RIGHT HALF HOLLINS

THE FOOTBALL ELEVEN BOOKS

BY

Ralph Henry Barbour

• LEFT END EDWARDS
• LEFT TACKLE THAYER
• LEFT GUARD GILBERT
• CENTER RUSH ROWLAND
• FULL-BACK FOSTER
• QUARTER-BACK BATES
• LEFT HALF HARMON
• RIGHT END EMERSON
• RIGHT GUARD GRANT
• RIGHT TACKLE TODD
• RIGHT HALF HOLLINS

[Once more Bert gave an imitation of a corkscrew]

RIGHT HALF
HOLLINS

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF

LEFT END EDWARDS,
FULL BACK FOSTER,
RIGHT TACKLE TODD, Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

LESLIE CRUMP

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1925,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

RIGHT HALF HOLLINS

[CHAPTER I]
TOMMY PARISH, CRITIC

“Put some glue on your hands, Chick!” advised Tommy Parish in a clear, carrying voice from his seat in the front row of the stand. The sally gained a ripple of laughter from the somewhat apathetic audience. Bert Hollins, huddled under a blanket on the players’ bench, a few yards away, turned a mildly indignant countenance toward Tommy and was met with a wide grin and a jovial wink. Across the field, Chick Burton, right end, captured the trickling pigskin and tossed it disgustedly toward the referee. The disgust was natural, for Chick had just missed his third forward-pass in that quarter.

Alton Academy was playing its first game of the season, with Southport School, and the third period was well along. Southport had scored a field-goal in the first quarter and Alton a touchdown in the second. Nip Storer had failed to kick the goal after the latter event. It had been drizzling ever since noon, and a wet ball and a slippery field were not making for brilliant playing. For that matter, however, even had the weather conditions been of the best it is doubtful if either team would have put up a good game, for both were slow and ragged, missing numerous opportunities to score and plainly badly in need of practice. Perhaps Chick Burton was no worse than the others, but that was a matter of opinion, and Tommy Parish’s opinion was to the effect that Chick was the principal offender of the afternoon. If Chick had caught just one of the throws from Jim Galvin, Alton would be in possession of twelve points instead of six. At least, so Tommy thought.

Tommy sat with his knees hunched up almost to his chin and munched peanuts. Tommy was usually munching something. He was a short, heavy youth with a round face and a liability to boils on the back of his brief neck. Indeed, it was quite an unfamiliar sight to see Tommy without at least one protective arrangement of gauze and plaster between his collar and the edge of his pale brown hair. Because his seat was in the front row of the grand-stand, he was able to perch his feet on the edge of the barrier and so form a sort of trough between legs and stomach for the accommodation of his bag of peanuts. When not dipping into the bag or deftly detaching the shells from their contents he snuggled his hands under the edge of his thick blue sweater. Since Tommy never wore a hat at school—whatever he did at home—a fact which may account to some extent for the faded tone of his hair, he presented a rather damp and bedraggled appearance. Drops trickled down his somewhat button-like nose, encircled his slightly protrusive ears and quivered on his round chin as it moved ceaselessly and rhythmically during the process of mastication. But if moist, he was quite happy. Give Tommy something to eat and something to look on at and weather conditions meant nothing in his young life. His was a cheerful disposition, and if those who smarted under the frank expressions of his judgment frequently wanted very, very much to murder him, Tommy cared not a whit. He believed in being outspoken, in giving candid publicity to his opinions; in short, Tommy hewed to the line and let the chips fall wherever they blame pleased!

The game went on, Southport capturing the ball after Fitz Savell, playing at half, had let it ooze from his arms. Tommy set his strong, white teeth on a particularly attractive peanut and observed reproachfully, “Why don’t you hand it to him, Fitz, ’stead of making him pick it up that way? Where’s your manners, boy?”

Homer Johnson, two rows back, reached a long leg across the intervening seat and placed a foot against the back of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s head went suddenly forward with a jerk and two peanuts fell to the wet boards, a total loss. “Cut out the merry quips, Tommy,” advised Homer. “You weary me.”

Tommy turned his head cautiously. As a matter of fact he happened to be free from boils at the moment, but affliction had taught him caution in the matter of moving his neck and it had become second-nature. He observed Homer without rancor. “Hello,” he said. “Great game, isn’t it?”

“The game’s bad enough, Tommy, without any help from you,” answered Homer coldly.

“Oh, no, Homer, you’re wrong,” responded Tommy affably. “Nothing’s so bad it can’t be helped. Constructive criticism, Homer, old timer, is never inopportune, never mal venu.” Tommy delighted in French phrases which he pronounced with a fine New England accent. He knew just how far he could go with Homer Johnson without getting into trouble, and it is doubtful if he would have risked that “old timer” had they not been separated by a row of seats and their occupants. Homer was a senior and Tommy still no more than a sophomore, although others who had been his classmates last year were now juniors. Homer frowned but contented himself with “Shut up, Tommy!” delivered sharply. Tommy smiled placidly and slowly returned his gaze to the peanut bag.

“Crazy kid,” commented Freeman Naughton, grinning as soon as Tommy’s head was turned away. “I’ve wanted to kill him fifty times since I’ve been here!”

“He’d have been dead long ago if I’d yielded to my desire,” chuckled Homer. “Tommy bears a charmed life, I guess. Gets away with stuff that would get another fellow kicked from here to State street. Did you hear what he got off on Jonas the other day? He and another fellow were passing in front of Upton and the ball got away from him just as Jonas came along and Tommy yelled, ‘Thank you, Jonas!’ Well, you know the way Jonas moves when he isn’t playing football. He ambled along and picked up the ball and looked at it and finally tossed it back, and Tommy yelled, ‘Say, listen! I want to ask you something! Is your name Jonas Lowe or is it Jonah Slow?’ I guess Jonas wanted to slaughter him, but he let him live.”

Naughton—he went by the name of “Naughty,” naturally enough—chuckled. “The cheekiest thing he ever did, though, was in our freshman year. I guess I told you.”

“About Kincaid?”

“Yes. Kincaid had wandered off the lesson, the way he does, and was telling the class something he’d seen in Rome or some place; something about some ruins; and Tommy pipes up with: ‘Mr. Kincaid, haven’t those ruins been there a long time?’ ‘Why, yes, Parish,’ says Kincaid, ‘some thousands of years.’ ‘Then,’ says Tommy sweetly, ‘maybe they’ll keep, sir, if we go on with the lesson.’”

The quarter came to an end with the score still 6 to 3, the teams changed goals and Mr. Cade, the coach, familiarly known as Johnny, hustled a set of bedraggled substitutes from the bench and sent them trotting in to report. Jake, the trainer, wrapped the deposed ones in dry blankets and circulated an already soiled towel about on which they wiped their wet faces. The game started off on its final period with a new backfield, save for Galvin, at full, and two new linemen. Southport introduced two fresh ends, but made no other changes. Southport made a determined drive for the Alton goal and got the pigskin as far as the twenty-eight yards, where, after two attempts at the Gray-and-Gold’s line had yielded scant returns, and a short forward-pass had gone wrong, her left half dropped back and tried to duplicate his feat of the first quarter. But this time he was hurried and the ball slanted off to the left and passed well beyond the goal post. Storer punted on second down and Southport got the pigskin again on Alton’s forty-six. Once more she tried desperately to reach a point from which to score by kicking. A wide sweep gained but two yards and a smash straight at the center of the line was good for as many more. Then, however, a puzzling double pass sent a back inside Dozier, at left tackle, and the runner dodged and twirled to the thirty-three before he was nailed by Ball, the Alton quarter-back.

Again Southport tried the ends, first one and then the other, and the ball went out of bounds on the second play. With about twenty-eight to go on a third down and the ball well to the side of the gridiron, a place-kick looked unpromising, and when the visitor set the stage for it Alton was incredulous. Warnings of a forward-pass were cried, but when the ball went back it sped straight to the kneeling quarter and was set to the ground. The kicker was deliberate and Chick Burton, slipping past the defense, almost blocked the ball, but it passed him safely, sailed up and over the cross-bar and added another three points to Southport’s score and tied the game.

Alton didn’t have a chance to better her figures during the few minutes that remained. Southport, evidently as pleased with results as if she had won, set herself on the defensive and held the enemy safely away from her goal. The stand was almost empty by the time the last whistle blew. In the front row of seats, however, Tommy Parish still huddled, arising at last with a sigh of repletion and a deluge of peanut shells to the ground. Then, sinking his neck into the collar of his sweater and his moist hands into the pockets of his baggy breeches, he turned from the scene of conflict and made his way back across the soggy field toward Upton Hall. Ahead, the tired players plodded along by twos and threes, blankets trailing, subdued and disgruntled. Toward the end of the procession Coach Cade’s short, thick-set figure walked beside that of Captain Lowe. Jonas was almost six feet tall and correspondingly broad, and walked with a lumbering pace that added to the contrast between him and Johnny. The gymnasium swallowed them up and Tommy went on, passing within smelling distance of the kitchens in Lawrence Hall and sniffing the air eagerly. This was a Saturday, and generally on Saturdays the evening meal was extremely satisfactory. Tommy almost regretted those peanuts. Still, nearly an hour must elapse before he would be allowed to assimilate more food, and Tommy’s recuperative powers were of the best. He reached the walk between Borden and Upton, turned to the right and presently disappeared into the latter dormitory.

Up in Number 30 Tommy removed his outer garments, swathed his rotund form in a garish blanket dressing-gown and subsided on the window-seat, piling the several silken pillows behind his head. The view was not cheerful just now. Through the mist-covered panes Tommy looked across the Yard, damply green of turf, to Academy street and the white residences beyond. There were few persons in sight. Up the middle path came a figure in a shining yellow oil-skin coat, snuggling a package under an arm; one of the fellows returning from a shopping expedition, apparently. Tommy wondered whether the contents of the package were edible. A few forms moved along Academy street, citizens with umbrellas these. To the right, near the Meadow street side of the Yard, a light appeared in Doctor McPherson’s house. (“Mac” was the principal.) Occupying a corresponding position across the wide expanse of maple dotted turf, Memorial Hall emitted two fellows carrying books from the school library. Tommy watched them idly as they followed the walk which led them to the front of Academy Hall. As they passed Upton he recognized the taller of the two and had half a mind to raise the window and exchange insults. But the effort was too great and he contented himself with tapping a pane with the seal ring he wore. Evidently the sound didn’t carry, for the youths disappeared from his range of vision without looking up.

At Alton Academy the dormitories form a line across the top of the campus: Haylow first, near Meadow street, then Lykes, then—with Academy Hall intervening—Upton and Borden. Back of Academy is Lawrence, which is the dining hall, and well over toward River street, hiding behind Borden, is the Carey Gymnasium. The land descended gently each way from the dormitory row, in the front toward Academy street and the town, in the rear toward the open country. On the latter slope, a slope too gradual to really deserve the name, was the athletic field, with the quarter-mile track, diamonds, tennis courts and sufficient territory besides for the accommodation of such mildly important bodies as the soccer and lacrosse teams. Like many New England preparatory schools, Alton possessed an appearance of age out of proportion with fact, an appearance largely due to the maples that shaded the walks and the ivy that grew almost to the eaves of the older buildings. Not that Alton was a new school, for it was not, but it was younger than many; younger, even, than its principal rival, Kenly Hall, over at Lakeville.

Tommy was getting quite drowsy now and would probably have fallen comfortably asleep if Billy Pillsbury hadn’t selected the moment for his homecoming. Billy, generally called “Pill” was sixteen, a sophomore—although, unlike Tommy, he was new at it—and held the proud and important position of Second Assistant Football Manager. Pill was a slight, pink-cheeked, trim-looking youth, with dark hair swept back from a classic brow and held swept by some fragrant concoction that Tommy found particularly nauseating—or pretended to. Pill entered with the aspect of one wearied by the weight of authority imposed on him and sank into a chair. Tommy viewed him without enthusiasm.

“Gee, what a day!” sighed Pill.

“Yes, rotten,” responded the other, carefully misunderstanding. “Doesn’t look much like clearing, either.”

“Oh, the weather!” Pill put that aside with a wave of a slender hand. “I meant the—the work. And that game! Say, wasn’t that criminal, Tommy?”

“Sure was. Every fellow on the team deserves hanging.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Pill. “They’re all right. Trouble is, they haven’t had enough practice, Tommy.”

“Why not? Ten days ought to give them some idea of the game!”

“They weren’t any worse than Southport.”

“What of it? Last year we licked Southport something like 23 to 0. And the year before by— Well, I forget what it was.”

“I don’t,” returned Pill triumphantly. “It was 6 to 6, the same as to-day. And that year we licked Kenly, and last year we didn’t! So you can’t prove that the team’s going to be rotten that way!”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be rotten,” answered Tommy placidly. “All I say is that it was rotten to-day. Look at the way Burton played, for instance. He had three chances with forward-passes and missed every one of them. Touched them all, too. Why, we’d have had a touchdown any time if he could have frozen onto just one of them!”

“Chick was sort of out of tune,” acknowledged Pill. “He’s been that way ever since work started. Looks to me as if he was still sore about the captaincy.”

“Think so?” Tommy looked interested. “Say, I’ll bet you’re tres right! I thought he and Jonas Lowe weren’t acting awfully thick!”

“Oh, they get on all right,” said Pill. “Still, I do think that Chick was awfully disappointed last winter. Maybe you can’t blame him, either. Why, I’d have bet my shirt that they’d make him captain, Tommy!”

“Yes, so would I, I guess. The trouble with Chick Burton is that he’s a mighty pleasant guy, and most every one likes him a lot and all that. But when it comes to choosing a leader, why, Chick doesn’t—er—inspire confidence. That’s the way I get it, and I guess that’s the way the team felt last December. It was a surprise, though, when they elected Lowe. Guess Jonas was as surprised as any one, even Chick. Think he will make a good captain, Pill?”

“Jonas?” Pill looked frankly dubious. “Gee, I don’t know, Tommy. He’s a corking old scout, and the fellows like him well enough; and he knows a lot about football; his own position and the other chap’s; but it doesn’t seem to me that he’s what you’d call a born leader.”

“Huh, neither is Chick.”

“Yes, he is, too! Chick’s the—the slap-bang, hit-or-miss sort that—”

“Mostly miss to-day,” interpolated Tommy.

“—that fellows take to. He may be wrong, but he makes you think he’s right. And he has—well, dash, you know; and a jolly way of banging into everything; sort of a ‘Come on, gang, let’s go!’ fashion that wins the crowd. What I think about Chick is that if he had made the captaincy he’d have been a poor leader, Tommy, but every one would have forgiven him and, if we’d lost to Kenly, would have said: ‘Well, it wasn’t Chick Burton’s fault! It was just rotten luck!’”

“He’s sure got a pal in you,” said Tommy. “I didn’t know you two were so amical.”

“Your French is rotten, as usual. We aren’t very friendly, either, for that matter. I mean, I don’t know him very well. Say, that’s a funny thing about Chick Burton. He gets on finely with every one, but you never see him chummy with a soul. Ever notice that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What about Hollins? He and Chick look to be pretty thick.”

“Well, they room together, you know, and I heard they were pals before they came here. But outside of Bert Hollins he doesn’t take up with any fellow, so far as I see.”

Tommy chuckled reminiscently. “You ought to have seen the pained look on Bert’s face this afternoon when I razzed Chick once for missing a throw! Say, that poor nut thinks Chick invented football, I guess.”

Pill, having finally set about the task of removing his damp clothing, chuckled as he kicked off a shoe. “I’ll bet! Bert thinks Chick is just about all right, I guess. Talk about Damon and Pythias!”

“Well, I fancy it’s a bit one-sided,” replied Tommy pessimistically. “Friendships generally are.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Chick’s a senior and could have gone into Lykes this fall if he’d wanted to. But he stayed here in Upton so’s he could be with Bert. That looks like he thought a good deal of him, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe and peradventure,” Tommy yawned. “Hurry up and get dressed. I’m starved. I see Bert’s still trying to play football. This is his third season, isn’t it?”

“Second. He’s a junior. I dare say he will make the team this year. He told me the other day that he’d put on seven pounds since last fall. He isn’t a bad player. He might have got placed last fall if he hadn’t been so light. Johnny had him in a few minutes to-day, at the last.”

“Well, I’d like to see him make it,” said Tommy reflectively. “He’s sure tried hard and long, and I’m strong on the nil desperandum stuff, Pill. Who do we play next week?”

“Banning High. Bet you you’ll see a different game next Saturday, Tommy.”

“If I don’t,” responded the other, “I’ll ask for my money back! Say, pour l’amour de Michel, do we eat or don’t we?”

[CHAPTER II]
BERT REFUSES AN INVITATION

“Want to play some pool?” asked Chick.

Bert leaned back in the chair and caressed the end of his straight nose with the rubber tip of his pencil. “Depends,” he replied. “If you mean at that evil-smelling dive you dragged me into last week the answer is no, Chick.”

“What’s the matter with Mooney’s?” demanded the other. “He’s got the best tables in town.”

“I know, but the smoke’s so thick there you could cut it with a knife, and it makes my eyes smart. That’s why you beat me last time.”

“Shucks, a little smoke won’t hurt you. Come on. Besides, when a fellow can’t smoke himself a little of the aroma of the weed isn’t so bad.”

“Maybe, but I noticed the last time that it sort of made you absent-minded, Chick.”

“How do you mean? Oh, that! Shucks, one cigarette at this stage of the game doesn’t matter. We weren’t really in training last Saturday, any way.”

Bert Hollins smiled and shook his head. “That’s a punk alibi, Chick. Suppose some one had happened to look in? There’d been the dickens to pay.”

“Some one being Johnny Cade?” asked Chick, grinning. “Johnny doesn’t frequent that part of town, old son. Don’t look so blamed virtuous or I’ll punch your head. Anyway, I’m off the things until we quit training.”

“Which being so,” said the other, “you’d better get rid of the box in your top drawer. They might tempt you, Charles, beyond your power of resistance.”

“Say, how come you’ve been snooping through my chiffonier? Hang it, Bert, you’ve got a cheek!”

“Wait a minute! Did you or didn’t you ask me to get you a handkerchief one day and drop it out the window to you? And was or wasn’t said handkerchief in said top drawer of said—”

“Oh, shut up,” said Chick, grinning. “All right, old son. Say no more. But trust you to see the fags! As to getting rid of them, that would be rotten extravagance, Bert. No, but I’ll stick ’em out of sight where I won’t see ’em. How’ll that do? But, listen. Will you shoot some pool, or won’t you, you poor fish?”

“Won’t,” answered Bert. “That is, I will if you’ll play in a respectable place, but I don’t like the atmosphere of Rooney’s—”

“Mooney’s.”

“Looney’s, then. And I’m not referring entirely to the tobacco smoke. A lot of the gentlemen who frequent that dive are the sort that my Sunday school teacher expressly warned me against, Chick.”

“Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled the older boy. “Come on, won’t you? You don’t have to pay any attention to the others. I’ll give you a handicap of—”

“No, thanks, old man, I really had rather not. Anyway, I’ve got some math here that will stand an hour’s work.”

“Do it later. Great Scott, don’t you know this is Saturday night?”

“Sure, but I sort of feel in the mood for math, Chick. A—a kind of mental alertness possesses me, and although—”

“Oh, go to thunder!” said Chick shortly, and pulled a cap on his head. “The next time I ask you, you’ll know it, you blamed Miss Nancy.”

“Them’s hard words,” murmured Bert. “What time you coming back?”

“Some time before ten. Why?”

“Just wondered if you recalled the fact that you’re supposed to be in bed by that hour.”

“What? Who said so? Johnny hasn’t started that stuff yet, has he?”

“Even so, Chick. He specifically mentioned his wishes no later than yesterday. Every one in bed by ten sharp, were his words.”

“Well, he’s got a crust,” Chick declared. “That’s mid-season stuff. How’s he get that way?”

“I really can’t say, but, joking aside, Charles, do try to be home by nine-thirty or thereabouts, eh? These late hours—”

“Oh, shut up!” With his hand on the door, Chick made a final and pathetic appeal. “Be a good guy, Bert, won’t you? Listen, we’ll go to that place on West street, if you can’t stand Mooney’s.”

Bert waved the pencil in dismissal. “Run along to your disreputable acquaintances, Chick. Fact is, I’m not feeling lucky to-night. Besides, I got a slam on the shin this afternoon that tells me I wouldn’t enjoy tramping a couple of miles around a table. Some other time, O Wizard of the Cue.”

“Honest, you make me sick!” The door shut with some force, leaving Bert smiling at it. He rather enjoyed ragging Chick, and Chick, while he sometimes became exasperated, never lost his temper. Not with Bert, that is. For one thing, they had known each other ever since they had begun to walk; or, at least, since Bert had, for Chick, who was a full year older, had probably found the use of his legs first. They had grown up together in Watertown, adventured together, gone to school together, had been practically inseparable for some fifteen years. Chick had a temper, although it was pretty well governed, but save in the very earliest years of their acquaintance he had never been really angry with Bert. Perhaps his year of seniority had something to do with it, for, although Bert could be trying at times, Chick considered that the other’s youth excused him. Each of the boys made a good deal of that thirteen months of difference in their respective ages. Chick had always assumed an elder brother attitude, Bert had always accepted the position of junior unquestioningly, crediting Chick with superior wisdom and all the advantages popularly supposed to accrue to those of great age and experience. Always, that is, until very recently. Within the last year, it seemed, the matter of age had become less important. Possibly, as sometimes happens, Bert had matured more in that time than Chick had. Whereas a year back the older boy had held the rôle of mentor, now it was Bert who sought to guide Chick’s steps. Sometimes a slightly puzzled look would come into Chick’s countenance, indicating that he was sensible of a difference in their relations and hadn’t yet fathomed it.

In general appearance the friends were not unalike. Both were fairly tall, well-proportioned youths, Bert slimmer and lighter than Chick but not destined to remain so much longer. Both were dark of complexion, Chick with gray eyes and Bert with brown. On the score of good looks the older boy held an advantage, for his features were regular, while Bert’s, with the single exception of a straight nose, were decidedly haphazard. Still, expression counts more than features, as a general thing, and both scored there, although in different fashions. Chick’s face told of high spirits and vivacity and thirst for adventure, and a ready, careless smile won friendship easily. On occasion that smile could be a bit supercilious. Bert’s countenance was normally rather grave, although if one looked closely there was generally a glint of laughter lurking in the brown eyes. It was a friendly countenance, but not an ardent one. Bert’s smile was slow to appear, but it was very genuine and was usually followed by a rather infectious laugh.

Before Chick’s footfalls had entirely died away beyond the closed door that smile had faded to an expression of uneasiness. Bert had joked about Mooney’s and the frequenters of Mooney’s, about the cigarettes and the ten o’clock bed hour, but those things were really threatening to cause him some concern. Chick was different this fall, he reflected now, jabbing tiny holes in a blotter with the sharp point of the pencil. Perhaps being a senior made you that way. Football, which had been an all-absorbing interest to Chick last year and the year before that, now seemed to have small appeal for him. Of course, Chick had felt badly about missing the captaincy last winter; had, in conversation with Bert, been rather bitter about it; but this present careless, don’t-give-a-whoop attitude toward the team and his job on it was unexpected. Last year, for instance, Chick wouldn’t have smoked a cigarette during the season if some one had offered him cigarette, match and a thousand dollars! Nor would he have protested against the ten o’clock bed rule. And—Bert shook his head at this reflection—he wouldn’t have played as listlessly as he had played this afternoon. To Bert, who had been trying two seasons for a position on the team, the honor of being selected from among some four hundred fellows to represent Alton Academy on the football field was something to work for and make sacrifices for and, if won, to be mighty proud of!

Perhaps Chick was too sure of his position, Bert reflected. Last year he had played a rather remarkable game toward the latter part of the season and had been largely instrumental in securing the lone touchdown which, with a field-goal by Nip Storer, one of the half-backs, represented Alton’s earnings in the disastrous Kenly Hall contest. Chick had been wonderful on defense and had spoiled more than one Kenly dash in the direction of the Alton line. On attack he had performed his share, too, for it was his catch of a long forward-pass that had made it possible for Jim Galvin, substituting for the first-string full-back in the second quarter, to smash his way across the Cherry-and-Black’s line. Chick had been a fine and gallant warrior that day, and Bert warmed toward him at the recollection until his present shortcomings seemed of no importance. It had been Chick, too, who had swooped down on a loose ball in the last few minutes of the game and raced off up the long field, dodging, side-stepping, twirling, to the enemy’s twelve yards before he was pulled down from behind. That Alton had failed lamentably to gain a foot on the next four plays detracted not at all from Chick’s heartening performance. Indeed, that brief threat had somehow made the pill of defeat less bitter to the Gray-and-Gold that drizzling November evening. Kenly Hall had won that contest by 16 to 9 with a team that was a better all-around eleven than Alton’s. The latter had shown fine moments, feats of brilliance, daring plays, but Kenly had been steady, machine-like, irresistible, and the victory had been hers deservedly. Bert brought his thoughts back from that thrilling battle, in which he had taken part for just three minutes and forty seconds at the tag-end, thereby winning the privilege of wearing the “Big Gold A,” and resolutely drew his book toward him. Mr. Hulman, the mathematics instructor, was a new member of the faculty, and seemed set on emulating the new broom and sweeping clean. Bert laid his pencil aside, placed elbows on desk and hands against cheeks and set out to discover what it was all about.

After a while the pencil came into play again, and still later Bert closed the book with a sigh of relief, pushed it away from him and glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes after eight! There was still time to pick up some fellow along the corridor and get to the movie theater for the big picture, but after a tentative start toward the closet to get his cap he shook his head and sank into an easy chair. Saturday evening was no time to find an agreeable companion. All the fellows save those Bert didn’t desire as companions would be out. He decided to write a letter home instead, performing a task usually done on Sunday. He began to think what he would write, and that was fatal, for half an hour later he was still in the chair, his thoughts a long way from the letter. In the end, he found a book which he had started to read away back in August, undressed, went to bed and read. He was still reading when Chick returned.

“Hello,” said Bert, “what time is it?”

Chick frowned. “For the love of Pete, cut that out,” he protested. “Honest, Bert, you’re getting to be an awful nagger!”

“Sorry,” said Bert. “I asked only because I’ve been reading and haven’t any idea what time of night it is.” He sat up and looked at the little clock on the nearer chiffonier. It was four minutes past ten according to the clock, but as the latter was frequently wrong he didn’t accept the evidence as conclusive. He laid back again, yawned, dropped the book to the floor and clasped his hands under his head. Chick, undressing, whistled cheerfully; almost too cheerfully Bert thought. “Have a good game?” the latter asked presently.

“Corking. I certainly made the old balls do tricks to-night. Played three games of fifty points and won two of them. Had to go some to get the last one, though. That’s why I’m sort of late.”

“Who did you play with?” asked Bert.

“Fellow named Devore.”

“Devore? Guess I don’t know him. Not in school, is he?”

“No, he’s a guy lives in town. Works with the railroad, I think. Pretty decent sort and a clever lad with a cue. If I hadn’t been going mighty well to-night I wouldn’t have got a game, I guess. Gosh, that place was crowded, Bert!”

“Rooney’s?”

“No, Mooney’s, you coot!” Chick disappeared into the corridor in slippers and dressing-gown. Bert stared at the ceiling a moment and then got out of bed and consulted his watch. The little clock for once was right to a minute. When Chick returned from the lavatory Bert was apparently asleep and Chick turned out the light and got into bed. Silence reigned for a minute or two. Then Chick asked softly: “Asleep, Bert?”

“No, are you?”

“Sure! No, listen. Who do you suppose I met over on Meadow street, coming home?”

“Prince of Wales?”

“No; Johnny.”

After a moment Bert asked: “Did he see you?”

“Of course he did,” replied the other impatiently. “Didn’t I say I met him? Ran right into him, almost, in front of that laundry over there.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing but ‘Ah, Burton!’ or something like that.”

“What time was it, Chick?”

“Ten, or nearly. The clock struck when I got to West street. Talk about rotten luck! Why the dickens he was prowling around over there at that time of night, goodness only knows! If he had stopped I’d have given him a stall, but he just said ‘Ah, Burton’ in a kind of a funny tone and kept right on. I think he had something in his hand; a bag, I guess.”

“Maybe he’s going home over Sunday. There’s a train about ten-twenty, I think.”

“That’s so.” Silence fell again in Number 21 and continued for several minutes. Then Chick’s voice came once more. “Sort of wish I hadn’t run into him, Bert.”

“Me and you both,” agreed Bert.

“Of course it’s blamed poppycock, that ten o’clock bed rule, but he’s acting kind of snorty this fall and he may get on his ear about it. If he does, by gosh, I’ll tell him I’m no kid freshman to have to go to bed with the chickens!”

“Sure! That will make it all right with him,” answered Bert. “He will like that, Chick.”

“Oh, well, hang it, a fellow’s got to have some fun! What’s the good of going to bed at ten, anyway? You don’t get to sleep.”

“Not if you keep on talking,” said Bert, yawning.

“Gosh,” grumbled the other, “you could go to sleep at seven, I guess. How long have you been in bed?”

“Couple of hours.”

“What, didn’t you go out at all?”

“Uh-huh—I mean no! Say, for Pete’s sake, Chick, shut up and go to sleep! How do you think I’m going to keep my schoolgirl complexion if you go on jabbering?”

“All right. But, just the same, I wish I’d come home by State street!”

“Or started earlier,” murmured Bert.

Chick glared resentfully across through the darkness but could think of no appropriate retort. Then came unmistakable indications that his room-mate was asleep.

[CHAPTER III]
AN HUMBLE MEMBER

Chick—his full name, by the way, was Charles Sumner Burton—concluded on Monday that Coach Cade’s preoccupation in the matter of getting to the station in time for his train Saturday night had kept him from realizing the other’s offense. Of course, being a trifle late into bed was no hanging matter, but Johnny had been more than usually strict during the ten days or so of school, and Chick had no wish to be called down. Johnny was mild-mannered and soft-spoken enough when things went right, but when they didn’t he could be decidedly caustic. He was about thirty years of age, a short, solidly-built, broad-shouldered and deep-chested man with the blackest of black hair that reminded one of the bristles on a shoe-brush. His countenance presented the not unusual contrast of a smiling mouth and a fighting chin. Tradition had it that some ten years before Johnny Cade had been a very difficult man to stop when he had the ball in his arms and his head down! Chick believed it, and it was far from his plan to interpose any sort of opposition between Johnny and his desires.

Besides, Chick liked Mr. Cade a whole lot. In a way of speaking, Johnny had made a football player of Chick during the last two years. Of course Chick didn’t give all the credit to the coach; he felt that he himself had contributed largely to the result; but he did acknowledge a considerable obligation and was correspondingly grateful. Chick liked him for other reasons, too, which were the reasons that swayed most of those who knew Johnny. The coach was acknowledgedly square, quite as prompt and generous with praise as with blame; if he worked his charges hard, he set the pace himself; he was easy of approach, liked a joke and never took advantage of his authority, which was that of a faculty member. In short, he was, in school parlance, a “white man.” He had been in charge of the Alton teams for a number of years and had turned out winning elevens in most of them. There was a rumor current this fall to the effect that the end of the present season would likewise be the end of Johnny’s coaching career, but the report lacked official confirmation and the School hoped it wasn’t correct.

That Monday afternoon was largely given over to the first principles of football, which was one way of informing those who had taken part in the Southport game that their labors had not been wholly satisfactory. About sixty fellows had reported since the beginning of the term and these were divided into three squads at present: Squad A, which consisted of nineteen players who had served on the First Team last year; Squad B, which contained the members of the former Second Eleven and a few fellows who had shown promise on the various scrub teams, and Squad C, composed of those whose ambition excelled their experience and a half-dozen or so who had entered school this fall and who were as yet unknown quantities. But to-day, whether you were a Squad A or a Squad C man, you tackled the dummy until you were thoroughly covered, even impregnated, with the still-damp loam of the pit, passed and caught and fell on the ball in the most rudimentary manner and, if you happened to be a candidate for a line position, duck-waddled and, with your head and shoulders thrust into the charging harness, did your best to drag two restraining youths with you over the slippery turf. If you happened to have to set your heart on holding down a backfield position you were spared the harness but worked just as hard at starting and at various other tasks cunningly devised to teach celerity, accuracy and the rest of the football virtues.

There are always those who resent what, in class room, would be termed review work. To a fellow who had played against Kenly Hall for two seasons, being returned to the drudgery of kindergarten stuff was a ridiculous imposition in the judgment of several of the Squad A members. Chick was among those who resented the imposition, but he showed his resentment less than most of the others. He had a hunch that it might be just as well not to court the limelight this afternoon, that if he could survive practice without coming to the notice of the coach he would not be likely to awaken memories, memories dating back to Saturday night at some four minutes to ten o’clock! So Chick, albeit his soul revolted, ground his face into the dirt and filled his ears with it at tackling practice and maintained a cheerful countenance, abstaining, even when at the end of the waiting line farthest from Mr. Cade, from joining in the grumbles and sarcasms delivered in guarded tones.

To an unbiased onlooker it might have appeared that the smiling, shock-haired man in the faded and torn sweater and the old khaki trousers had some reason for trundling the stuffed effigy along the wire for the benefit of Squad A, because, after all, quite a few members of that coterie performed extremely poorly at the task of wrapping their arms about the dummy and dragging it to earth, and not much better at throwing their bodies in front of it in blocking. In fact, those who appeared to have really mastered these sciences were to be counted on the fingers of two hands, omitting the thumbs! Even Captain Jonas Lowe, who, with Andy Dozier, left tackle, towered inches above all the others and looked the perfect football lineman, failed to win commendation to-day; a fact which aided Chick considerably to endure the indignity put upon him. Chick had not yet forgiven Jonas for winning the captaincy over his head, something which, of course, Jonas wasn’t in the least to blame for, although if you had charged Chick with harboring resentment at this late day he would have denied the allegation indignantly. He would probably have felt rather insulted. Certainly he would have reminded you that he had himself put the motion to make Jonas’s election unanimous, and he would have pointed out that he and the new captain were the best of friends. The latter assertion would, however, have been only negatively true. That is to say, he and Jonas were friends merely to the extent of never being unfriendly, which constitutes a relationship somewhat different from that implied by Chick. Whether Jonas realized that Chick still begrudged him the leadership of the team, would have been hard to say, but it was perfectly apparent that if he did realize it he was not in the least troubled about it. There was something rather Jovian about the big, cumbersome, placid Jonas. You got the impression of one gazing calmly down from Olympus, untroubled by petty mortals and their affairs.

Of those who did win a word of praise from Johnny Cade this afternoon one was Bert Hollins. There were quite a few things in the line of football essentials that Bert was good at, and tackling, whether of the dummy or a hard-running enemy, was one of them. Bert’s relation to the team was somewhat peculiar. Last season, after trying very hard to make the Second until well into October, he had succeeded only in getting hurt in his third scrimmage. He had attended practice with a crutch under his left arm for a week and watched it from the bench for nearly a week more. Then, almost before he had limbered that injured knee up again, there had come a demand from the First for a light, fast backfield man and Mr. McFadden, coach of the Scrubs, had sent Bert across on approval. That had been a big moment in the boy’s life, that sudden elevation to the First Team, and he had tried desperately hard to make good. In a manner he had succeeded, for he had shown about everything except weight and experience. One without the other might have served, but together they kept him in the background. He played in two of the late-season contests and won good words, and, as a reward, was sent in by the coach near the end of the big game to earn his letter. There had been no opportunity for a signal display of brilliancy. He had not seized the ball and dashed sixty or seventy or eighty yards down the field for a touchdown and consequent victory.

None of the thrilling, dramatic feats which story tellers love to relate, and which sometimes really are performed, fell to his portion. As a matter of unromantic fact, he had the ball but once and lost better than two yards in an ill-advised attempt to knife through inside tackle. Better men than he had repeatedly failed at that play already. He emerged from that fray with no more glory than he had entered, but he had at least emerged a full-fledged member of the Alton Academy Football Team, with the right to wear a big golden-yellow A on his gray sweater, a tiny yellow football on his cap and a gray-gold-gray ribbon on his straw hat in summer. There were other privileges and benefits, too, although of secondary importance. For instance, he could reserve four seats in the center of the stand for the Kenly games, he could cast a vote in the election of captain—a prerogative he had subsequently exercised—and his countenance, together with some thirty other countenances, would grace the wall of the gymnasium for posterity to gaze upon with awe—or boredom.

Bert was mighty proud of his membership, but his satisfaction was dulled by the suspicion that he didn’t really deserve the honor. There were fellows—he could think of half a dozen, perhaps—who played better football than he did and who had not won the coveted A. In short, Bert secretly looked on himself as a Letter Man in name only! But he meant to correct all that. This fall he was going to deserve the prize he had won. He was going to try so blamed hard that success simply wouldn’t be able to escape him! He had added several pounds since last winter and at least an inch of height, and he had handled a football nearly every day during the summer, generously obeying Mr. Cade’s injunction to the members of the squad. If all the milk he had drunk and all the eggs he had eaten could have been mixed together the result would have been an omelet as big as—well, I don’t know how big. But I do know that in August Bert’s mother had to call the family physician in to advise a bilious boy to omit eggs from his diet for the rest of the summer. Perhaps what had kept Bert from attaining the height of Captain Jonas and the rotundity of Lum Patten by the middle of September was the fact that when he wasn’t throwing or kicking a football around he was playing tennis or swimming.

No matter how he figured it, Bert couldn’t make himself out better than a third-choice substitute half-back. Storer, Ness, Savell, Keys and Tyron were the mainstays, and then there were at least three other backfield candidates who, in Bert’s estimation at least, were held in higher esteem than he. And goodness only knew who else might suddenly spring into the spot-light before the season was over! Well, if hard work and the most determined efforts would avail he meant to land considerably nearer the head of the list than he was now. What he feared more than all else was a repetition of last fall’s catastrophe. He was light and so subject to rude handling, and last season’s experience had proved how surprisingly easy it was to get hurt. Why, he had merely stumbled over some fellow’s legs and been out of the game for almost a fortnight with a wrenched knee! Even as late as early summer the silly thing had twinged him occasionally, although he had been careful not to mention the fact. He believed it to be as good as ever now, but he was haunted by the fear that it might not be, that he would hurt it again and be laid off. Being laid off was a fatal thing sometimes. Like time and tide, football seasons wait for no one, and more than one poor fellow on the injured list has watched a hale substitute run off with his position under his very eyes. Fear of another injury to that left knee or to some other portion of his anatomy was threatening to become an obsession, although he didn’t realize it.

Going back to Upton after practice was over, Bert asked Chick whether Coach Cade had said anything about Saturday night. Chick laughed. “Not a word, old scout. Know what I think? Well, I think he was so taken up with getting that train that he forgot all about seeing me. Anyway, he didn’t say a word to-day. Didn’t even look cross-eyed at me!”

“That’s luck,” said Bert. “Take my advice, Chick, and don’t get caught again.”

“Not going to, believe me. Another time I’ll come home by River street, even if it is longer. It’s a safe bet Johnny doesn’t wander around over there!”

“Maybe not, but the safest thing is to be in the dormitory by nine-thirty, and that’s your play from now on. You can’t be quite certain about Johnny. Maybe he’s forgotten about meeting you the other night and maybe he hasn’t. I wouldn’t want to bet either way, Chick.”

“Oh, well, he’s got too many other things to worry about, I guess. Say, he had an awful cheek to work A Squad the way he did to-day. Regular beginners’ stuff! Gosh, I’ve got more dirt in my hair than I’ll be able to get out in a dozen shampoos. Funny thing was, though,” added Chick as they started upstairs, “that we tackled the dummy like a lot of pups!”

“The tackling in the Southport game was pretty rotten,” said Bert. “I don’t believe there were more than two clean tackles made by our gang, Chick.”

“And I made them both?” laughed Chick. “Thanks!”

“You did not! You were as bad as any of them. Pete Ness made one corking tackle the time he got that Southport guy over by the side-line, and I think it was Billy Haines made the other. Generally we just sort of tagged the other fellow on the shoulder and let him by!”

“Well, you’ve got to be polite to your guests,” replied Chick, grinning. “I did miss my tackles pretty awfully, though, and I know it as well as you do, old scout. Fact is, Bert, I haven’t been playing my real game yet. I guess it takes a fellow a week or so to get back into harness, eh? Oh, by the way, I told Coles we’d be around to see him this evening. He’s got some apples his folks sent him from New Hampshire or somewhere and he wants them eaten up before they go bad. He says the training table starts Wednesday evening, Bert.”

“I wonder if I’ll get on it.”

“Sure! Why not? At that, though, you’ll be lucky if you don’t. You get beastly tired of the grub after about a month of it.”

“I saw Mr. McFadden at the field to-day,” said Bert. “I guess they’ll be starting the Scrub Team pretty soon.”

“Next week, probably. Good thing, too, for the place is all littered up over there now.”

“I hope it doesn’t occur to Johnny to put me back where he got me,” Bert observed ruefully. “I dare say fellows do get dropped to the Second sometimes, don’t they?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you need to worry about that. You’ll get along all right, Bert. I have a hunch that Johnny’s going in for a fast backfield this year, and when it comes to speed you’ve got it all over some of the chaps. It was that lot of heavy, slow backs that spilled the beans for us last year, if you make inquiry of me. Things went a heap better in the last quarter, after some of those truck horses had quit!”

“I’d hate to go back to the Second,” mused Bert.

“Gosh, you can find more things to worry about!” laughed the other. “Last week you were afraid you were going to break a leg or something. You’re the original calamity howler, Bert!”

Bert smiled. “I suppose it’s because I want so hard to make good this year, Chick,” he answered apologetically.

“You’re going to, old scout, so buck up. Not that you’ve any right to expect it, either. Most fellows don’t get a position nailed down until their senior year.”

“You did. And so did Lowe.”

“Exceptions proving the rule, Bert. As for Jonas, I’ll say he played in a good deal of luck last fall. If Peabody hadn’t gone bad on account of studies and getting all worked up over the way Mac and the rest of the Faculty nagged him there for a while Jonas would still be a sub, I’ll bet. Mind you, Bert, I’m not saying he isn’t a good player when he gets started, but no one would have discovered it if Dick had held his job. Why, up to the Lorimer game or after Jonas was kicking his heels on the bench more times than he was playing!”

“Yes, I guess there was some luck in that,” acknowledged Bert. “But Jonas certainly filled Peabody’s place mighty nicely after he got it. Who’s going to make left end position this fall, Chick?”

“Left end? Why, I guess Joe Tate’s pretty certain of it. Just as certain as I am of right end.” Chick’s laugh suggested that there wasn’t much doubt in his mind about that!

“Kruger was awfully good Saturday for the little while he played,” said Bert.

“Oh, Dutch is good, too. One of the best. But I guess Joe’s got it cinched. Where you’re going to see some surprises, though, before Johnny has knocked the outfit into shape is between Joe and center. Meecham won’t last at guard and I wouldn’t give an awful lot for Andy Dozier’s chance at tackle. Unless I miss my guess Nat Wick will have Meecham out of there inside of a fortnight.”

“But Dozier’s a crackajack, Chick! Why, last year—”

“All right, but what happened in the Kenly game? They ripped him to pieces in just about twenty minutes, didn’t they?”

“I heard he was sick. Some one said he was up in Patten’s room for an hour that morning and Lum and two or three others were dosing him with everything from hair oil to Seidlitz powders! I remember myself that he looked like the dickens just before lunch.”

“Funk, probably. I’ve seen fellows worse than he was before a big game. They get over it by the time to start. Gosh, I’ve been sort of teetery myself!”

“You! Bet it was something you’d eaten then,” jeered Bert. “You’ve got about as much—as much whatever it is as a goat!”

“Is that so? I’ll have you understand that I’m a man of very delicate—er—susceptibilities. Highly strung, nervous, you know. Temperamental! That’s the old word I wanted.”

“Put your coat on and let’s get over to supper,” said Bert. “You’re saying things that don’t mean anything!”

[CHAPTER IV]
THE MANAGER GIVES A PARTY

Coles Wistar’s room in Lykes, which he shared with Ted Ball, First Team quarter-back, looked full to capacity when Chick and Bert arrived there that Monday evening. Once inside, however, accommodations of a sort could be discerned, and Chick crowded onto a bed and Bert squeezed in between Anstruther and Tommy Parish on the window-seat. Coles Wistar was Football Manager, and it was largely a football crowd which was present. There were George Anstruther, familiarly “Judge,” and Billy Pillsbury, assistant managers, Ted Ball, Hank Howard, Pete Ness, Jim Galvin and Nip Storer, all of the Team. Tommy Parish was present because Pill had brought him and no one had yet thrown him out. Homer Johnson, who roomed with Captain Lowe, had brought Jonas’s regrets and remained to partake of hospitality. These, with the host, Chick and Bert, formed the party, a round dozen in all.

Lykes Hall, reserved for the Senior Class Students, held fewer rooms than the other dormitories, but, fortunately for Coles’ party, they were larger than the rooms in Haylow or Upton or Borden, the latter the Freshman domicile. Number 5 was well-furnished and attractive, for Coles had excellent taste in such matters. There was a refreshing lack of school and college pennants on the walls, this style of decoration being represented by a single Alton banner hung above the double windows. There were a good many pictures, most of them etchings, of which Coles was a modest collector, a few framed photographs and one lone trophy on the walls. The latter, placed above a closet door, was a wooden panel some three feet long with a black, sanded background against which gilt letters startlingly announced “EASTBOUND TRAINS.” It was a memento of Ted Ball’s unregenerate freshman days, and although it had always grated against Coles’ artistic sensibilities he had never been able to persuade Ted to remove it. Ted acknowledged that it might be a jarring note in the decorative scheme, but he had annexed that trophy under extremely difficult circumstances, braving arrest and, possibly, penal servitude, and, although nowadays self-condemnatory in his explanation of its presence here, he was secretly very proud of it. Ted was a rather stocky, bright-eyed chap of eighteen, fun-loving and extremely popular at Alton. He was equally brilliant at studies and as a quarter-back, a shining example to his team-mates which, unfortunately, not many emulated.

The particular host of the evening, Coles Wistar, was unlike his room-mate in many ways. Coles was tall, with a thin face and lightish hair, wore glasses and looked intellectual. He had spent a year at a junior preparatory school near Boston before coming to Alton and had managed to acquire the broad A and a Bostonese accent. You could always make a hit with Coles by inferring that he came from the Hub, although as matter of fact, he lived in a small village in New Hampshire. In spite of one or two trifling affectations he was no fool and was an unusually capable manager. Conversation, interrupted by the arrival of Chick and Bert, gathered momentum again. Tommy Parish, it appeared, had, in the terse phraseology of Hank Howard, been “shooting off his mouth again.”

“Says the Team’s the rottenest he’s seen since he came here,” explained Hank to Chick. “The silly ass doesn’t know a thing about football, anyway, but you’d think, to hear him go on—”

“Pshaw,” began Chick, “why pay attention to that coot? He just likes to hear himself—” But Tommy, even in the midst of Coles’ scathing rejoinder, overheard and challenged Hank’s assertion.

“All wrong, Howard. I know a heap more about football than most of you guys who play it, or try to. Why wouldn’t I? All you fellows learn is how to look after your own positions. You’re on the inside looking cross-eyes at your own jobs. I’m on the outside looking in at the whole works. Now let me—”

“Muzzle him, somebody,” said Nip Storer.

“Tie a can to him,” advised Jim Galvin.

“Let the silly ass talk,” laughed Ted Ball. “Go on and tell ’em, Tommy.”

“Sure.” Tommy looked entirely composed, quite unaffected by hostility. Any one well acquainted with him—Pill, for instance—would have known that he was having a thoroughly good time. “Sure I’ll tell them. Howard says I don’t know anything about football. All right. I say I know more about it than he does.”

“Quit your kidding,” growled Hank.

“He may know more or less about playing tackle, but I’ll bet he can’t answer three questions I can put to him.”

“What sort of questions?” demanded Hank suspiciously.

“Questions on football. Questions covered by the rules which you’re all supposed to know from A to Z, whether you’re a tackle or an end or a back.”

“Heck, I don’t pretend to have all the rules at my finger ends,” protested Hank. “There are too many of them!”

“Shoot ’em, Tommy,” said Jim Galvin. “Go on, kid.”

“All right, but these are for Howard, mind. The rest of you keep out. First, your side kicks, Howard. You are on-side. The opponent prepares for a fair catch. You are nearer the ball than he is. What would happen if you made the catch?”

“I’d get socked ten or fifteen yards, of course,” answered Hank, “for interfering with a free catch.” He spoke doubtfully, though, suspecting a snag.

“Hold on,” exclaimed Nip eagerly. “You said he was on-side!”

“Keep out, you!” Tommy warned. There were chuckles from some of the others and Hank looked harassed.

“How could I be on-side, I’d like to know? Even if I was—”

“Second question,” interrupted Tommy. “Your side has the ball ten yards from the opponent’s goal line and on the fourth down makes a forward pass over the line. You receive the pass. You stand with one foot on the end line, but the ball reaches you a yard inside the zone and you complete the pass. What about it?”

Hank looked about for aid, but met only grinning countenances. “The ball came down inside the zone?” he asked cautiously.

“A yard inside. You have to reach well out for it.”

“If I catch it it’s all right,” said Hank. “You said I had my foot on the end line, not over it. Anyway, if the ball was inside—”

Ted’s chuckle unsettled him, and he scowled his annoyance. “Hang it, I didn’t say I could answer all the catch questions you could think of! Just the same, I’ll bet I’m right about that. Ain’t I, Ted?”

“Third question,” said Tommy inexorably.

“Oh, shut up! Answer your own fool questions!”

“Behave, Hank!” admonished Coles. “Put the question, Tommy.”

“You’re captain of your team, Howard, and the other side has the ball between your fifteen and sixteen yards. One of your side is caught holding and the umpire penalizes you fifteen yards. What would you do?”

“What down was it?” asked Hank, mazed. “I mean, who had the ball?”

“The opponent, on your fifteen and a half. One of your gang is caught holding in the line and the ump socks you the penalty and puts the ball forward fifteen yards from where it was put in play. You’re captain of your team. Get it?”

“Sure, but what can I do? The ball still belongs to the other fellow, doesn’t it?”

Several of the listeners were exchanging puzzled glances, while Hank’s forehead was a network of wrinkles. Of the dozen there only Tommy and Bert appeared serene, Tommy owlishly regarding his victim, Bert leaning back against the window-sill wearing a faintly amused expression. “That your answer?” inquired Tommy.

“Gosh, I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” fumed Hank. “If my side had the ball, all right, but you say it hasn’t. What would you expect me to do, anyhow? Sass the umpire?”

“Look here, Tommy,” broke in Jim Galvin, “I don’t get that any more than Hank does. What’s the answer?”

“I’ll tell you in a sec. First, how many of the questions did Howard answer correctly?”

“None, so far,” said Jim. “He doesn’t seem to have answered the last one at all yet.”

“Wait a minute!” Hank protested. “What was wrong with the first answer? He asked—”

“You could have caught the ball yourself, Hank, if you were on-side,” said Ted. “Shut up a second. What’s the catch in the last one, Tommy?”

“Why,” Tommy replied sweetly, “if I’d been captain instead of Hank I’d have protested the placing of the ball half a yard from the goal line!”

“Gee, that’s right!” exclaimed Chick. “It ought to have gone to the one-yard line! Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

“Right as rain, old dear.”

“Oh, thunder,” growled Hank disgustedly, “no one’s expected to know all the kinks! And, look here, you fellows, what was wrong with that one about the forward-pass into the end zone? I was inside and the ball was inside and I made the catch. I’ll bet I answered that one right!”

“No, you didn’t, Hank,” laughed Ted. “Tommy said you had one foot on the line. Rules say you mustn’t do it, see? On or over, either one, queers you, Hank.”

“That’s crazy! I’ll bet the rest of you didn’t know it, either! Gee, I’d like to ask you guys a few!”

“Go ahead,” advised Pill. “Show ’em up, Hank.”

Hank looked grim for a moment, and it was plainly to be seen that he was doing some hard thinking. Then, as expectant silence prolonged itself, a slow grin overspread his face and he shook his head. “No use,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t think of any!”

“Well, it looks to me as though Tommy had won his point,” said Anstruther. “So it behooves us to listen respectfully to his pleasant criticisms of the Team. Go ahead, Tommy, and say your piece.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’ve said it. I said this year’s team was the punkest I’ve seen here, and I say it again.”

“Well, you’ve seen quite a few,” remarked Chick, with a wink at Bert. “How many years have you been here now, anyway, Tommy? This your fourth or fifth?”

“Third,” replied Tommy untroubledly amidst the laughter. “I saw last year’s team and the team before that, and I’m seeing this thing you’ve got here now, and I say it ain’t so good, fellows. Mind you, I’m saying this for your benefit, not because I want to crab.”

“Oh, no, you never crab, Tommy!” said Pill.

“What,” asked Coles in a patient voice, “strikes you as being the principal—ah—weakness?”

“The players,” replied Tommy promptly, and allowed himself a wicked grin.

A howl of derision went up. Then Coles inquired with a pretense of vast respect: “Are they all rotten, Tommy?”

“Oh, no, there are three or four that look pretty good.”

“Thank Heaven!” cried Ted. “We’ve got something to build on!”

Chick, however, demanded scoffingly: “Say, for the love of Pete, who gave you any license to set yourself up as a critic, Tommy? You’re nothing but a fat loafer, and you know it. Cramming the football rules doesn’t make you a judge of the game, youngster.”

Perhaps it was the reference to a tendency toward obesity that got under Tommy’s skin. In any case, his cheerful calm vanished and he answered warmly: “If I’m fat, Burton, it’s not in my head! And it doesn’t take a critic to see what a rotten game you’re playing, either!”

“Lay off that stuff, Tommy!” ordered Coles severely.

“So I’m fat-headed am I?” demanded Chick, reddening. “Say, you blamed little fat rotter—” He thrust himself off the bed and took a step toward the window-seat, but Ted interposed.

“Calm yourself, Chick. Tommy doesn’t count. Besides, he didn’t mean what he said, did you, you crazy ape?”

“Sure, I did,” responded Tommy, once more master of his emotions. “He has got a swelled head and he is playing rotten.”

“If you can’t act like a gentleman—” began Coles angrily.

“Oh, put him out,” called Nip Storer.

Chick, held in subjection by Ted’s capable hand—it’s difficult to get to your feet when some one is pushing against your chest—glared wrathfully at Tommy. Tommy returned his gaze without a qualm. After all, reflected Bert, beside him, he didn’t lack courage!

“I really think you’d better beat it, Tommy,” advised Ted coldly. “You are a pesky nuisance, anyway, and I don’t know who let you in.”

“Then he goes, too,” said Tommy, nodding at the irate Chick. “He hadn’t any call to say I was fat!”

“So you are,” declared Chick hotly. “You’re a fat fool!”

“Move both members be allowed to withdraw,” said Jim Galvin, grinning enjoyably.

“Seconded,” said Anstruther. “The secretary is directed to expunge the remarks of both gentlemen—I mean rough-necks—from the records.”

“Forget it, you two,” advised Ted. “Mutual apologies are in order. How about it, Tommy? If you want to stay, son, you’d better behave.”

“Do we get the apples?” asked Tommy soberly.

“Sure,” Ted answered amidst laughter.

“I apologize,” said Tommy. “Just the same—” But Bert’s elbow colliding with his ribs interrupted his qualifying addenda.

“All right,” agreed Chick, restored to better humor. “He isn’t fat. He’s merely plump.”

Tommy looked doubtful for a moment, but Coles pulled a box of apples from under a bed and the doubt vanished. During the subsequent half-hour Tommy was much too busy to indulge in what he termed constructive criticism. No one counted the number of Northern Spies he demolished, but it was considerable. Conversation proceeded briskly but somewhat unintelligibly. In the middle of the feast “Dutch” Kruger arrived, bearing a fat black case, and was hailed tumultuously. He devoured two apples hastily, urged on by impatient watchers, and would have started a third. But Jim Galvin deftly took the apple away from him and substituted the black case. Dutch’s protests were drowned. Good-naturedly he produced a shining saxophone.

“‘Football Blues,’ Dutch!”

“Aye! Attaboy, Dutch! I want to sing!”

“What time is it?” asked Dutch anxiously.

“Only nine. Lots of time, boy. Give us ‘The Football Blues.’”

Dutch grinned, nestled the mouthpiece against his lips and blew. At the same time he began to pat the floor with his feet and sway from his hips. The saxophone nodded and curveted. Most of the assemblage broke into song, tapping the floor, too, swaying as Dutch swayed. Tommy, a large red apple in one hand, his eyes staring fixedly, hypnotically at the musician, heaved his plump shoulders ludicrously. [From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that out!”] which, however, failed to make itself heard in Number 5. Up and down the corridor doors were set open and in more than one room a toiler at his books gave over toiling for the while and pursed his lips.