunate, since the First had managed to deal very harshly with them during the brief period of yesterday’s game. Toby, although he had nothing to show in the way of scars, was tired and lame when he crawled out of bed in the morning, and not until he had shivered under a shower-bath, groaningly rubbed himself pink and done two minutes of setting-up exercises in front of an open window which admitted the frostly tingle of the October morning did the usual feeling of well-being return. After that he was able to reach chapel without protests from lame muscles and, later, do full justice to a breakfast of cereal, eggs, toast, stewed fruit, and milk.

Fortunately, on Saturday mornings recitations were few, for, save during a brief midwinter period when outdoor sports were at a standstill, preoccupation was always noticeable on the part of the student body on that day of the week. Such a condition of mind was especially evident this forenoon, due, probably, to the fact that Yardley’s opponent in the afternoon had been heralded as a strong team with a proclivity for “roughing it.” Yardley, as much as any school and perhaps more than many, held for clean playing, but there was enough of the “Old Adam” there to make a bit of scrapping interesting. Its attitude was well explained by a remark made by Will Curran, the First Team quarter, in front of Oxford between recitations.

“If they’re mean players we’ll lick them,” said Curran. “I never saw a team yet who could play dirty ball and win as long as the other fellow played clean. But my guess is that they won’t play dirty. That sort of stuff doesn’t go here, and I think they know it. If they don’t know it they’ll mighty soon find it out! They’ll play clean if we have to slug ’em to make ’em!”

Which statement, although made in all sincerity and with a perfectly sober countenance, met with a ripple of laughter from his hearers. “That’s the idea, Will!” approved Frank Lamson. “We’ll have peace if we have to fight for it!”

Brown and Young’s School was a new institution and a large one. You saw its half-page advertisements in the magazines every month. Although a city school, it emphasized athletics and had a field that any university might have been proud of, with a stadium that was an architectural triumph. There were those who opined that Brown and Young’s graduates were likely to be better grounded in football, baseball and track athletics than in scholarly studies, but possibly such persons were disgruntled by a Brown and Young’s defeat. For Brown and Young’s took athletics seriously and pursued victory on diamond, gridiron or rink most strenuously. And, it must be acknowledged, Brown and Young’s had won many laurels. Yardley had met her last spring in baseball, but this was the first gridiron contest between the two. On the diamonds Brown and Young’s had proved noisy, argumentative and a trifle rough in the pinches, and had accepted a 3 to 2 defeat not very graciously, but she had not been guilty of unfair tactics. Perhaps, as Tom Fanning said, she liked to be thought a bit “tough” in the hope that her adversaries would either be afraid or try to beat her at toughness and get caught doing it. In any event, Yardley received a strict warning from Coach Lyle before the game.

“Any fellow who tries dirty work will come out,” he declared. “If the officials don’t put him off, I will. Just remember that. If Brown and Young’s don’t play clean it’s up to the officials. We’ve heard that these fellows are a ‘tough bunch,’ a win-at-any-cost team, but you can’t believe everything you hear. So don’t go into the game looking for trouble. Maybe it isn’t there. If they should try the rough-stuff, your captain will call the officials’ attention to it. Just you keep your hands and your temper down and your heads up. Play as hard as you know how, fellows, but play fair.”

It was an ideal football day, crisp and sunny, with almost no wind. Frost had left the field a bit soft but not sufficiently so to affect any one’s game. Greenburg turned out a good audience, which, added to the Yardley rooters and a half-hundred Brown and Young’s followers, nearly filled the stands by three o’clock. Toby had Sid Creel and Grover Beech for companions, and, reaching the field early, they got first row seats directly behind the Yardley bench. Brown and Young’s came on first, a capable-looking squad of thirty or so, accompanied by a regular retinue of noncombatants; a head coach and an assistant coach, a couple of managers, a trainer, an assistant trainer and two rubbers.

“Guess the Principal must be ill,” said Beech dryly. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Maybe he’s one of the cheer leaders,” suggested Sid. “Those are sure some gaudy togs of theirs!”

Sid had reference to the enemy’s orange sweaters and orange-and-black-ringed stockings.

“Princeton colors,” said Beech. “Doubtless showing a predilection for that university on the part of our noble opponent.”

“How do you get that way?” inquired Sid slangily. “Brown and Young’s fellows don’t go to Princeton.”

“Don’t they?” asked Toby innocently. “Where do they go?”

“Into professional baseball,” answered Sid in triumph.

Beech grinned approval of the bon mot, but said that he didn’t believe there was room in professional baseball for them all. Sid didn’t argue the matter, for Yardley trotted around the corner of the stand just then and the cheer leaders were bellowing for “A regular Yardley cheer, fellows, for the Team!”

After that, with four elevens warming up on the gridiron, there was too much to watch for conversation to flourish. Instead, the talk ran something like this: “Noyes is driving the scrubs.”—“Simpson’s back at center, Cap.”—“Gee, that was some punt! Wonder if they can do that in the game!”—“Oh, you Ted Halliday!”—“Look at the size of that guy, will you? Must be their center.”—“Right guard. He’d make two of Casement!”—“Those chaps have got a heap of pep, haven’t they?”—“How’re you betting, Cap?”—“Watch that yellow-leg kicking goals down there, fellows! He hasn’t missed one yet!”—“Hello, Andy! Who’s going to win?”—“Who’s the little chap in the gray sweater?”—“Cornish, of Trinity. He’s umpiring. He’s good, too.”—“Those fellows can cheer, can’t they? Rotten name for a school, though; Brown and Young’s. Sounds like they were advertising a department store!”—“Must be most time to start. Three minutes of? There goes Fanning now. Is that the referee with him?”—“Good-looking guy, that Brown and Young’s captain.”—“Fan lost the toss! Sure he did! What? Oh, that’s different! Still, I don’t see——”—“Every one up! Bust yourself, Toby! Rah! Rah! Rah!——”

Then, when the rival cheers had floated off across the river and the gold-and-russet marshes beyond, the stands became momentarily silent and the referee’s voice sounded clearly: “All ready, Brown and Young?—Ready, Yardley?” Then the whistle piped and a tall yellow-sleeved tackle swung a striped leg and sent the new ball hurtling down the field.

It was a long, high kick, and well-placed, and when Snowden had gathered it into his arms and doubled himself over it the enemy was almost on him. A scant eight yards he made, by dint of much twisting and feinting, and then he was pulled down. Yardley made one stab at the opponent’s left and gained two. Then the ball went back to Snowden and was hurled well up the field to the left. Roover was quite alone when it reached him, and he trailed off a dozen yards before he was forced outside. The play had caught the enemy napping, and it had suddenly moved the game from Yardley to Brown and Young’s territory, for when the ball was paced in and grounded it lay just short of the enemy’s forty yards. The Blue’s cohorts cheered and shouted and waved, while, from across the field, came a snappy, undismayed cheer from the Orange-and-Black.

Another slight gain outside left tackle, and again the pigskin shot back to Snowden. This time the big full-back started off toward his right as if he meant to turn the end, but, challenged, he threw a lateral to Arnold Deering, and Arnold, behind good interference, raced to the adversary’s twenty-eight before he was set on savagely and tumbled head over heels. Fortunately he held tight to the ball. The Yardley stand was in an uproar of triumph and delight. Dismay showed in the ranks of the enemy. Toby saw the Brown and Young’s quarter, a spindly, nervous-mannered youth, look back apprehensively at the goal-posts as he retreated up the field yelling strident encouragement to his fellows. Toby felt a certain sympathy with that quarter-back, enemy or no enemy. Toby had experienced similar apprehension.

Brown and Young’s looked pitifully weak during the next few minutes. Her opponent’s success had upset her calculations and the suddenness of events had left her gasping and rattled. From the twenty-eight yards Roover carried the ball in two plunges through the Orange’s left to a position opposite the goal and twenty-one yards away from it. Then kicking formation was called and Fanning dropped out of the line, his place being taken by Roover. Brown and Young’s shouted warnings against a fake, but the cry of “Block that kick!” mingled with them. Captain Fanning stretched his hands forth, Curran piped his signals, the ball left Simpson——

Confusion reigned! Cries filled the air! Yardley swept forward! But where was the ball? Fanning’s right leg swung against nothing. Deering was running off to the left, chased by an orange-sleeved end and Brown and Young’s forwards were piling through. But no one, it seemed, had the ball! And then, out of the ruck of confusion, shot a flash of blue that, seen dimly between the heaving forms of friend and foe, resolved into the likeness of Curran! Straight ahead leaped the quarter-back, straight at the center of the goal. For five yards he slipped unchallenged through the very storm center of the battle. Then the ruse was discovered and the Orange hurled her defenses upon him. But friend as well as enemy was about him now, and not until the ten-yard line was underfoot was he tackled. Then, fighting hard, he dragged on for three more strides, faltered, was borne back and went down under an avalanche of enemy forms.

“The old delayed pass!” cried Grover Beech almost tearfully in his joy. “And they fell for it!”

Eight yards to go! Desperately, while the tumult still reigned, Brown and Young’s lined up under the shadow of her goal. That she could stop the enemy now was too much to hope, nor did she, though she battled fiercely. Deering was launched ahead for two yards and Roover made two more. The shouting had almost ceased from the stands and the Brown and Young’s quarter could be heard imploring the team to “Hold ’em fellows! Throw ’em back! Get low! Get low! Hold ’em!” And with his voice came a medley of others and, sharp, stabbing, through them all, the musketry of Curran’s signals. Then a sudden heaving of both tense lines, a concentration of the whole Yardley back-field on the enemy center, a slow yielding there and, finally, a break, with Snowden, the ball hugged to his stomach, arching over and through on a sea of squirming figures!

Well over the last line lay the pigskin, a foot to spare! And as Yardley trotted back, swinging headguards, cavorting a little, and Brown and Young’s lined up sullenly beneath the cross-bar, Sid Creel laid his head in Toby’s lap, kicked Beech lovingly on the shins and murmured rapturously: “From our twenty yards to their goal in nine plays! Eighty yards in eight minutes! O Brown, where is thy victory! O Young, where is thy sting!”

Fanning kicked an easy goal and again Brown and Young’s sent the ball from the tee. There was a breathless moment while Arnold Deering juggled the catch and then a clever advance of nearly twenty yards through half the enemy team. Two attempts at the line netted but three, and Yardley made her first punt. And for the first time since the game began Brown and Young’s had the ball in her possession. But disruption was still evident, and the whistle sounding the end of the first period came as a welcome of relief to the visitors.

When play was resumed the Orange showed her possibilities, for, although Yardley stopped her midway between center line and goal and, having adopted defensive tactics for the time, kicked again on second down, Brown and Young’s came back with ever increasing determination.

The Orange used a clever and often disconcerting combination of straight, old-style line-bucking and wide end-running with a remarkably efficient protection for the man with the ball. She had a bewildering number of back-field combinations, apparently chiefly designed to confuse the opponent. The fact that line-attacks and end-runs were sent off from the same close-up formation of the backs made it hard for Yardley to guess which was coming. In fact, the Brown and Young’s system of plays was well calculated to keep the enemy on the anxious seat, and just so long as her line continued fairly impregnable she was bound to make gains. So far she had attempted no forward-passing, and her kicking game was still an unknown quantity. Her plan appeared to be to hold the ball as long as she could, making the opponent wrest it from her in the scrimmage.

As the second quarter progressed her attacks became fiercer and her resistance more stubborn. Her men played well together, and, although a few stood out above the rest in ability, individual effort was subordinated to teamwork. It was teamwork that made possible her running game, for every man had a duty and performed it, and not once in that period was Yardley able to reach the man with the ball until he had at least crossed the scrimmage line, and more often he had a substantial gain to his credit before the Blue’s secondary defense stopped him. It was principally the fact that, once inside the thirty yards, Brown and Young’s abandoned end-running for line-plugging that Yardley’s goal remained intact in that first half. Twice Yardley took the ball away from her inside the twenty-yard line and punted out of danger, and twice the Orange hammered or scuttled her way back again, the whistle halting a march that seemed destined to bring a touchdown.

“That seven points doesn’t look as safe as it did awhile back,” said Grover Beech as the rival squads trailed off to the gymnasium. “Considering the way those lads played in the last quarter, I’d say we were mighty lucky to get it!”

“You’re dead right,” agreed Sid Creel. “They’ve got it all over us on team-play. They move like a regular machine. Those end-runs of theirs are the slickest things I’ve seen in an age, and if we don’t find some way of stopping them we’ll get licked as sure as shooting!”

“There’s just one way to stop them,” said Toby. “That’s to play our ends further out and bring a back into the line.”

“Then they’d cut inside the end,” said Sid. “That’s old-stuff, sonny. Pull the opposing end out and then shoot the plays inside him.”

“But with a half-back there——”

“The trouble is,” said Beech, “you can’t guess when they’re coming. Half a dozen times I doped it out that they were going to smash the line and they just fooled me. There’s nothing to give you a hint. I could see Tom Fanning getting goggle-eyed trying to size up what was coming. Usually there’s something to give the snap away: a back drops a foot or two further back or to one side, or he faces a bit the way the play’s going without meaning to, or you get a hint from the signal. But these chaps are foxy.”

“I don’t believe they’ve got anything on us as far as their line goes,” said Sid.

“The only thing they’ve got on us is smoother playing,” declared Beech. “They’re playing end-of-season football and we’re playing what we’ve learned and no more.”

“Well, how do they get that way?” growled Sid.

“They go at it harder, I guess. They tell me that that coach of theirs gets ten thousand a year.”

“Ten thousand dollars!” ejaculated Toby.

“No, eggs,” replied Sid sarcastically. “Well, why not? If he can teach a team to play like that by midseason he’s worth it.”

“Maybe,” agreed Beech. “If you’re running that kind of a school. But the best college football coach doesn’t get any more, and——”

“They say Brown and Young’s has an enrollment this fall of nearly seven hundred, and it’s only three or four years old,” said Sid. “So I guess they can afford to pay a real salary to the coach. And I guess it pays them to afford it. Wonder, though, how much the Principal gets!”

“Oh, the Principal isn’t important,” observed Toby. “I dare say he just gets his room and meals and stationery, the poor fish! He ought to take a tumble to himself and study football. I had a sort of an idea I might be a railroad president or own a bank, or something modest like that, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to be a football coach. It pays better and the hours are shorter.”

“But think of the responsibility,” chuckled Beech. “Wealth isn’t everything, Tucker.”

“Say, do these yellow-legs play Broadwood?” demanded Sid.

“No, I don’t believe so. They never have,” replied Beech.

“Too bad. I wish they would. We’d get a dandy line on Broadwood.”

“And Broadwood would get a dandy line on us. Don’t see that it would help much. Well, here they come again. No, it’s our fellows. Get onto your job, Fless!”

The cheer leader gave a startled look over his shoulder, grabbed his big blue megaphone and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Yardley! Every one up! Regular cheer, with nine ‘Yardleys!’ One! Two!——”

The only change in the Blue’s line-up at the beginning of the third period was at left end, where Meadows had displaced Sandford. The Orange team returned intact. Yardley brought renewed joy to her supporters in the first few minutes by two long gains, one by means of a forward-pass and one by means of a seventeen-yard run by Deering, that took her well into Brown and Young’s territory. But after that the Orange refused to give and the ball changed hands on her twenty-seven yards. That Coach Lyle had tried hard to solve the enemy’s running game was evident on the occasion of the latter’s first attempt to gain around Yardley’s left. Instead of trying to get through the enemy’s excellent interference at once, Yardley adopted waiting tactics. So long as the man with the ball kept on toward the side-line the Blue was content to let him alone, and the surprising and even amusing spectacle of fully half of each team streaking in parallel courses across the field resulted. By these tactics Yardley gained an advantage. Whereas before she had plunged blindly at the Orange’s interference, often not knowing where the ball was, she now had time to size up the situation and bend every energy toward the runner. Brown and Young’s play brought the whole back-field out laterally, the runner carrying the ball, either a half or the full-back, well guarded by three interferers, to whom, once having diverted the opponent’s charge toward the center, was added an end and tackle who formed what was virtually a rear guard. To be successful, however, the play demanded that the opposing defense be drawn through soon after it had started, the interference engaging it and the man with the ball shooting free at the last moment and turning in. So as long as the opponent did not challenge, the Orange formation continued on in a lateral direction until, for a moment, it seemed that it would simply continue across the side-line and into the stand! Eventually, however, the runner saw the futility of further waiting and took the law into his own hands in a desperate effort to save the play. But as he had to drop back to let his interference pass before he could turn in he was very promptly nailed and the Orange netted a six-yard loss. But of course it didn’t work out so well for Yardley the next time, for the Orange changed her tactics and shot the runner in at the first opportunity. Nevertheless, the play lost most of its effectiveness and, toward the end of the contest, was entirely ignored.

In that third period the honors were fairly even, with each team gaining two first downs and neither penetrating nearer to her opponent’s goal than the twenty-seven-yard line. Brown and Young’s punters showed themselves fully equal to either Roover or Snowden and the rival lines exhibited a similar strength against attack. Perhaps the Orange’s superiority, if she showed any, was in her aggressiveness, although it brought no returns so far as scoring was concerned. Each team in the period might have attempted a field-goal but chose to stand or fall on rushing. The seven points scored to the credit of Yardley had regained something of their original value when time was called for the quarter, although Brown and Young’s rooters were still hopeful and, across the field, there were many anxious hearts.

Of the sort of playing with which the visitors had been accused, none had been seen. To be sure, the Orange players played hard and fierce, and when they tackled the runner always stayed where he was put, but nothing mean nor underhand had appeared. They did a lot of talking across the line, and some of their remarks were not in the best taste, but many of Yardley’s opponents were what the fellows called “gabby” and the Blue was used to verbal attack.

Play started in the final period with the pigskin in Yardley’s possession on her opponent’s forty-four yards. Candee had taken Simpson’s place at center and Twining had substituted Rose at left guard. On the opposing team two changes in the line and one in the back-field had been made. Deering plugged through the Orange left for a short gain and Roover got outside tackle for two yards. Curran threw to Meadows, who missed the pass, and Roover punted. An Orange back cut through the Yardley field for nearly twenty yards after catching and the ball was on Brown and Young’s forty-one. It was then that the visitors opened their bag of tricks.

CHAPTER XVI
TUBB WINS PROMOTION

First, the Orange changed her back-field formation entirely. Instead of standing close to the line, three abreast, the two halves and the full-back retired to a position a good ten yards behind the scrimmage and spread widely. The quarter stood five yards behind center, crouched to take the pass. The right tackle shifted to the other side of the line, toward which, at the start of the signal, the three backs made a quarter-turn. But as the ball went back to the quarter the three swung to the right and started diagonally toward the end of their line, left half and full aiming at a point just outside it and right half deploying further to the right. At the same moment the right end began sprinting straight toward the side-line, drawing the Yardley left tackle and a defensive back with him.

Having taken the ball from center, the quarter-back started also to the right, running parallel to the line until, left half and full having crossed in front of him, he was behind right end’s original position. There he slowed and shot the pigskin away at a lateral pass to the right half. The throw was some fifteen yards and perfectly made, and the right half, as yet unmolested, had no difficulty in getting it. Whereupon he set forth on his adventures, heading straight along the side-line and about twelve yards away from it. The opposing end had been blanketed by the full-back and it was not until the runner crossed the line of scrimmage that serious opposition to his advance developed. And then, with his own end and left half guarding his flank and the quarter making trouble for the rear attack, he proceeded brilliantly across the middle of the field and set his eyes on the goal.

Yardley, suspecting something unusual and spectacular, had played her ends back and out and deployed three backs up the field. Halliday, at right end, had been rudely set aside, and it was Curran and Roover on whom the task of stopping the runner devolved. Roover, nearer at hand, did his best to get past the interference but failed, although in failing he upset the Brown and Young’s full-back. By now the whole field was in pursuit, with, however, most of it hopelessly out of the race. Yet Casement, who for a guard was remarkably fast on his feet, somehow managed to get to the fore and sent the Orange quarter-back spinning aside, after which he put out for the runner. But Curran was the man for the job.

Slowing as he neared the prey, he feinted as though to pass behind the Orange left half who was running about three yards inside the man with the ball. The half, guessing that the enemy would do the thing he appeared not to be doing, ran on, and Curran, leaping forward, circled behind him. And, although the half challenged, throwing himself between Curran and his team-mate, Curran managed somehow to meet the impact and, carried forward by his own momentum, seized one Yellow-and-Black leg ere it twinkled beyond his reach. The man with the ball added another yard to his gain, dragging Curran with him, but that weight was not to be denied and he came to his knees. Then Casement flattened him out, friend and foe labored breathlessly up and the whistle blew.

Brown and Young’s had made a gain of nearly thirty yards, for when the ball had been wrested from the tenacious grip of the Orange right half-back it went down just short of Yardley’s thirty-yard line. Orange-hued banners waved wildly on the east stand while Yardley gave a well-deserved cheer for the rival half-back.

Brown and Young’s had her eyes on the goal-line now and it seemed that she was not to be denied. Twice she hurled her full-back through for short gains at left guard, and then, using the new formation again, worked as pretty a quarter-back run around her left end as had ever been seen on Yardley Field. With the ball on the seventeen yards, she tried the line once more and split through for half the needed distance, the Blue’s left crumpling badly. Twining took the place of Rose, and another attempt on the left gained a scant yard. With four to go on third down, Brown and Young’s made all preparations for a place-kick, and a big, long-legged tackle ranged back to position. Yet Yardley refused to believe in that kick. The Orange needed seven points to tie, and it wasn’t likely that, with only a short time left, she would satisfy herself with a mere three points. And so, although everything pointed to a kick from placement, Fanning and Curran sounded their warnings and the backs hovered anxiously midway between line and goal. Then, at last, the ball sped back.

But it never reached the outstretched hands of the tackle. Instead, it went to a half-back and, as the Blue’s forwards desperately broke through, the half poised the pigskin calmly until Casement was almost on him and then as calmly sped it over the mêlée diagonally into the waiting arms of his right end. And that youth had but to take two strides to cross the last white line. When he was pulled down he was almost behind the right goal post.

How that end got into position for receiving the pass unnoticed none on the Yardley team ever knew. One moment he wasn’t there and the next moment he was. Halliday and Deering, theoretically at least, shared the blame, although, as Fanning generously said afterwards, a forward-pass was the last thing expected. Not once before had the enemy attempted a forward from ordinary formation, and unconsciously Yardley had grown to think that that play was not included in her plan of battle. As it was, Arnold had seen the ball hurtling toward the corner of the field and had leaped forward with a sick feeling at his heart. But he had been a fraction of a moment too late. The end had made the catch ere Arnold reached him, and although Arnold threw desperate arms toward him the end eluded them and went free until Curran pulled him to earth.

Brown and Young’s walked the ball out and, although the angle was sufficient to allow Yardley to hope for failure, the big tackle sent it squarely between the posts and the score was tied.

With less than four minutes left, it was fairly obvious that 7 to 7 would be the final score, but Yardley, with three new men in her line-up, still hoped and returned eagerly to the fray. The kick-off went to the Orange’s twelve yards and came back only to her fifteen. A skin-tackle on her right brought her three yards and a second attempt was stopped. For the first time since the game had started the Orange players became ugly. Many changes had been made, and possibly it was a substitute who, charging through, tried to “mix it up” with Bates, who had succeeded Deering. Friends of both players sprang between and the Orange youth got off with a warning from the referee. There were a few hisses, many “boos” and some laughter from the stands. Possibly the incident supplied the added incentive that allowed Yardley to break through a moment later and block the adversary’s kick. The ball bounded from the up-thrown arm of a Yardley lineman and became lost in a mass of struggling players and for a long moment confusion reigned. When the referee finally penetrated to the bottom of the squirming, grunting pile he found the ball snuggled in the arms of a Yardley forward. The Blue cheered wildly and implored a touchdown as the result became known to the stands, and, since the teams lined up on the Orange’s fourteen yards, a touchdown looked possible enough.

But the Blue’s first play resulted disastrously. Clarke, who had taken Halliday’s place at the right end of the line, was far offside when the ball was snapped and the team was set back. A plunge at guard-tackle hole on the left gave Yardley four yards, and Snowden, from kick formation, managed two more around right end. Then, however, a forward-pass, Snowden to Bates, went wrong and Fanning dropped back for a try-at-goal. While both stands grew silent, Will Curran patted the ground and poised himself on his knees for the pass from center. The position was at a slight angle and the distance was less than twenty yards and the Blue already saw victory perched upon her banner. But Brown and Young’s was desperate and Yardley, perhaps, oversure, and when the ball came back to Curran so, too, came half the Orange team, and, although Fanning met the poised ball fairly, it was still breast-high when the enemy reached it. There was a tragic thud as it rebounded from an onrushing player, followed by cries and the pounding of many feet as friend and foe took up the chase. The pursuit passed over Curran like a wave, leaving him writhing on the sod.

Back to the thirty-yard line trickled the pigskin, and there a Brown and Young’s tackle scooped it up from under the nose of half a dozen others and sprang away toward the distant Yardley goal. But although he started with a clear field, and although hastily-formed interference grouped itself about him, he was in no condition for speed, and near the middle of the field Bates, eluding the interference, pulled him to earth.

Time was taken out for Curran and he limped off, Noyes taking his place. From midfield, using every trick she knew, the Orange began a slow advance toward the Blue’s goal. Yardley fought hard but was forced to yield. Both teams were pretty well tuckered and after each play substitutes flocked in, and with their arrival the game became more erratic. Penalties were dealt to each side fairly impartially, signals were misunderstood and the play became slower and slower, and at last, with the ball still in Brown and Young’s possession near the home team’s thirty yards, the whistle sounded the end of the battle.

As unsatisfactory as the outcome was, the teams parted with mutual respect, and when Brown and Young’s supporters formed into ranks and marched off the field, cheering mightily, the Blue’s partisans had no criticism to make. As Grover Beech put it, as he and Toby and Sid climbed over the barriers and joined the throng beyond, Brown and Young’s had played a hard, clean game and, on her showing in the last half, had deserved a victory.

“Which,” observed Sid Creel dryly, “I am pleased to say she didn’t get!”

The Brown and Young’s contest ended Yardley’s preliminary season. Four games remained, those with Carrel’s, Nordham, St. John’s, and Broadwood. Two of these, the Carrel’s and St. John’s games were to be played away from home. All were looked on as hard battles, although it might well be that none would prove harder than the contest just played. Brown and Young’s had been underestimated, and it was certain that another year her place on the Yardley schedule would be much further along. Still, there were no regrets over that game. Yardley had showed her faults in time to allow the proper remedies to take effect, all of her players had come through the grilling without serious damage and several second and third string players had found the opportunity to show ability. Will Curran’s injury was slight, it seemed, and he would be out of the game but a few days. Some over-eager Brown and Young’s man had trampled over his prostrate form and placed a heavy foot against his knee, but treatment and an elastic bandage would repair the damage. On the whole, Yardley Hall School, coach, players and noncombatants, were rather well satisfied with the recent engagement, and there was a general verdict to the effect that the Blue had been extremely fortunate to get through it without a beating.

Arnold was somewhat downhearted for a day or two, maintaining sadly that the Orange’s score could be blamed on him, and relating the incident in appalling detail to Toby until the latter youth begged him to forget it. “No one else expected a forward-pass then,” said Toby, “so why should you have looked for one? Besides, it was up to Ted Halliday as much as to you. Cheer up and ease your face, Arn. You still have me to live for!”

The final argument didn’t seem to make any great appeal to Arnold at the moment, but by Monday, after a light session on the gridiron, he returned to his wonted cheerfulness. That Monday witnessed what, to Toby at least, was a most surprising event. He learned of it after practice when, returning to Number 12, he found Arnold there before him.

“I suppose you know about the new end we’ve acquired,” said Arnold, smiling broadly.

“End? No, what do you mean?”

“What! You haven’t missed him? Such is fame! Ain’t it sad?”

“What are you jabbering about?” Toby relaxed on the window-seat with a sigh of weariness. “Who haven’t I missed?”

“Why, your bosom friend, Mr. Tubbs, of course.”

“Tubb? What about Tubb?” asked Toby suspiciously.

“Then you don’t know! You haven’t heard the glad and glorious news!”

“I have not, but if Tubb has fallen down and bitten his tongue——”

“Nary a fall down, old thing! Instead, Mr. Tubbs—or is it Tubb? Anyway, whatever his poetic name may be, he has landed on his feet.”

“Has he?” Toby sounded bored and indifferent. “Well, he’s been in the air long enough! In just what manner, Mr. Bones, has the gentleman landed on his feet? Whenever you consider that the suspense has lasted long enough, Arn, you have my permission to shoot!”

“Prepare to faint, T. Tucker! Your friend Tubbs has been ruthlessly torn from your arms! He’s taken over to the First!”

CHAPTER XVII
AN “ACCIDENT”

A sense of duty is sometimes a most inconvenient thing to possess. That Monday night it was a sense of duty that sent Toby up to Number 31, and he went laggingly, feeling very certain that George Tubb would be more objectionable than ever. Tubb was not, Toby thought, of the kind who stands prosperity well. Tubb would be quite unbearable to-night: Toby could imagine him growling “Huh, I’d have made the First Team long ago if I’d had the ‘pull’ some fellows have!” But Toby felt that to an extent he was responsible for Tubb’s well-being, having in a manner started him out of his Slough of Despond, and that it was up to him to congratulate the other on his good fortune.

The scene that met his eyes when he pushed the door open in response to an invitation to enter was very unlike that upon which he had gazed on the occasion of his first visit to Number 31. Tubb and Ramsey were shoulder to shoulder, Tubb seated and his roommate bending over the table beside him, evidently elucidating some problem contained in the textbook that lay open before them. To all appearances perfect amity reigned now in Number 31! Nor was that the only surprise awaiting Toby. George Tubb was still George Tubb, and probably he would never be anything else, but instead of “grouching” because Fortune had not visited him earlier, or predicting the great things that were to happen by reason of his elevation to the First, he seemed loath to talk of the matter, accepting the visitor’s congratulation with a frown and a muttered—and vague—“Oh, well, I don’t know. I suppose it’s all right.” After that he appeared to prefer other topics of conversation, although Toby nevertheless had the impression that the matter was in his thoughts most of the time.

The problem in geometry that had puzzled Tubb proved a diversion and Toby was able to supply the needed assistance, rather to his surprise since of late he had begun to fear that he had forgotten most of what he had learned during the preceding year! After that they talked of various subjects, football most of all. Tubb was ready to talk football so long as it was general, and he had a number of criticisms to make of last Saturday’s contest. With some of them Toby didn’t agree, and arguments followed, and Toby discovered that Tubb could think things out clearly and state his results quite convincingly when he wanted to. Horace Ramsey maneuvered the talk around to tennis finally and asked Toby’s advice about trying for the Tennis Team.

“I didn’t do so badly in the handicaps last week,” he explained. “Got as far as the semi-finals, anyway. Beat two or three fellows who are considered rather good, too. How do you set about making the Team, Tucker?”

Toby didn’t know and said so, but he promised to find out and let Ramsey know, and after that he took his departure. Both boys, without saying so in words, managed to convey to him the impression that they had enjoyed his visit and wanted him to come again. He went downstairs feeling very well pleased with himself for having performed a disagreeable duty and a little surprised at finding that it hadn’t been disagreeable after all! “I guess,” he told himself as he clattered down the stairs, “a good many disagreeable things are like that. You think they’re a lot worse than they are.”

The First Team paid a good deal of attention to defense that week, a branch of football science that had been somewhat neglected by Coach Lyle in favor of attack, and the Second was called on four afternoons to aid, the big team working, contrary to custom, quite as hard on Friday as on any other day. It was on Wednesday that Toby had his first chance to see Tubb in action with the First. Tubb made his entry in the middle of a very strenuous second half, relieving Meadows. Sandford, who had started the season at left end, appeared to be out of the running. Tubb did well. Toby was rather amazed at the boy’s playing, and his respect for Grover Beech as a judge of football talent went up a peg. Beech had called Tubb “a natural-born end,” and, while Toby had little intimate knowledge of end playing, he thought that Beech had been quite right. Tubb acted as if he had played football for several seasons. He appeared to have unlimited confidence—in fact, his confidence looked almost like effrontery at times—and absolutely no physical fear, hurling himself into every play he could reach regardless of consequences. He had a way of keeping in motion every minute while in the line-up that, although it was rather wearisome to the spectator, kept his adversary in wholesome fear. And he could run like a ferret, too, and although he still missed tackles rather too frequently, he proved a thorn in the side of Toby and his team-mates when catching punts. Somehow, Tubb was always on hand when the ball had dropped into Toby’s arms, and if Toby squirmed himself free more than once it was only because Tubb had yet something to learn of the gentle art of tackling. Toby found himself a bit proud of George Tubb, quite as though he was personally accountable for that youth’s attainments!

The Second went through some gruelling work that week, for the most part assaulting the First’s defenses with every art and artifice at her command. Time and again the ball was taken away from the First and handed back to the Second, the coaches demanding that she put it over, every one, as it seemed, conniving at the First Team’s humiliation. Perhaps once during a game the First was allowed to show her prowess in attack, and the rest of the time she was back to the wall with the Second banging at her center, jabbing her tackles, skirting her ends, trying every possible means to penetrate her defenses. The result showed before the end of the week arrived. The First developed a savage, bitter, every-hand-against-me attitude that worked wonders. On Thursday she was thrice set her five yards and told to hold the opponent, and twice she did it, which, considering that both coaches egged on the Second and tried every device they could think of to make her attack more effective, was none so bad. Even on Friday, with a hard game against Carrel’s School looming up on the morrow, the First was hammered and banged about by the Second, which, having come in for a good many hard knocks and much rough usage, was in none too gentle a mood. It was on Friday that an incident occurred which, unimportant in itself, led to strange results.

Frick was playing quarter on the Second and Tubb had taken the place of an exhausted Meadows at left end on the First. First, unable to gain her distance in three downs in midfield, punted and the ball fell to Frick in front of Second’s goal. Both Tubb and Halliday had got free and were well under the ball as it arched down the field, but Halliday fell victim to Deering, leaving Tubb to look after Frick alone. Frick made the catch a moment before Tubb arrived on the scene and set off to his right in the hope of skirting the enemy pouring down the middle of the field. Tubb gave chase, running him off. Frick feinted but Tubb wasn’t fooled. Had the quarter-back been able to get free soon after making the catch he might have reeled off a good gain, for the gridiron to his right was practically unguarded, but Tubb had him so well blocked that there was no getting by and it was only when the side-line came dangerously near that Frick made a despairing effort to turn in. He pulled up suddenly and tried to dash past Tubb, but the First Team end was quicker than he was. Avoiding the runner’s straight-arm, Tubb dived and, for once, dived surely. He didn’t have to hold his man after the tackle, for by that time he had plenty of help, and Frick was speedily flattened out. On his feet again, Frick was very angry indeed, and panted insults and threats at Tubb’s retreating back until Beech silenced him.

Unaware that he had aroused Frick’s wrath, Tubb trotted back to his position. Two savage attacks on the First Team’s line netted but four yards and then Stover punted. Tubb was spilled trying to stop the opposing end and was climbing to his feet when the Second’s stragglers streamed past. Among them was Frick, for some reason later in getting down the field than he should have been. Only a few saw what happened as Frick reached Tubb, for most eyes were fixed on Noyes as he got under the ball. Toby, however, saw from where he sat on the bench, for Frick’s performance was of more interest to him than any one’s else, and just now Toby was wondering why his rival was almost the last in the pursuit. Tubb, in the act of raising himself from the ground, did not see Frick’s approach, nor, since he was unsuspecting, would he have heeded it if he had seen it. Frick had set a course that led him past the other, and now, as he reached him, he swerved a pace and brought one heavily-shod foot against Tubb’s ribs just under the left shoulder. It was as deliberate a thing as Toby had ever seen, and unconsciously he jumped to his feet with an exclamation of disgust. Tubb, supported at the moment on his left hand, dropped instantly to the turf and rolled over on his back, his legs drawn up in pain. Frick was already well down the field. Toby and Lovett, a substitute end, ran on together. Tubb was white-faced and gasping, both hands clasped to his side.

“Some one—kicked me,” he whispered. “I’ll be—all right in a—minute.”

“It was Frick,” exclaimed Lovett indignantly. “I saw it. He ought to get chucked!”

“Frick!” gasped Tubb wonderingly. “What—for?”

By that time Andy Ryan was there with pail and sponge and Toby and Lovett went back to the bench, the latter still sputtering.

“He’s a poisonous pup, anyway, Tucker, and I hope Tubb goes after him and gets him for that!”

“Well, I wouldn’t say much about it,” counseled Toby. “It’ll only make trouble. It’s between the two of them now. Let them settle it.”

“Sure, it isn’t my funeral,” Lovett agreed, “though I don’t see why you’re so anxious about Frick. If Mr. Burtis had seen it Frick would be off for keeps, and you’d have quarter-back cinched, Tucker.”

“Well, I don’t want to cinch it that way, I guess. Besides, it may have been an accident. I know it didn’t look it, but——”

“Accident your great-aunt!” jeered the other. “Why, Frick went out of his way to do it! And he sure took a chance. I’ll give him that much credit. If any one but you and I had seen it—Good-night, Mr. Frick!”

“Guess he knew every one would be looking the other way. Tubb’s up and Andy’s taking him off. Hope he didn’t get a broken rib. That was a fierce wallop he got!”

“I’d hand Roy Frick a fierce wallop if it was me,” growled Lovett. “I’d hand him about two dozen of ’em!”

Tubb was helped into his sweater and sent back to the gymnasium and the game went on. Since Frick played the half out at quarter, Toby judged that none had witnessed the incident save he and Lovett. Toby forgot it later, for in the last fifteen-minute half he went in on the Second and had his hands and his mind too full of other things. But that some one still remembered was evident when Toby got back to his room after practice. George Tubb had left a note.

Dear Tucker: If you have time will you come up to my room a minute after supper? I want to see you about something. G. W. T.

Toby guessed what the something was and wondered whether he was to be asked to bear a challenge to Roy Frick! He rather wished that Tubb had selected some one else to consult, but he went nevertheless, climbing the second flight in Whitson as soon after supper as he judged Tubb had returned to Number 31. He found both Tubb and Ramsey at home, but Horace went out after a few minutes, possibly by request. Tubb, reflected Toby, was quite a different looking boy from the one whose cut lip he had plastered on the train that afternoon some five weeks ago. For one thing, he looked a deal cleaner! And he was rather more carefully dressed. But the real change was deeper, Toby thought. Tubb’s attitude toward his fellows and his school life had undergone a change already, and the end was not yet; and the fact was manifested in his expression and his speech. Tubb had gained in self-respect, Toby concluded. Physically, too, he had altered, and for the better, for football work had straightened his shoulders, made his flesh look harder and his eyes clearer and removed the unhealthy pallor from his face. On the whole, Toby got quite a lot of satisfaction from his study of George W. Tubb this evening.

But it was a very serious Tubb who confronted Toby when the door had closed behind Horace Ramsey. There was very evidently something on the Tubb mind. Toby waited in silence and after a moment Tubb began. “That fellow with you this afternoon—Lovett, wasn’t it?—said it was Frick who kicked me in the side. Did you see him do it, Tucker?”

“Why—well, yes, I did, Tubb. Of course it was probably an accident——”

“How could it have been?” Tubb’s old scowl returned for an instant. “He had the whole field, didn’t he? He needn’t have run over me! No, I guess what happened was that he got mad because I stopped him from running the punt back that time. I guess he’s got a bad temper, Frick. Well, anyway, what I wanted to ask you is this. What’s the right way to go after him? They say faculty won’t stand for fighting, but of course a fellow’s got to pull a scrap sometimes. I’m going to get Frick for this, but I don’t want to get fired, you see. He isn’t worth it.”

“Of course he isn’t,” agreed Toby heartily. “And I’m afraid you would get—well, maybe not fired, Tubb, but put on probation at least if faculty found out.”

“And probation would lose me my place on the team, wouldn’t it? That’s what I supposed. Well, then, how would you go about it, Tucker? So as not to be nabbed, I mean.”

“Why, I don’t know. Why not—well, why not forget it, Tubb? After all a fellow who does things like that harms himself more than he does any one else, and——”

“Yah!” interrupted Tubb rudely. “Sunday school stuff, Tucker! I’ll bet you wouldn’t talk that way if it was you who had half a dozen sore ribs some guy had given you!”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t,” granted Toby, “but I’d hesitate a long time before I’d risk probation for the sake of fighting him! And that’s what you’d better do.”

“Listen here, Tucker,” replied the other earnestly. “I’m going to get even with that fellow. I didn’t give him any cause to kick my ribs in. Even if I had, he’d no right to do it when I was down like that. What I want to know is how you fight a fellow here. I guess there are fights: I never heard of a school where they didn’t pull ’em off now and then.” Tubb viewed Toby hopefully.

“Maybe there are,” said Toby, “but I’ve never seen one. I suppose fellows get off by themselves somewhere sometimes,” he continued vaguely. “But if faculty hears of it——”

“Have to risk that,” said Tubb, more cheerfully. He was silent a moment. Then: “Of course what I wanted to do was wait around at the gym this afternoon and hand him a few, but I had a hunch that Lyle or some one would be there and get peeved. So I didn’t. Then this evening I caught him grinning at me in commons once. That grin’s going to cost him something, believe me, Tucker!”

“But look here, Tubb,” said Toby practically, “Frick’s two years older than you, I guess, and he’s bigger and heavier, and fellows say he’s a scrapper. I don’t know how good you are, but——” Toby cast a dubious glance over the other’s rather meager frame—“it’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

“How long did you think about it when Frick got gay with you down at the field the other day?” asked Tubb, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Not at all,” answered Toby, smiling. “But then, there wasn’t time!”

“Huh! Well, don’t you worry about me, Tucker. I can handle that big bully. I’ve had to scrap all my life, pretty near, and I know the tricks. Besides, I’ve got right on my side, ain’t—haven’t I? And that counts, doesn’t it?”

“It ought to,” the other agreed, “but I wouldn’t count too much on it.”

“Where does Frick room?” asked Tubb after a moment.

“I don’t know.” Toby frowned a minute. Then: “Look here, Tubb, let’s talk sense,” he expostulated. “Never mind whether faculty finds out or doesn’t. You say you’re willing to risk that. But if you beat Frick up or if he beats you up, Tom Fanning will hear of it, even if the coaches don’t. And Fanning will drop you from the team like a—a hot potato!”

“I don’t see why he should,” Tubb objected. “It’s not his affair, Tucker.”

“Why isn’t it? It’s his affair if you or any other fellow on the team breaks training. If Frick lays you up for a day or two——”

“Huh! Like to see him do it!”

“Never mind, it’s possible. You’d be a fat lot of use to the team, wouldn’t you? Well, that’s where it becomes Fan’s business, Tubb. Just as long as you’re on the team it’s your duty to go by the rules.”

“Is there any rule saying you mustn’t knock a fellow down after he’s kicked you in the slats?”

“Don’t be a chump! No, there isn’t, but there’s a general rule that says you must keep yourself in trim so you’ll be able to do your best for the team and the school. And when you fight another chap you’re taking chances you haven’t the right to take. Besides, Tubb, there’s another thing. You’re disturbing the—the——”

“Well, didn’t Frick disturb the same thing, whatever it is, when he kicked me this afternoon? Think he helped keep me in trim, like you say? Well, I don’t!”

“Frick took an awful chance and got away with it, but I don’t think that’s any reason you should. Hang it, Tubb, you’ve made the First Team and you’ve got a great chance of playing against Broadwood, and that’s something a lot of fellows would give their eye-teeth for! Don’t go and spoil it by having a mix-up with this chap. If you must get even with him, wait until the football season’s over, anyway. He won’t get away.”

Tubb scowled. “I might forget it by that time,” he objected.

Toby laughed. “All the better then! Take a chance on that, anyhow. Will you?”

Tubb hesitated, the scowl still lingering. At last: “I might,” he answered, “I’ll see.” Then, after a moment: “I’d sort of hate to lose my job with the team, Tucker,” he said frankly, “and that’s a fact. You could have knocked me flat with a feather when they yanked me onto the First. I—I guess I talked a lot of rot about ‘pull’ and that sort of thing, because there wasn’t any pull about my getting on the First, was there? It was just my playing. Not that I think I’m anything wonderful, Tucker. Halliday’s better than I am, and maybe Meadows is, too, but I’m going to beat him out for the place if I bust a leg doing it!”

“That’s the way to talk,” approved Toby warmly. “And if you feel that way about it, Tubb, I don’t see how you can think of risking your chance. Why, Frick isn’t worth it!”

“Maybe that’s so,” agreed Tubb thoughtfully. “Just the same, if that pup looks cross-eyed at me again, or tries to get fresh——”

“Keep out of his way,” laughed Toby.

“Huh! I guess not! He’d think I was scared of him.”

“Let him. After the Broadwood game you can show him you’re not. That’s a bargain, then?”

“I don’t promise,” said Tubb, “but as long as he behaves himself I guess I’ll let him alone. Say, Tucker, I suppose you wouldn’t want to—to sort of explain to him how it is, eh? So he wouldn’t think he was getting away with it!”

“Frankly, I would not, Tubb,” answered Toby, smiling. “Just forget all about him and remember Broadwood. That’s your game!”

CHAPTER XVIII
A QUARTER-BACK RUN

The Second Team had a schedule of its own, although it wasn’t very lengthy. It consisted of two games, the first with Greenburg High School and the second with Latimer High School. The Greenburg game came off the afternoon that the First played Carrel’s, and in consequence Toby missed the latter contest. He didn’t mind that, however, for he had a busy and enjoyable time in Greenburg. Besides, he got the full and detailed story of the Carrel game from Arnold that evening and the next day and for one or two days after that. Arnold was very full of football just now and threatened to be somewhat of a bore until the Broadwood contest was done with!

The Greenburg athletic field lay on the side of town away from the river and Yardley and was a rather uneven piece of turf enclosed by a dilapidated high board fence. There was a running track, badly in need of cinders and attention, two weather-stained stands and an unpainted shack that did duty as a dressing-room. The game was not very important from a Greenburg standpoint, and the attendance this afternoon was not large. Usually Greenburg won from the Yardley Second Team without much difficulty, and although this fall High School had heard stories of unusual prowess on the Second Team’s part she was still not much worried. Being a half holiday at the various mills and factories, of which Greenburg held many, the “tough” element of the town—or city, since that is what Greenburg officially was—was well represented. The mill operatives who had paid their quarters for admittance to the game were strongly pro-High School in their sympathies. Or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that they were enthusiastically anti-Yardley. In their belief all Yardley students were silk-stockinged snobs, which, while far from the fact, was enough to set the mill crowd against the school. They came supplied with peanuts and, perhaps a hundred in number, took possession of one of the small, tumble-down stands and made their presence known right from the start. But aside from shouting weird cheers for Greenburg, singing, parodying the Yardley slogan in mincing falsetto and shying an occasional peanut at the visitors’ bench in front of them, they kept the peace during most of the game.

Captain Beech wanted to win to-day’s contest, since last year High School had caught the Blue team in a slump and triumphed decisively over it by a memorable score of 38 to 6, and so, with Coach Burtis’s permission, the Second started with the best line-up she could devise. Mr. Burtis had awarded himself a vacation and gone home over the week-end, leaving the captain in undisputed authority. Toby didn’t get into the game until the third period was well along, for Frick, who had started it, played his best and a touchdown by Yardley in the first five minutes of play gave the visitors an advantage that the home team was not able to overcome in the initial half. The Blue defense was too much for the High School eleven although the latter had plenty of talent in its ranks and played a stiff, hard attack. On the other hand, Yardley had her troubles with the High School line, and that single touchdown had been more than half luck. A fortunate forward pass from the middle of the field had put the Blue within striking distance of High School’s goal and a penalty for holding had given her five yards more. Then Frick had fumbled and Nelson had followed the trickling ball back, and, having captured it, found a chance around High School’s left. He should have been stopped half a dozen times, but somehow he sifted through the enemy ranks and landed the pigskin up against the left-hand post before he was brought down.

High School accepted her mishap cheerfully and set to work to do a little scoring on her own behalf, but the half ended without the ball’s having approached either goal again. The second half was eight minutes old when Captain Beech found that Frick’s work was becoming slow and uncertain and sent him off. High School had forced the ball to Yardley’s thirty-one yards and still had possession when Toby went in. He was followed a minute later by Lovett, who was called on to strengthen the right end of the Blue’s line, around which High School had made several gains since the period had begun. Lovett, however, proved no more able to stop those gains than had Connell, and High School swept on to the Blue’s twenty-yard-line in three plays and set her supporters shouting triumphantly. With the cheers of the High School students came approving yells from the mill contingent; hoarse cries of “Eat ’em up, Greenburg!” “Kill the sissies!” “Put it over, Greenburg!” Then, with a score almost won, the High School left end was caught hugging Stover affectionately to his breast, and High School was set back fifteen yards. The mill hands didn’t approve of that and made it known loudly and continuously, hissing and whistling and hurling sarcastic remarks at the referee. After two plays which netted only short gains, High School tried a drop-kick from her thirty yards and failed badly.

The mill operatives still had hurt feelings and were now howling continuously. The referee was accused of favoritism, treachery and several other faults, and Yardley of being “pikers” and “yellow dogs.” Matters became no more peaceful when Toby, getting the kick-off just short of his five-yard-line, dodged it back to his twenty-three. Watson went in for Sid Creel at center a minute or two later and Toby began a systematic assault on High School’s middle positions. Stover gained consistently and White ploughed through less frequently but for longer gains. High School changed center and left guard and Toby switched his attack to the right guard and tackle. There, however, he had less luck, and, well into High School territory now, he called for a forward, and White, from kicking position, threw successfully to Mawson on High School’s nineteen, a long hard heave that brought applause even from the enemy. Mawson reached the sixteen yards before he was tackled and the fourteen before he was stopped.

The third period ended and the teams changed sides. High School fought desperately to hold her opponent and the attack was thrice piled up for little or no gain. Choosing between the possible loss of the ball and a possible three points from a field-goal, Toby selected the latter and Beech went back for the kick. But High School tore through the Yardley left and blocked the ball sufficiently to deflect it harmlessly to the right. That incident gladdened the mill hands considerably and they cheered hoarsely.

High School tried a forward-pass on first down and got away with it for twelve yards. Plunges at the line netted her a second first down. Three subsequent attacks left her four yards shy of her distance and she punted to Yardley’s thirty. There Stover caught and ran back to the thirty-seven. He was hurt in the tackle and gave place to Lippman. Toby tried a quarter-back run after a delayed pass and made a scanty five yards after going half across the field. High School held against two plunges and White punted outside at the enemy’s twenty-eight. High School uncorked a puzzling open formation play that sent the full-back around her short end without interference and almost got him free. But Lippman secured the runner after a fifteen-yard advance. A forward-pass went wrong and, after attempting each end, High School punted. Lippman juggled the catch, recovered it and was downed for no gain on his twenty yards. Toby called on White and made seven straight through High School’s center, and Lippman went outside right tackle for four more and the distance. Then, with the end of the game drawing near, Lippman punted on second down from his thirty to High School’s thirty-eight. Again the latter tried her open formation play, but this time Yardley was prepared and the runner was downed for an eight-yard loss. A forward-pass gave High School ten and a wide end run two more. Then came Waterloo, for a High School back, plunging toward the Yardley right tackle, lost the pigskin as he struck the line and the ball bounded merrily into the air, crossed the heaving lines and was pulled down by Nelson.

The best the Blue’s left half could do was hold tight to his prize, for half the opposing team was on top of him in the moment. But it was Yardley’s ball on High School’s forty-nine yards, and, with less than two minutes remaining, the game was as good as won. Captain Beech ran in four substitutes, about all he had left, and on the first play, one of them, Crawford, at full-back, went through the Greenburg line like a streak of lightning and dodged all but the quarter-back, planting the ball on High School’s thirty-two yards when he was captured. A penalty for off-side on the next play set Yardley back, but Lippman carried the pigskin around left end for three and Crawford made three more, and, on fourth down, faking a kick from placement, Toby took the ball and scampered off around the Greenburg right behind good interference and might have crossed the goal line had he not, as he put it later, fallen over his own feet! The stumble allowed a pursuing High School player to drag him down six yards short of the last white streak.

Then came a heart-stirring climax to a contest that had never failed of interest. The stands had emptied ere this and the audience had been following the game along the side-lines. Now it congregated at the corner of the field nearest the play, flowing over onto the gridiron in spite of the efforts of a few ineffectual officials. In the front of the throng were the mill operatives, noisy and unfriendly to the besiegers, more than willing, it seemed, to take a hand in the game. Toby and Grover Beech consulted while the crowd jeered and hooted. Toby wanted to try a forward-pass over the line, but Captain Beech was fearful of it save as a last resort, and it was decided to batter the opponent’s line so long as gains resulted and then, faking a try-at-goal, attempt a short pass over the center.

Toby called on Crawford and sent him banging at the enemy’s guard-tackle hole on the left. But the hole didn’t develop and the gain was less than a yard. Beech sent Crawford out and brought in Lansing, a heavy youngster whose slowness had kept him on the bench most of the season. The unfriendly critics, edging over the bounds, made scurrilous remarks anent Lansing’s personal appearance and had that poor youth, already made nervous by the honor so unexpectedly thrust upon him, a mass of blushes by the time he was in position. But blushes didn’t take away from Lansing’s weight or strength, and, with Lippman carrying the pigskin, Lansing thrust the runner through for three of the remaining five yards. There was some rough playing in that fracas, and Toby discovered that he had sustained a very ensanguined nose. On third down, with just over two yards to go, Lippman tried a cross-buck and squirmed over the crouched backs of the foe for another three feet, amidst an appalling shouting from the belligerent onlookers. The mill contingent was now so close behind the defenders that it was hard to tell who was a player and who a spectator, and Captain Beech called for time and pointed out the fact. The Greenburg players tried to push the throng back, but, although it good-naturedly shuffled a few yards away, it pressed forward once more as soon as the teams again lined up. The referee and umpire scolded and threatened to call the game, but were only hooted at. To the credit of the High School students present it may be said that they did nothing to encourage the mill hands and themselves remained, if not outside the field, at least away from the scene of play. In the end, finding pleas and threats alike idle, the referee let the game go on.

“We’ll never score against that mob,” whispered Beech disgustedly to Toby. “They’ll jump in and push us back. Might as well call it off. I don’t want any mix-up with those muckers!”

Toby nodded agreement, viewing the grinning, inimical countenances grouped behind the opposing line thoughtfully. Then: “Let me work this, cap, will you? I think there’s just one chance!”

“Go ahead,” said Beech, “but you’ll never make a forward with that gang back there to get in the way.”

“No, a forward’s no good, but—Signals! Come on now, Yardley! One more punch! Signals! 31—51—27——”

“Signals!” cried Lippman wildly, questioningly.

“Shut up!” hissed Toby. “Change signals! 61—54—27—9! 61—54——”

Forward plunged the backs, away sped Toby, scuttling along the back of the short line, the ball snuggled in his elbow. Cries and grunts and the rasping of canvas-clad bodies filled the air. Then a shriek from an excited, despairing high school spectator: “There he goes! Get him, you mutts!”

The play had been close to the left-hand corner of the field and the onlookers had crowded there, along the side-line for a short distance, but principally back of the goal-line. At the other side of the goal, save for a sprinkling of High School girls and their escorts, the field was clear. Toward this side of the gridiron sped Toby. Only Lovett, throwing his opponent in as he plunged through, went with him. But the right end was sufficient. A Greenburg back met him and the two sprawled to the turf together, and Toby, turning on his heel, headed swiftly in. A yard or two short of the line he dodged the only remaining opposition, a despairing High School quarter, and circled back toward the goal. But now there were plenty to challenge. A High School player clutched at him and missed and then Toby found himself in a struggling sea of angry mill operatives. Farquhar tried to reach him, but was pushed aside, and a dozen hands fought for the ball. Toby clung to it as tightly as he could and sought to fight his way forward, but the crowd was ugly. Some one struck him on the mouth and, as his head went back, the ball was dislodged. The yells about him merged in a laugh of triumph and, shoved aside, he sank to the ground, while the mill crowd went piling off toward the entrance, the ball in their possession. None tried to stop them.

The officials allowed the touchdown, but Captain Beech, helping a battered Toby to his feet, declined the privilege of trying goal with another ball. “Had enough, thanks,” he said coldly. Then, to an apologetic and regretful Greenburg Captain: “This is the last game you fellows will get with us, Townsend. Come on, Yardley! Never mind the cheer!”

Toby was not the only one of the visiting team who had sustained a memento of that closing minute. Three other fellows who had sought to reach him had been punched, or kicked, and, including such slighter injuries as had fallen to the Yardley Second during the game, it was a somewhat messed up aggregation that journeyed back to Wissining that afternoon. The last they saw of the mill hands they were having a remarkable football game with the stolen ball in the road outside the field, too busy to more than hoot at the visitors as they passed.

“I’d like to fetch a couple of dozen more fellows down here and wipe the ground up with them,” muttered Beech. “Bet you that’s our last game with Greenburg for awhile, Toby.”

Toby didn’t offer to accept the wager, which was fortunate for his modest resources since, a few days later, the Yardley faculty, having probed the incident, struck Greenburg High School from the list of approved opponents.

CHAPTER XIX
ARNOLD HAS A THOUGHT

The First Team came back hard that afternoon, rolling up a total of 25 points against Carrel’s and holding the opponent to a single touchdown. Yardley scored in each period, starting in the first with a field-goal shortly after play began, adding a touchdown and goal in the second, a touchdown in the third and another field-goal and touchdown in the last. Carrel’s did her scoring in the third period, following a fumble in the back-field by Quarterback Noyes. Securing the ball on Yardley’s twenty-two yards, the visitor worked a double pass that sent her full-back romping over the line without much opposition. She failed at an easy goal, however, and had to be content with six points.

Of course Toby heard all this and much more from Arnold that evening, for Arnold was as full of the game’s details as a plum-pudding is full of raisins—or ought to be! But it was after Toby had sketched the Second Team’s fracas with the mill hands, for Toby’s face demanded an explanation. Besides a contused nose, honestly earned in combat, he had a large lump on his left cheek bone. “Some day, maybe,” he said wistfully, “I’m going to meet up with the fellow who handed me that. When I do, if it isn’t in church, I’m going to hand it back to him.”

“Think you’d know him?” asked Arnold. “Thought you said it was a mob, and that——”

“It was a mob, but I saw the chap that walloped me. Yes, I’ll know him all right if only by his hair.”

“What about his hair?”

“It was——” Toby hesitated—“it was red!”

Arnold whooped delightedly. “What do you know? Honest, Toby? Say, I’d like to have seen that! Red against—hm——”

“Say it,” said Toby, grinning. “His was redder than mine, too, and that’s going some! And he had freckles all over his nose and looked like one of those tough boys in the movies. Yes, I’ll know him. Don’t you worry.”