THE SECRET PLAY

By Ralph Henry Barbour

The Purple Pennant Series

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

Yardley Hall Series

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

Maple Hill Series

• The Brother of a Hero
• Finkler’s Field

The Big Four Series

• Four Afloat
• Four Afoot
• Four in Camp

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

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY ═ Publishers ═ New York

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

THE
SECRET PLAY

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

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

Illustrated by
NORMAN P. ROCKWELL

NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1915

Copyright, 1915, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE SECRET PLAY

CHAPTER I
“THE COACHLESS WONDERS”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Climb in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II
DICK RECEIVES AN INVITATION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What has he been doing, Gordie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Criminals,” prompted Dick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III
A DISCOURAGED CAPTAIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much of a discount?” asked Dick.

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

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

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

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

“Five,” said Morris.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thirty-seven-forty,” said Morris.

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

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

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

“Thank you!” muttered Gordon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spring it!”

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

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

CHAPTER IV
LOUISE HAS AN IDEA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shouldn’t he?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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