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Title: The Half-Back

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Release Date: February 11, 2004  [eBook #11041]

Language: English

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THE HALF-BACK

A Story of School, Football, and Golf

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

Illustrated by B. West Clinedinst







[Illustration]




TO
EVERY AMERICAN BOY
WHO LOVES HONEST, MANLY SPORT,
THIS STORY IS DEDICATED.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

     I.--THE BOY IN THE STRAW HAT.

    II.--STATION ROAD AND RIVER PATH.

   III.--OUTFIELD WEST.

    IV.--THE HEAD COACH.

     V.--A RAINY AFTERNOON.

    VI.--THE PRACTICE GAME.

   VII.--A LETTER HOME.

  VIII.--THE GOLF TOURNAMENT.

    IX.--AN EVENING CALL.

     X.--THE BROKEN BELL ROPE.

    XI.--TWO HEROES.

   XII.--THE PROBATION OF BLAIR.

  XIII.--THE GAME WITH ST. EUSTACE.

   XIV.--THE GOODWIN SCHOLARSHIP.

    XV.--THE BOAT RACE.

   XVI.--GOOD-BY TO HILLTON.

  XVII.--THE SACRED ORDER OF HULLABALOOLOO.

 XVIII.--VISITORS FROM MARCHDALE.

   XIX.--A VARSITY SUB.

    XX.--AN OLD FRIEND.

   XXI.--THE DEPARTURE.

  XXII.--BEFORE THE BATTLE.

 XXIII.--HARWELL _vs_. YATES--THE FIRST HALF.

  XXIV.--HARWELL _vs_. YATES--A FAULT AND A REQUITAL.

   XXV.--THE RETURN.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.



A leap in the nick of time.

Joel's arrival at school.

His next drive took him cleanly over Rocky Bunker.

"Stay where you are; the fellows are bringing a boat".

The left-guard bore down straight upon Joel.

Instantly the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water.


DIAGRAMS.

Plan of Hillton Academy Golf Links.

Diagram of Second Play.

Diagram of Third Play.

Positions, Harwell _vs_. Yates.





CHAPTER I.


THE BOY IN THE STRAW HAT.

"How's craps, Country?"

"Shut up, Bart! he may hear you."

"What if he does, ninny? I want him to. Say, Spinach!"

"Do you suppose he's going to try and play football, Bart?"

"Not he. He's looking for a rake. Thinks this is a hayfield, Wall."

The speakers were lying on the turf back of the north goal on the campus
at Hillton Academy. The elder and larger of the two was a rather
coarse-looking youth of seventeen. His name was Bartlett Cloud,
shortened by his acquaintances to "Bart" for the sake of that brevity
beloved of the schoolboy. His companion, Wallace Clausen, was a handsome
though rather frail-looking boy, a year his junior. The two were
roommates and friends.

"He'd better rake his hair," responded the latter youth jeeringly. "I'll
bet there's lots of hayseed in it!"

The subject of their derisive remarks, although standing but a scant
distance away, apparently heard none of them.

"Hi, West!" shouted Bartlett Cloud as a youth, attired in a finely
fitting golf costume, and swinging a brassie, approached. The newcomer
hesitated, then joined the two friends.

"Hello! you fellows. What's up? Thought it was golf, from the crowd over
here." He stretched himself beside them on the grass.

"Golf!" answered Bartlett Cloud contemptuously. "I don't believe you
ever think of anything except golf, Out! Do you ever wake up in the
middle of the night trying to drive the pillow out of the window with a
bed-slat?"

"Oh, sometimes," answered Outfield West smilingly. "There's a heap more
sense in being daft over a decent game like golf than in going crazy
about football. It's just a kid's game."

"Oh, is it?" growled Bartlett Cloud. "I'd just like to have you opposite
me in a good stiff game for about five minutes. I'd show you something
about the 'kid's game!'"

"Well, I don't say you couldn't knock me down a few times and walk over
me, but who wants to play such games--except a lot of bullies like
yourself?"

"Plenty of fellows, apparently," answered the third member of the group,
Wallace Clausen, hastening to avert the threatening quarrel. "Just look
around you. I've never seen more fellows turn out at the beginning of
the season than are here to-day. There must be sixty here."

"More like a hundred," grunted "Bart" Cloud, not yet won over to good
temper. "Every little freshman thinks he can buy a pair of moleskins and
be a football man. Look at that fellow over yonder, the one with the
baggy trousers and straw hat. The idea of that fellow coming down here
just out of the hayfield and having the cheek to report for football
practice! What do you suppose he would do if some one threw a ball
at him?"

"Catch it in his hat," suggested Wallace Clausen.

"He _does_ look a bit--er--rural," said Outfield West, eying the youth
in question. "I fear he doesn't know a bulger from a baffy," he added
sorrowfully.

"What's more to the subject," said Wallace Clausen, "is that he probably
doesn't know a touch-down from a referee. There's where the fun
will come in."

"Well, I'm no judge of football, thank goodness!" answered West, "but
from the length of that chap I'll bet he's a bully kicker."

"Nonsense. That's what a fellow always thinks who doesn't know anything
about the game. It takes something more than long legs to make a
good punter."

"Perhaps; but there's one thing sure, Bart: that hayseed will be a
better player than you at the end of two months--that is, if he gets
taken on."

"I'll bet you he won't be able to catch a punt," growled Cloud. "A fool
like him can no more learn football than--than--"

"Than you could learn golf," continued West sweetly.

"Oh, shut up! I know a mule that plays golf better than you do."

"Well, I sha'n't attempt to compete with your friends, Bart."

"There you both go, quarreling again," cried Clausen. "If you don't shut
up, I'll have to whip the pair of you."

Wallace Clausen was about two thirds the size of Cloud, and lacked both
the height and breadth of shoulder that made West's popular nickname of
"Out" West seem so appropriate. Clausen's threat was so absurd that
Cloud came back to good humor with a laugh, and even West grinned.

"Come on, Wall--there's Blair," said Cloud. "You'd better come too, Out,
and learn something about a decent game." West shook his head, and the
other two arose and hurried away to where the captain of the school
eleven was standing beneath the west goal, surrounded by a crowd of
variously attired football aspirants. West, left to himself, sighed
lazily and fell to digging holes in the turf with his brassie. Tiring of
this amusement in a trice, he arose and sauntered over to the side-line
and watched the operations. Some sixty boys, varying in age from fifteen
to nineteen, some clothed in full football rig, some wearing the
ordinary dress in which they had stepped from the school rooms an hour
before, all laughing or talking with the high spirits produced upon
healthy youth by the tonic breezes of late September, were standing
about the gridiron. I have said that all were laughing or talking. This
is not true; one among them was silent.

For standing near by was the youth who had aroused the merriment of
Cloud and Clausen, and who West had shortly before dubbed "rural." And
rural he looked. His gray and rather wrinkled trousers and his black
coat and vest of cheap goods were in the cut of two seasons gone, and
his discolored straw hat looked sadly out of place among so many warm
caps. But as he watched the scene with intent and earnest face there was
that about him that held West's attention. He looked to be about
seventeen. His height was above the ordinary, and in the broad shoulders
and hips lay promise of great strength and vigor.

But it was the face that attracted West most. So earnest, honest, and
fearless was it that West unconsciously wished to know it better, and
found himself drawing nearer to the straw hat and baggy gray trousers.
But their owner appeared to be unconscious of his presence and
West paused.

"I don't believe that chap knows golf from Puss-in-the-Corner," mused
West, "but I'll bet a dozen Silvertowns that he could learn; and that's
more than most chaps here can. I almost believe that I'd loan him my new
dogwood driver!"

Wesley Blair, captain of the eleven, was bringing order out of chaos.
Blair was one of the leaders in school life at Hillton, a strongly
built, manly fellow, beloved of the higher class boys, adored from a
distance by the youngsters. Blair was serving his second term as
football captain, having been elected to succeed himself the previous
fall. At this moment, attired in the Crimson sweater, moleskin trousers,
and black and crimson stockings that made up the school uniform, he
looked every inch the commander of the motley array that surrounded him.

"Warren, you take a dozen or so of these fellows over there out of the
way and pass the ball awhile. Get their names first.--Christie, you take
another dozen farther down the field."

The crowd began to melt away, squad after squad moving off down the
field to take position and learn the rudiments of the game. Blair
assembled the experienced players about him and, dividing them into two
groups, put them to work at passing and falling. The youth with the
straw hat still stood unnoticed on the side-line. When the last of the
squads had moved away he stepped forward and addressed the captain:

"Where do you want me?"

Blair, suppressing a smile of amusement as he looked the applicant over,
asked:

"Ever played any?"

"Some; I was right end on the Felton Grammar School team last year."

"Where's Felton Grammar School, please?"

"Maine, near Auburn."

"Oh! What's your name?"

"Joel March."

"Can you kick?"

"Pretty fair."

"Well, show me what you consider pretty fair." He turned to the nearest
squad. "Toss me the ball a minute, Ned. Here's a chap who wants to try
a kick."

Ned Post threw the ball, and his squad of veterans turned to observe the
odd-looking country boy toe the pigskin. Several audible remarks were
made, none of them at all flattering to the subject of them; but if the
latter heard them he made no sign, but accepted the ball from Blair
without fumbling it, much to the surprise of the onlookers. Among these
were Clausen and Cloud, their mouths prepared for the burst of ironical
laughter that was expected to follow the country boy's effort.

"Drop or punt?" asked the latter, as he settled the oval in a rather
ample hand.

"Which can you kick best?" questioned Blair. The youth considered a
moment.

"I guess I can punt best." He stepped back, balancing the ball in his
right hand, took a long stride forward, swung his right leg in a wide
arc, dropped the ball, and sent it sailing down the field toward the
distant goal. A murmur of applause took the place of the derisive laugh,
and Blair glanced curiously at the former right end-rush of the Felton
Grammar School.

"Yes, that's pretty fair. Some day with hard practice you may make a
kicker." Several of the older fellows smiled knowingly. It was Blair's
way of nipping conceit in the bud. "What class are you in?"

"Upper middle," replied the youth under the straw hat, displaying no
disappointment at the scant praise.

"Well, March, kindly go down the field to that last squad and tell Tom
Warren that I sent you. And say," he continued, as the candidate started
off, and he was struck anew with the oddity of the straw hat and
wrinkled trousers, "you had better tell him that you are the man that
punted that ball."

"That chap has got to learn golf," said Outfield West to himself as he
turned away after witnessing the incident, "even if I have to hog-tie
him and teach it to him. What did he say his name was? February? March?
That was it. It's kind of a chilly name. I'll make it a point to scrape
acquaintance with him. He's a born golfer. His calm indifference when
Blair tried to 'take him down' was beautiful to see. He's the sort of
fellow that would smile if he made a foozle in a medal play."

West drew a golf ball from his pocket and, throwing it on the turf, gave
it a half-shot off toward the river, following leisurely after it and
pondering on the possibility of making a crack golfer out of a country
lad in a straw hat.

Over on the gridiron, meanwhile, the candidates for football honors were
limbering up in a way that greatly surprised not a few of the
inexperienced. It is one thing to watch the game from the grand stand or
side-lines and another to have an awkward, wobbly, elusive spheroid
tossed to the ground a few feet from you and be required to straightway
throw yourself upon it in such manner that when it stops rolling it will
be snugly stowed between you and the ground. If the reader has played
football he will know what this means. If he has not--well, there is no
use trying to explain it to him. He must get a ball and try it
for himself.

But even this exercise may lose its terrors after a while, and when at
the end of an hour or more the lads were dismissed, there were many
among them, who limped back to their rooms sore and bruised, but proudly
elated over their first day with the pigskin. Even to the youth in the
straw hat it was tiresome work, although not new to him, and after
practice was over, instead of joining in the little stream that eddied
back to the academy grounds, he struck off to where a long straggling
row of cedars and firs marked the course of the river. Once there he
found himself standing on a bluff with the broad, placid stream
stretching away to the north and south at his feet. The bank was some
twenty feet high and covered sparsely with grass and weeds; and a few
feet below him a granite bowlder stuck its lichened head outward from
the cliff, forming an inviting seat from which to view the sunset across
the lowland opposite. The boy half scrambled, half fell the short
distance, and, settling himself in comfort on the ledge, became at once
absorbed in his thoughts.

Perhaps he was thinking a trifle sadly of the home which he had left
back there among the Maine hills, and which must have seemed a very long
way off; or perhaps he was dwelling in awe upon the erudition of that
excellent Greek gentleman, Mr. Xenophon, whose acquaintance, by means of
the Anabasis, he was just making; or perhaps he was thinking of no more
serious a subject than football and the intricate art of punting. But,
whatever his thoughts may have been, they were doomed to speedy
interruption, as will be seen.

Outfield West left the campus behind and, with the little white ball
soaring ahead, took his way leisurely to the woods that bordered the
tiny lake. Here he spent a quarter of an hour amid the tall grass and
bushes, fighting his way patiently out of awkward lies, and finally
driving off by the river bank, where a stretch of close, hard sod
offered excellent chances for long shots. Again and again the ball flew
singing on its way, till at last the campus was at hand again, and Stony
Bunker intervened between West and Home.

Stony Bunker lay close to the river bluff and was the terror of all
Hillton golfers, for, while a too short stroke was likely to leave you
in the sand pit, a too vigorous one was just as likely to land you in
the river. West knew Stony Bunker well by reason of former meetings, and
he knew equally well what amount of swing was necessary to land just
over the hazard, but well short of the bluff.

Perhaps it was the brassie that was to blame--for a full-length,
supple-shafted, wooden driver would have been what you or I would have
chosen for that stroke--or perhaps West himself was to blame. That as it
may be, the fact remains that that provoking ball flew clear over the
bunker as though possessed of wings and disappeared over the bluff!

With an exclamation of disgust West hurried after, for when they cost
thirty-five cents apiece golf balls are not willingly lost even by lads
who, like Outfield West, possess allowances far in excess of their
needs. But the first glance down the bank reassured him, for there was
the runaway ball snugly ensconced on the tiny strip of sandy beach that
intervened between the bank and the water. West grasped an overhanging
fir branch and swung himself over the ledge.

Now, that particular branch was no longer youthful and strong, and
consequently when it felt the full weight of West's one hundred and
thirty-five pounds it simply broke in his hand, and the boy started down
the steep slope with a rapidity that rather unnerved him and brought an
involuntary cry of alarm to his lips. It was the cry that was the means
of saving him from painful results, since at the bottom of the bank lay
a bed of good-sized rocks that would have caused many an ugly bruise had
he fallen among them.

But suddenly, as he went falling, slipping, clutching wildly at the
elusive weeds, he was brought up with a suddenness that drove the
breath from his body. Weak and panting, he struggled up to the top of
the jutting ledge, assisted by two strong arms, and throwing himself
upon it looked wonderingly around for his rescuer.

Above him towered the boy in the straw hat.




CHAPTER II.


STATION ROAD AND RIVER PATH.

Traveling north by rail up the Hudson Valley you will come, when some
two hours from New York, to a little stone depot nestling at the
shoulder of a high wooded hill. To reach it the train suddenly leaves
the river a mile back, scurries across a level meadow, shrills a long
blast on the whistle, and pauses for an instant at Hillton. If your seat
chances to be on the left side of the car, and if you look quickly just
as the whistle sounds, you will see in the foreground a broad field
running away to the river, and in it an oval track, a gayly colored
grand stand, and just beyond, at some distance from each other, what
appear to the uninitiated to be two gallows. Farther on rises a gentle
hill, crowned with massive elms, from among which tower the tops of a
number of picturesque red-brick buildings.

Then the train hurries on again, under the shadow of Mount Adam, where
in the deep maple woods the squirrels leap all day among the tree tops
and where the sunlight strives year after year to find its way through
the thick shade, and once more the river is beside you, the train is
speeding due north again, and you have, perhaps without knowing it,
caught a glimpse of Hillton Academy.

From the little stone station a queer old coach rumbles away down a wide
country road. It carries the mail and the village supplies and, less
often, a traveler; and the driver, "Old Joe" Pike, has grown gray
between the station and the Eagle Tavern. If, instead of going on to the
north, you had descended from the train, and had mounted to the seat
beside "Old Joe," you would have made the acquaintance of a very worthy
member of Hillton society, and, besides, have received a deal of
information as the two stout grays trotted along.

"Yes, that's the 'Cademy up there among them trees, That buildin' with
the tower's the 'Cademy Buildin', and the squatty one that you can just
see is one of the halls--Masters they call it, after the man that
founded the school. The big, new buildin' is another of 'em, Warren; and
Turner's beyond it; and if you look right sharp you can see Bradley Hall
to the left there.

"Here's where we turn. Just keep your foot on that mail-bag, if you
please, sir. There's the village, over yonder to the right. Kind of high
up, ain't it? Ev'ry time any one builds he goes higher up the hill. That
last house is old man Snyder's. Snyder says he can't help lookin' down
on the rest of us. He, he!

"That road to the left we're comin' to 's Academy Road. This? Well, they
used to call it Elm Street, but it's generally just 'the Station Road'
nowadays. Now you can see the school pretty well, sir. That squatty
place's the gymnasium; and them two littler houses of brick's the
laboratories. Then the house with the wide piazza, that's Professor
Wheeler's house; he's the Principal, you know. And the one next it, the
yellow wooden house, I mean, that's what they call Hampton House. It's a
dormatory, same as the others, but it's smaller and more select, as you
might say.

"Hold tight, sir, around this corner. Most of them, the lads, sir, live
in the village, however. You see, there ain't rooms enough in the
'Cademy grounds. I heard the other day that there's nigh on to two
hundred and twenty boys in the school this year; I can remember when
they was'nt but sixty, and it was the biggest boardin' school for boys
in New York State. And that wa'n't many years ago, neither. The boys?
Oh, they're a fine lot, sir; a bit mischievous at times, of course, but
we're used to 'em in the village. And, bless you, sir, what can you
expect from a boy anyhow? There ain't none of 'em perfect by a long
shot; and I guess I ought to know--I've raised eight on 'em. There's the
town hall and courthouse, and the Methodist church beyond. And here we
are, sir, at the Eagle, and an hour before supper. Thank you, sir.
Get ap!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Hillton Academy claims the distinction of being well over a century old.
Founded in 1782 by one Peter Masters, LL.D., a very good and learned
pedagogue, it has for more than a hundred years maintained its high
estate among boys' schools. The original charter provides "that there
be, and hereby is, established ... an Academy for promoting Piety and
Virtue, and for the Education of Youth in the English, Latin, and Greek
Languages, in Writing, Arithmetic, Music, and the Art of Speaking,
Practical Geometry, Logic, and Geography, and such other of the Liberal
Arts and Sciences or Languages as opportunity may hereafter permit, and
as the Trustees, hereinafter provided, shall direct."

In the catalogue of Hillton Academy you may find a proud list of
graduates that includes ministers plenipotentiary, members of cabinets,
governors, senators, representatives, supreme court judges, college
presidents, authors, and many, many other equally creditable to their
alma mater. The founder and first principal of the academy passed away
in 1835, as an old record says, "full of honor, and commanding the
respect and love of all who knew him." He was succeeded by that
best-beloved of American schoolmasters, Dr. Hosea Bradley, whose
portrait, showing a tall, dignified, and hale old gentleman, with white
hair, and dressed in ceremonious broadcloth, still hangs behind the
chancel of the school chapel. Dr. Bradley resigned a few years before
his death, in 1876, and the present principal, John Ross Wheeler, A.M.,
professor of Latin, took the chair.

As Professor Wheeler is a man of inordinate modesty, and as he is quite
likely to read these words, I can say but little about him. Perhaps the
statement of a member of the upper middle class upon his return from a
visit to the "office" will serve to throw some light on his character,
Said the boy:

"I tell _you_ I don't want to go through with that again! I'll take a
licking first! He says things that count! You see, 'Wheels' has been a
boy himself, and he hasn't forgotten it; and that--that makes a
difference somehow!"

Yes, that disrespectful lad said "Wheels!" I have no excuse to offer for
him; I only relate the incident as it occurred.

The buildings, many of them a hundred years old, are with one exception
of warm-hued red brick. The gymnasium is built of red sandstone. Ivy has
almost entirely hidden the walls of the academy building and of Masters
Hall. The grounds are given over to well-kept sod, and the massive elms
throw a tapestry of grateful shade in summer, and in winter hold the
snow upon their great limbs and transform the Green into a fairyland of
white. From the cluster of buildings the land slopes away southward, and
along the river bluff a footpath winds past the Society House, past the
boathouse steps, down to the campus. The path is bordered by firs, and
here and there a stunted maple bends and nods to the passing skiffs.

Opposite the boat house, a modest bit of architecture, lies Long Isle,
just where the river seemingly pauses for a deep breath after its bold
sweep around the promontory crowned by the Academy Buildings. Here and
there along the path are little wooden benches to tempt the passer to
rest and view from their hospitable seats the grand panorama of gently
flowing river, of broad marsh and meadow beyond, of tiny villages
dotting the distances, and of the purple wall of haze marking the line
of the distant mountains.

Opposite Long Isle, a wonderful fairyland inaccessible to the scholars
save on rare occasions, the river path meets the angle of the Station
Road, where the coach makes its first turn. Then the path grows
indistinct, merges into a broad ten-acre plot whereon are the track,
gridiron, baseball ground, and the beginning of the golf links. This is
the campus. And here is Stony Bunker, and beyond it is the bluff and the
granite ledge; and lo! here we are back again at the point from which we
started on our journey of discovery; back to Outfield West and to the
boy in the ridiculous straw hat.




CHAPTER III.


OUTFIELD WEST.

It was several moments before West recovered his breath enough to speak,
during which time he sat and gazed at his rescuer in amazement not
unmixed with curiosity. And the rescuer looked down at West in simple
amusement.

"Thanks," gasped West at length. "I suppose I'd have broke my silly neck
if you hadn't given me a hand just when you did."

The other nodded. "You're welcome, of course; but I don't believe you'd
have been very much hurt. What's that thing?" nodding toward the
brassie, still tightly clutched in West's hand.

"A bras--a golf club. I was knocking a ball around a bit, and it went
over the cliff here."

"I should think golf was a rather funny sort of a game."

"It isn't funny at all, if you know anything about it," replied West a
trifle sharply. The rescuer was on dangerous ground, had he but
known it.

"Isn't it? Well, I guess it is all in getting used to it. I don't
believe I'd care much for tumbling over cliffs that way; I should think
it would use a fellow up after a while."

"Look here," exclaimed West, "you saved me an ugly fall, and I'm very
much obliged, and all that; but--but you don't know the first thing
about golf, and so you had better not talk about it." He made an effort
to gain his feet, but sat down again with a groan.

"You sit still a while," said the boy in the straw hat, "and I'll drop
down and get that ball for you." Suiting the action to the word, he
lowered himself over the ledge, and slid down the bank to the beach. He
dropped the golf ball in his pocket, after examining it with deep
curiosity, and started back. But the return was less easy than the
descent had been. The bank was gravelly, and his feet could gain no
hold. Several times he struggled up a yard or so, only to slip back
again to the bottom.

"I tell you what you do," called West, leaning over. "You get a bit of a
run and get up as high as you can, and try and catch hold of this stick;
then I'll pull you up."

The other obeyed, and succeeded in getting a firm hold of the brassie,
but the rest was none so easy. West pulled and the other boy struggled,
and then, at last, when both were out of breath, the straw hat rose
above the ledge and its wearer scrambled up. Sitting down beside West he
drew the ball from his pocket and handed it over.

"What do they make those of?" he asked.

"Gutta percha," answered West. "Then they're molded and painted this
way. You've never played golf, have you?"

"No, we don't know much about it down our way. I've played baseball and
football some. Do you play football?"

"No, I should say not," answered West scornfully. "You see," more
graciously, "golf takes up about all my time when I haven't got some
lesson on; and this is the worst place for lessons you ever saw. A chap
doesn't get time for anything else." The other boy looked puzzled.

"Well, don't you want to study?"

West stared in amazement. "Study! Want to? Of course I don't! Do you?"

"Very much. That's what I came to school for."

"Oh!" West studied the strange youth dubiously. Plainly, he was not at
all the sort of boy one could teach golf to. "Then why were you trying
for the football team awhile ago?"

"Because next to studying I want to play football more than anything
else. Don't you think I'll have time for it?"

"You bet! And say, you ought to learn golf. It's the finest sport
going." West's hopes revived. A fellow that wanted sport, if only
football, could not be a bad sort. Besides, he would get over wanting to
study; that, to West, was a most unnatural desire. "There isn't half a
dozen really first-class players in school. You get some clubs and I'll
teach you the game."

"That's very good of you," answered the boy in the straw hat, "and I'm
very much obliged, but I don't think I'll have time. You see I'm in the
upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with.
Still, I should really like to try my hand at it, and if I have time
I'll ask you to show me a little about it. I expect you're the best
player here, aren't you?" West, extremely gratified, tried to conceal
his pleasure.

"Oh, I don't know. There's Wesley Blair--he's captain of the school
eleven, you know--he plays a very good game, only he has a way of
missing short puts. And then there's Louis Whipple. The only thing about
Whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. He says a fellow
can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can
with a dozen clubs. Of course, that's nonsense. If Whipple would use
some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. There are
one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. But I believe,"
magnanimously, "that if Blair had more time for practicing he could beat
_me_." West allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. The
straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing
thoughtfully over the river.

"I suppose he's kept pretty busy with football."

"Yes, he's daft about it. Otherwise he's a fine chap. By the way,
where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?"

"On the farm. I used to practice when I didn't have much to do, which
wasn't very often. Jerry Green and I--Jerry's our hired man--we used to
get out in the cow pasture and kick. Then I played a year with our
grammar-school eleven."

"Well, that was great work. If you could only drive a golf ball like
that! Say, what's your name?"

"Joel March."

"Mine's Outfield West. The fellows call me 'Out' West. My home's in
Pleasant City, Iowa. You come from Maine, don't you?"

"Yes; Marchdale. It's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a
few houses. We've lived there--our family, I mean--for over a
hundred years."

"Phew!" whistled West. "Dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's
been there only forty years. Great gobble! We'd better be scooting back
to school. Come on. I'm all right now, though I _was_ a bit lame after
that tumble."

The two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. The
sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping
up from the river. The tower of the Academy Building still glowed
crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows.

"Where's your room?" asked West.

"Thirty-four Masters Hall," answered Joel March; for now that we have
twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer
ignore his name.

"Mine's in Hampton House," said West. "Number 2. I have it all to
myself. Who's in with you?"

"A fellow named Sproule."

"'Dickey' Sproule? He's an awful cad. Why didn't you get a room in the
village? You have lots more fun there; and you can get a better room
too; although some of the rooms in Warren are not half bad."

"They cost too much," replied March. "You see, father's not very well
off, and can't help me much. He pays my tuition, and I've enough money
of my own that I've earned working out to make up the rest. So, of
course, I've got to be careful."

"Well, you're a queer chap!" exclaimed West.

"Why?" asked Joel March.

"Oh, I don't know. Wanting to study, and earning your own schooling, and
that sort of thing."

"Oh, I suppose your father has plenty of money, hasn't he?"

"Gobs! I have twenty dollars a month allowance for pocket money."

"I wish I had," answered March. "You must have a good deal saved up by
the end of the year." West stared.

"Saved? Why, I'm dead broke this minute. And I owe three bills in town.
Don't tell any one, because it's against the rules to have bills, you
know. Anyhow, what's the good of saving? There's lots more." It was
March's turn to stare.

"What do you spend it for?" he asked.

"Oh, golf clubs and balls, and cakes and pies and things," answered West
carelessly. "Then a fellow has to dress a little, or the other fellows
look down on you."

"Do they?" March cast a glance over his own worn apparel. "Then I guess
I must try their eyes a good deal."

"Well, I wouldn't care--much," answered West halfheartedly. "Though of
course that hat--"

"Yes, I suppose it is a little late for straws." West nodded heartily.
"I was going to get a felt in Boston, but--well, I saw something else I
wanted worse; and it was my own money."

"What was it?" asked West curiously.

"A book." West whistled.

"Well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at Grove's. And--and
a pair of trousers if you want them."

March nodded, noncommittingly. They had reached the gymnasium.

"I'm going in for a shower," said West. "You'd better come along." March
shook his head.

"I guess not to-night. It's most supper time, and I want to read a
little first. Good-night."

"Good-night," answered West. "I'm awfully much obliged for what you did,
you know. Come and see me to-morrow if you can; Number 2 Hampton.
Good-night."

Joel March turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory. He found his
roommate reading at the table when he entered Number 34. Sproule looked
up and observed:

"I saw you with Outfield West a moment ago. It looks rather funny for a
'grind,' as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a Hampton House swell."

"I haven't professed to be a 'grind,'" answered Joel quietly, as he
opened his Greek.

"Well, your actions profess it. And West will drop you quicker than a
hot cake when he finds it out. Why, he never studies a lick! None of
those Hampton House fellows do."

March made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable:

"What are you reading?"

"The Three Cutters; ever read it?"

"No; what's it about?"

"Oh, pirates and smuggling and such."

"I should think it would be first rate."

"It is. I'd let you take it after I'm through, only it isn't mine; I
borrowed it from Billy Cozzens."

"Thanks," answered Joel, "but I don't believe I'd have time for it."

"Humph!" grunted Sproule. "There you are again, putting on airs. Just
wait until you've been here two or three months; I guess I won't hear so
much about study then."

Joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands,
tackled the story of Cyrus the Younger. Joel had already come to a
decision regarding Richard Sproule, a decision far from flattering to
that youth. But in view of the fact that the two were destined to spend
much of their time together, Joel recognized the necessity of making the
best of his roommate, and of what appeared to be an unsatisfactory
condition. During the two days that Joel had been in school Sproule had
nagged him incessantly upon one subject or another, and so far Joel had
borne the persecution in silence. "But some day," mused Joel, "I'll just
_have_ to punch his head!"

Richard Sproule was a member of the senior class, and monitor for the
floor upon which he had his room. He had, perhaps, no positive meanness
in him. Most of his unpleasantness was traceable to envy. Just at
present he was cultivating a dislike for Joel because of the latter's
enviable success at lessons and because a resident of Hampton House had
taken him up. Sproule cared nothing for out-of-door amusements and hated
lessons. His whole time, except when study was absolutely compulsory,
was taken up with the reading of books of adventure; and Captain Marryat
and Fenimore Cooper were far closer acquaintances than either Cicero or
Caesar. Richard Sproule was popularly disliked and shunned.

In the dining hall that evening Joel ate and relished his first hearty
meal since he had arrived at Hillton. The exercise had brought back a
naturally good appetite, which had been playing truant.

The dining hall takes up most of the ground floor of Warren Hall. Eight
long, roomy tables are arranged at intervals, with broad aisles between,
through which the white-aproned waiters hurry noiselessly about.
To-night there was a cheerful clatter of spoons and forks and a loud
babel of voices, and Joel found himself hugely enjoying the novelty of
eating in the presence of more than a hundred and fifty other lads.
Outfield West and his neighbors in Hampton House occupied a far table,
and there the noise was loudest. West was dressed like a young prince,
and his associates were equally as splendid. As Joel observed them, West
glanced across and saw him, and waved a hilarious greeting with a soup
spoon. Joel nodded laughingly back, and then settled in his chair with
an agreeable sensation of being among friends. This feeling grew when,
toward the end of his meal, Wesley Blair, in leaving the hall, saw him
and stopped beside his chair.

"How did you get on this afternoon?" Blair asked pleasantly.

"Very well, thanks," Joel replied.

"That's good. By the way, go and see Mr. Beck to-morrow and get
examined. Tell him I sent you. You'll find him at the gym at about
eleven. And don't forget to show up to-morrow at practice."

The elder youth passed on, leaving Joel the center of interest for
several moments. His left-hand neighbor, a boy who affected very red
neckties, and who had hitherto displayed no interest in his presence,
now turned and asked if he knew Blair.

"No," replied Joel. "I met him only to-day on the football field."

"Are you on the 'Leven?"

"No, but I'm trying for it."

"Well, I guess you'll make it; Blair doesn't often go out of his way to
encourage any one."

"I hope I shall," answered Joel. "Who is Mr. Beck, please?"

"He's director of the gym. You have to be examined, you know; if you
don't come up to requirements you can't go in for football."

"Oh, thank you." And Joel applied himself to his pudding, and wondered
if there was any possibility of his not passing.

Apparently there was not; for when, on the following day, he presented
himself at the gymnasium, he came through the ordeal of measurement and
test with flying colors, and with the command to pay special attention
to the chest-weights, was released, at liberty to "go in" for any
sport he liked.

Despite his forebodings, the studies proved not formidable, and at four
o'clock Joel reported for football practice with a comforting knowledge
of duties performed. An hour and a half of steady practice, consisting
of passing, falling, and catching punts, left the inexperienced
candidates in a state of breathless collapse when Blair dismissed the
field. West did not turn up at the gridiron, but a tiny scarlet speck
far off on the golf links proclaimed his whereabouts.

On the way back to the grounds a number of youthful juniors, bravely
arrayed in their first suits of football togs, loudly denounced the
vigor of the practice, and pantingly made known to each other their
intentions to let the school get along as best it might without their
assistance on its eleven. They would be no great loss, thought Joel, as
he trudged along in the rear of the procession, and their resignation
would probably save Blair the necessity of incurring their dislikes when
the process of "weeding-out" began.

Although no special attention had been given to Joel during practice,
yet he had been constantly aware of Blair's observation, and had known
that several of the older fellows were watching his work with interest.
His feat of the previous day had already secured to him a reputation
throughout the school, and as the little groups of boys passed him he
heard himself alluded to as "the country fellow that punted fifty yards
yesterday," or "the chap that made that kick." And when the three long,
steep flights of Masters confronted him he took them two steps at a
time, and arrived before the door of Number 34 breathless, but as happy
as a schoolboy can be.




CHAPTER IV.


THE HEAD COACH.

"Upper Middle Class: Members will meet at the gym at 2.15, to march to
depot and meet Mr. Remsen."

     "Louis WHIPPLE, _Pres't_."

This was the notice pasted on the board in Academy Building the morning
of Joel's fifth day at school. Beside it were similar announcements to
members of the other classes. As he stood in front of the board Joel
felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turned to find Outfield West
by his side.

"Are you going along?" asked that youth.

"I don't believe so," answered Joel. "I have a Latin recitation at two."

"Well, chuck it! Everybody is going--and the band, worse luck!"

"Is there a band?" West threw up his hands in mock despair.

"Is there a _band? Is_ there a band! Mr. March, your ignorance surprises
and pains me. It is quite evident that you have never heard the Hillton
Academy Band; no one who has ever heard it forgets. Yes, my boy, there
_is_ a band, and it plays Washington Post, and Hail Columbia, and
Hilltonians; and then it plays them all over again."

"But I thought Mr. Remsen was not coming until Saturday?"

"That," replied West, confidentially, "was his intention, but he heard
of a youngster up here who is such an astonishingly fine punter that he
decided to come at once and see for himself; and so he telegraphed to
Blair this morning. And you and I, my lad, will March--see?--with the
procession, and sing--"

     "'Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
      Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
      Hilltonians! Hilltonians! we stand to do or die,
      Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!'"

And, seizing Joel by the arm, West dragged him out of the corridor and
down the steps into the warm sunlight of a September noon, chanting the
school song at the top of his voice. A group of boys on the Green
shouted lustily back, and the occupant of a neighboring window threw a
cushion with unerring precision at West's head. Stopping to deposit this
safely amid the branches halfway up an elm tree, the two youths sped
across the yard toward Warren Hall and the dinner table.

"You sit at our table, March," announced West. "Digbee's away, and you
can have his seat. Come on." Joel followed, and found himself in the
coveted precincts of the Hampton House table, and was introduced to five
youths, who received him very graciously, and invited him to partake of
such luxuries as pickled walnuts and peach marmalade. Joel was fast
making the discovery that to be vouched for by Outfield West invariably
secured the highest consideration.

"I've been telling March here that it is his bounden duty to go to the
station," announced West to the table at large.

"Of course it is," answered Cooke and Cartwright and Somers, and two
others whose names Joel did not catch. "The wealth, beauty, and fashion
will attend in a body," continued Cooke, a stout, good-natured-looking
boy of about nineteen, who, as Joel afterward learned, was universally
acknowledged to be the dullest scholar in school. "Patriotism
and--er--school spirit, you know, March, demand it." And Cooke helped
himself bountifully to West's cherished bottle of catsup.

"This is Remsen's last year as coach, you see," explained West, as he
rescued the catsup. "I believe every fellow feels that we ought to show
our appreciation of his work by turning out in force. It's the least we
can do, I think. Mind you, I don't fancy football a little bit, but
Remsen taught us to win from St. Eustace last year, and any one that
helps down Eustace is all right and deserves the gratitude of the school
and all honest folk."

"Hear! hear!" cried Somers.

"I'd like very well to go," said Joel, "but I've got a recitation at
two." Cooke looked across at him sorrowfully.

"Are you going in for study?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," answered Joel laughingly.

"My boy, don't do it. There's nothing gained. I've tried it, and I speak
from sad experience."

"But how do you get through?" questioned Joel.

"I will tell you." The stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to
a confidential whisper. "I belong to the same society as 'Wheels,' and
he doesn't dare expel me."

"I wish," said Joel in the laugh that followed, "that I could join that
society."

"Easy enough," answered Cooke earnestly. "I will put your name up at our
next meeting. All you have to do is to forget all the Greek and Latin
and higher mathematics you ever knew, give your oath never to study
again, and appear at chapel two consecutive mornings in thigh boots and
a plaid ulster."

Despite West's pleas Joel refused to "cut" his recitation, promising,
however, to follow to the station as soon as he might.

"It's only a long mile," West asserted. "If you cut across Turner's
meadow you'll make it in no time. And the train isn't due until three.
You'll see me standing on the truck." And so Joel had promised, and
later, from the seclusion of the schoolroom, which to-day was well-nigh
empty, had heard the procession take its way down the road, headed by
the school band, which woke the echoes with the brave strains of the
Washington Post March.

To-day the Aeneid lost much of its interest, and when the recitation was
over Joel clapped his new brown felt hat on his head--for West had
conducted him to the village outfitter the preceding day--and hurried up
to his room to leave his book and pad. "Dickey" Sproule was stretched
out upon the lounge--a piece of personal property of which he was very
proud--reading Kenilworth.

"Hello!" cried Joel, "why aren't you over at the lab? Isn't this your
day for exploding things?" Sproule looked up and yawned.

"Oh, I cut it. What's the good of knowing a lot of silly chemistry stuff
when you're going to be an author?"

"I should say it might be very useful to you; but I've never been an
author, and perhaps I'm mistaken. Want to go to the station?"

"What, to meet that stuck-up Remsen? I guess not. Catch me walking a
mile and a half to see him!"

"Well, I'm going," answered Joel. An inarticulate growl was the only
response, and Joel took the stairs at leaps and bounds, and nearly upset
Mrs. Cowles in the lower hall.

"Dear me, Mr. March!" she exclaimed, as together they gathered up a load
of towels, "is it only you, then? I thought surely it was a dozen boys
at least."

"I'm very sorry," laughed Joel. "I'm going to the station. Mr. Remsen
is coming, you know. Have I spoiled these?"

"No, indeed. So Mr. Remsen's coming. Well, run along. I'd go myself if I
wasn't an old woman. I knew Mr. Remsen ten years ago, and a more
bothersome lad we never had. He had Number 15, and we never knew what to
expect next. One week he'd set the building on fire with his
experiments, and the next he'd break all the panes in the window with
his football. But then he was such a nice boy!" And with this seemingly
contradictory statement the Matron trudged away with her armful of
towels, and Joel took up his flight again, across the yard to Academy
Road, and thence over the fence into Turner's meadows, where the hill
starts on its rise to the village. Skirting the hill, he trudged on
until presently the station could be seen in the distance. And as he
went he reviewed the five days of his school existence.

He remembered the strange feeling of loneliness that had oppressed him
on his arrival, when, just as the sun was setting over the river, he had
dropped down from the old stage coach in front of Academy Hall, a
queer-looking, shabbily dressed country boy with a dilapidated leather
valise and a brown paper parcel almost as big. He remembered the looks
of scorn and derision that had met him as he had taken his way to the
office, and, with a glow at his heart, the few simple, kindly words of
welcome and the firm grasp of the hand from the Principal. Then came the
first day at school, with the dread examinations, which after all
turned out to be fairly easy, thanks to Joel's faculty for remembering
what he had once learned. He remembered, too, the disparaging remarks of
"Dickey" Sproule, who had predicted Joel's failure at the "exams.". "Who
ever heard," Sproule had asked scornfully, "of a fellow making the upper
middle class straight out of a country grammar school, without any
coaching?" But when the lists were posted, Joel's name was down, and
Sproule had taken deep offense thereat. "The school's going to the
dogs," he had complained. "Examinations aren't nearly as hard as they
were when _I_ entered."

The third day, when he had kicked that football down the field, and,
later, had made the acquaintance of Outfield West, seemed now to have
been the turning point from gloom to sunshine. Since then Joel had
changed from the unknown, derided youth in the straw hat to some one of
importance; a some one to whom the captain of the school eleven spoke
whenever they met, a chum of the most envied boy in the Academy, and a
candidate for the football team for whom every fellow predicted success.

But, best of all, in those few days he had gained the liking of
well-nigh all of the teachers by the hearty way in which he pursued
knowledge; for he went at Caesar as though he were trying for a
touch-down, and tackled the Foundations of Rhetoric as though that study
was an opponent on the gridiron. Even Professor Durkee, known
familiarly among the disrespectful as "Turkey," lowered his tones and
spoke with something approaching to mildness when addressing Joel March.
Altogether, the world looked very bright to Joel to-day, and when, as
presently, he drew near to the little stone depot, the sounds of singing
and cheering that greeted his ears chimed in well with his mood.

Truly "all Hillton" had turned out! The station platform and the trim
graveled road surrounding it were dark with Hilltonian humanity and gay
with crimson bunting. Afar down the road a shrill long whistle announced
the approach of the train, and a comparative hush fell on the crowd.
Joel descried Outfield West at once, and pushed his way to him through
the throng just as the train came into sight down the track. West was
surrounded on the narrow baggage truck by some half dozen of the choice
spirits from Hampton House, and Joel's advent was made the occasion for
much sport.

"Ah, he comes! The Professor comes!" shouted West.

"He tears himself from his studies and joins us in our frivolity,"
declaimed Cooke.

"That's something you'll never have a chance of doing, Tom," answered
Cartwright, as Joel was hauled on to the truck. "You'll never get near
enough to a study to have to be torn away."

"Study, my respected young friend," answered Cooke gravely, "is the
bane of the present unenlightened age. In the good old days when
everybody was either a Greek or a Roman or a barbarian, and so didn't
have to study languages, and--"

"Shut up! here's the train," cried West. "Now every fellow cheer, or
he'll have me to fight."

"Hooray! hooray! hooray!" yelled Cooke.

"Somebody punch him, please," begged West, and Somers and another
obliging youth thrust the offender off the truck and sat on his head.
The train slowed down, stopped, and a porter appeared laden with a huge
valise. This was the signal for a rush, and the darkey was instantly
relieved of his burden and hustled back grinning to the platform.

Then Joel caught sight of a gentleman in a neat suit of gray tweed
descending the steps, and saw the pupils heave and push their ways
toward him; and for a sight the arrival was hidden from view. Then the
cheers for "Coach!" burst enthusiastically forth, the train was speeding
from sight up the track, the band was playing Hilltonians, and the
procession took up its march back to the Academy.

When he at last caught a fair sight of Stephen Remsen, Joel saw a man of
about twenty-eight years, gayly trudging at the head of the line, his
handsome face smiling brightly as he replied to the questions and
sallies of the more elderly youths who surrounded him. Joel's heart went
out to Stephen Remsen at once. And neither then nor at any future time
did he wonder at it.

"That," thought Joel, "is the kind of fellow I'd like for a big brother.
Although I never _could_ grow big enough to lick him."




CHAPTER V.


A RAINY AFTERNOON.

The following day Joel arrived on the football field to discover the
head coach in full charge. He was talking earnestly to Wesley Blair. His
dress was less immaculate than upon the preceding afternoon, although
not a whit less attractive to Joel. A pair of faded and much-darned
red-and-black striped stockings were surmounted by a pair of soiled and
patched moleskin trousers. His crimson jersey had faded at the shoulders
to a pathetic shade of pink, and one sleeve was missing, having long
since "gone over to the enemy." In contrast to these articles of apparel
was his new immaculate canvas jacket, laced for the first time but a
moment before. But he looked the football man that he was from head to
toe, and Joel admired him immensely and was extremely proud when, as he
was passing, Blair called him over and introduced him to Remsen. The
latter shook hands cordially, and allowed his gaze to travel
appreciatingly over Joel's five feet eight inches of bone and muscle.

"I'm glad to know you, March," he said, "and glad that you are going to
help us win."

The greeting was so simple and sincere that Joel ran down the field a
moment later, feeling that football honors were even more desirable than
before. To-day the throng of candidates had dwindled down to some forty,
of whom perhaps twenty were new men. The first and second elevens were
lined up for the first time, and Joel was placed at left half in the
latter. An hour of slow practice followed. The ball was given to the
first eleven on almost every play, and as the second eleven were kept
entirely on the defensive, Joel had no chance to show his ability at
either rushing or kicking. Remsen was everywhere at once, scolding,
warning, and encouraging in a breath, and the play took on a snap and
vim which Wesley Blair, unassisted, had not been able to introduce.
After it was over, Joel trotted back with the others to the gymnasium
and took his first shower bath. On the steps outside was West, and the
two boys took their way together to the Academy Building.

"Did you hear Remsen getting after Bart Cloud?" asked West.

"No. Who is Cloud?"

"He plays right half or left half, I forget which, on the first eleven,"
answered West, "and he's about the biggest cad in the school. His
father's an alderman in New York, they say, and has lots of money; but
he doesn't let Bart handle much of it for him. He played on the team
last year and did good work. But this season he's got a swelled head and
thinks he doesn't have to play to keep his place; thinks it's mortgaged
to him, you see. Remsen opened his eyes to-day, I guess! Whipple says
Remsen called him down twice, and then told him if he didn't take a big
brace he'd lose his position. Cloud got mad and told Clausen--Clausen's
his chum--that if he went off the team he'd leave school. I guess few of
us would be sorry. Bartlett Cloud's a coward from the toes up, March,
and if he tries to make it unpleasant for you, why, just offer to knock
him down and he'll change his tune."

"Thank you for telling me," responded Joel, "but I don't expect to have
much to do with him; I don't like his looks. I know the boy you mean,
now. He's the fellow that called me names--'Country,' you know, and
such--the first day we had practice. I heard him, but didn't let on. I
didn't mind much, but it didn't win my love." West laughed uproariously
and slapped Joel on the back.

"Oh, you're a queer sort, March. I'd have had a fight on the spot. But
you--Say, you're going to be an awful grind, March, if you keep on in
your present terrible course. You won't have time for any fun at all.
And I was going to teach you golf, you know. It's not nice of you, it
really isn't."

"I'll play golf with you the first afternoon we don't have practice,
West, honestly. I'm awfully sorry I'm such a crank about lessons, but
you see I've made up my mind to try for the--the--what scholarship
is that?"

"Carmichael?" suggested West. Joel shook his head.

"No, the big one." West stared.

"Do you mean the Goodwin scholarship?"

"Yes, that's the one," answered Joel. West whistled.

"Well, you're not modest to hurt, March. Why, man, that's a terror! You
have to have the Greek alphabet backward, and never miss chapel all term
to get a show at that. The Goodwin brings two hundred and
forty dollars!"

"That's why I want it," answered Joel. "If I win it it will pay my
expenses for this year and part of next."

"Well, of course I hope you'll make it," answered West, "but I don't
believe you have much show. There's Knox, and Reeves, and--and two or
three others all trying for it. Knox won the Schall scholarship last
year. That carries two hundred even."

"Well, anyhow, I'll try hard," answered Joel resolutely.

"Of course. You ought to have it; you need it. Did I tell you that I won
a Masters scholarship in my junior year? Yes, I did really. It was forty
dollars. I remember that I bought two new putters and a jolly fine
caddie bag."

"You could do better than that if you'd try, West. You're awfully
smart."

"Who? Me?" laughed West. "Pshaw! I can't do any more than pass my exams.
Of course I'm smart enough when it comes to lofting out of a bad lie or
choosing a good club; but--" He shook his head doubtfully, but
nevertheless seemed pleased at the idea.

"No, I mean in other ways," continued Joel earnestly. "You could do
better than half the fellows if you tried. And I wish you would try,
West. You rich fellows in Hampton House could set such a good example
for the youngsters if you only would. As it is, they admire you and envy
you and think that it's smart to give all their time to play. I know,
because I heard some of them talking about it the other day. 'You don't
have to study,' said one; 'look at those swells in Hampton. They just go
in for football and golf and tennis and all that, and they never have
any trouble about passing exams.'" West whistled in puzzled amazement.

"Why, March, you're setting out as a reformer; and you're talking just
like one of those good boys in the story books. What's up?" Joel smiled
at the other boy's look of wonderment.

"Nothing's up, except that I want you to promise to study more. Of
course, I know it sounds cheeky, West, but I don't mean to meddle in
your business. Only--only--" Joel hesitated.

"Only what? Out with it!" said West. They had reached the Academy
Building and had paused on the steps.

"Well, only--that you've been very kind to me, West, and I hate to see
you wasting your time and know that you will wish you hadn't later, when
you've left school, you know. That's all. It isn't that I want to
meddle--" There was a moment of silence. Then:

"The idea of your caring!" answered West. "You're a good chap, March,
and--I tell you what I'll do. I _will_ go in more for lessons, after
next week. You see there's the golf tournament next Saturday week, and
I've got to put in a lot of hard practice between now and then. But
after that I'll try and buckle down. You're right about it, March, I
ought to do more studying, and I will _try_; although I don't believe
I'll make much of a success as a 'grind.' And as to the--the--the rest
that you said, why, I haven't been extraordinarily kind; I just sort of
took to you that day on the campus because you looked to be such a
plucky, go-ahead, long-legged chap, you know. I thought I'd rescue you
from the ranks of the lowly and teach you golf and make a man of you
generally. Instead of that"--West gave one of his expressive
whistles--"instead of that, why, here you are turning me into a regular
'Masters Hall grind.' Thus do our brightest dreams fade. Well, I'm oil.
Don't forget the upper middle class meeting to-night. They're going to
vote on the Class Crew question, and we want all the votes we can get to
down the fellows that don't want to pay the assessment. Good-night."

And Outfield West took himself off toward his room, his broad shoulders
well back, and his clear, merry voice singing the school song as he
strode along. Joel turned into the library, feeling well satisfied with
the result of his meddling, to pore over a reference book until
supper time.

The following morning Joel awoke to find a cold rain falling from a
dull sky. The elms in the yard were dripping from every leaf and branch,
and the walks held little gray pools that made the trip to breakfast a
series of splashes. In the afternoon Joel got into his oldest clothes
and tramped over to Hampton House. The window of West's room looked
bright and cheerful, for a big wood fire was blazing on the hearth
within. Joel kicked the mud from his shoes, and passing through the
great white door with its old-fashioned fanlight above, tapped at West's
room. A faint response from beyond the portal summoned him in.

The owner of the room was sandpapering a golf shaft before the fire, and
a deep expression of discontent was on his face. But his countenance
lighted up at sight of his visitor, and he leaped to his feet and drew a
second armchair before the hearth.

"You're a brick, March! I was just wishing you roomed near enough so
that I could ask you to come over and talk a bit. Isn't it a
horrible day?"

"It's awfully wet; but then it has to rain sometimes, I suppose,"
answered Joel as he took off his overcoat.

"Yes, but it doesn't have to rain just when a fellow has fixed to
practice golf, does it?" West growled. Joel laughed.

"I thought the real, simon-pure golfer didn't mind the weather."

"He doesn't as long as he can get over the ground, but the links here is
like a quagmire when it rains. But never mind, we'll have a good chummy
afternoon. And I've got some bully gingersnaps. Do you like
gingersnaps?" Joel replied in the affirmative, and West produced a box
of them from under the bed.

"I have to keep these kinds of things hid, you know, because Blair and
Cooke and the rest of the fellows would eat them all up. By the way, I
made up a list of the things you'll have to get if you're going in for
golf. Here it is. Of course, I only put down one of each, and only a
dozen balls. I'll get the catalogue and we'll reckon up and see how much
they come to."

"But I don't think I can afford to buy anything like this, West,"
answered Joel doubtfully.

"Nonsense! you've got to! A fellow has to have _necessities_! What's the
first thing on the list? Read 'em off, will you?"

"Driving cleek," read Joel.

"Yes, but never mind the clubs. There are seven of them on the list and
you can get pretty fair ones for a dollar and a half each. What's next?"

"But that makes ten dollars and a half," cried Joel.

"Of course it does. And cheap enough, too. Why, some of mine cost three
dollars apiece! What's next?"

"One dozen Silvertowns."

"Correct; four dollars. Mark it down. Next?"

"Caddie bag," responded Joel faintly.

"A dollar and a half. Next."

"But, West, I can't afford these things."

"Nonsense, March! Still--well, you can call the bag a dollar even;
though the dollar ones aren't worth much. Mine cost five."

"But you have coat and trousers down. And shoes, and--"

"Well, you can leave the shoes out, and get some hobnails and put them
on the soles of any good heavy shoes. Then there's gloves. They cost
about a dollar and a half. As for trousers, you _can_ do with ordinary
ones, but--you've got to have a coat, March. A chap can't swing a club
in a tight-fitting jacket like the one you've got on. Now let's
reckon up."

"There's no use in doing that, West," laughed Joel. "I can't buy one of
these things, to say nothing of the whole list. I'm saving up for my
football togs, and after I have those I sha'n't be able to buy anything
else for months."

West settled his chin in his hand and scowled at the flames. "It's too
bad, March; and I put your name up for the Golf Club, too. You will join
that, won't you? You must, now that I've put you up. It's only a dollar
initiation fee and fifty cents dues."

"Very well, then, I'll join the club," answered Joel. "Though I don't
see what use there is in it, since I haven't anything to play with and
wouldn't know how to play if I had."

"Well, I'm going to teach you, you know. And as for clubs and things,
why, I've got some oldish ones that will do fairly well; a beginner
doesn't need extra good ones, you see. And then, for clothes--well, I
guess fellows _have_ played in ordinary trousers and coat; and I've
played myself in tennis shoes. And if you don't mind cold hands, why,
you needn't have gloves. So, after all, we'll get on all right." West
was quite cheerful again and, with a wealth of clubs--divers, spoons,
bulgers, putters, baps, niblicks, and many other sorts--on the rug
before him, chattered on about past deeds of prowess on the links until
the room grew dark and the lamps in the yard shone fitfully through the
rain, by which time a dozen clubs in various states of repair had been
laid aside, the gingersnaps had been totally demolished, and West had
forgotten all about the meanness of the weather and his lost practice.

Then Cooke and Somers demanded admission, to the annoyance of both West
and Joel, and the lamps were lighted, and Joel said good-night and
hurried back to his room in order to secure a half hour's study ere
supper time.




CHAPTER VI.


THE PRACTICE GAME.

"First and second Eleven rushes and quarters down the field and practice
formations. Backs remain here to kick!" shouted Wesley Blair.

It was a dull and cold afternoon. The last recitation was over and half
the school stood shivering about the gridiron or played leapfrog to keep
warm. Stephen Remsen, in the grimiest of moleskins, stood talking to the
captain, and, in obedience to the command of the latter, some fifteen
youths, clad for the coming fray, were trotting down the field, while
eight others, backs and substitute backs on the two teams, passed and
dropped on the pigskin in an endeavor to keep warm.

The first and second elevens were to play their first real game of the
season at four o'clock, and meanwhile the players were down for a stiff
thirty minutes of practice. Joel March shivered with the rest of the
backs and waited for the coach and the captain to finish their
consultation. Presently Blair trotted off down the field and Remsen
turned to the backs.

"Browne, Meach, and Turner, go down to about the middle of the field
and return the balls. Cloud, take a ball over nearer the side-line and
try some drop-kicks. Post, you do the same, please. And let me see, what
is your name?" addressing a good-looking and rather slight youth. "Ah,
yes, Clausen. Well, Clausen, you and Wills try some punts over there,
and do try and get the leg swing right. March, take that ball and let me
see you punt."

Then began a time of sore tribulation for Joel; for not until ten
minutes had passed did the ball touch his toe. His handling was wrong,
his stepping out was wrong, and his leg-swing was very, very wrong! But
he heard never a cross word from his instructor, and so shut his lips
tight and bore the lecture in good-humored silence.

"There," announced Remsen finally, "that's a lot better. Now kick." Joel
caught the ball nicely, and sent it sailing far down the field.

"That's a good kick, but it would have been better had you landed higher
up on your foot. Try and catch the ball just in front of the arch of the
foot. You take it about on the toe-cap. Remember that the broader the
surface that propels the ball the greater will be the accuracy--that is,
the ball has less chance of sliding off to one side when the striking
surface is large. Here's your ball coming. Now try again, and remember
what I have said about the swing at the hip. Forget that you have any
joints at all, and just let the right side of you swing round as
it will."

Then Remsen passed on to the next man and Joel pegged away, doing
better and better, as he soon discovered, every try, until a whistle
blew from the middle of the field and the players gathered about the
captains on the fifty-five-yard line. Joel was down to play left half on
the second eleven, and beside him, at right, was Wills, a promising
lower middle boy, who was an excellent runner, but who, so far, had
failed to develop any aptitude for kicking. Cloud and Clausen occupied
similar positions on the first eleven, and behind them stood Wesley
Blair, the best full-back that Hillton Academy had possessed for many
years. The full-back on the second eleven was Ned Post, a veteran
player, but "as erratic as a mule," to use the words of Stephen Remsen.

The first eleven was about six pounds heavier in the line than the team
captained by Louis Whipple, who played at quarter, and about the same
weight behind the line. It was a foregone conclusion that the first
would win, but whether the second would score was a mooted point. Joel
felt a bit nervous, now that he was in his first game of consequence,
but forgot all about it a moment later when the whistle blew and Greer,
the big first eleven center, tore through their line for six yards,
followed by Wallace Clausen with the ball. Then there was a delay, for
the right half when he tried to arise found that his ankle was strained,
and so had to limp off the ground supported by Greer and Barnard, the
one-hundred-and-sixty-pound right tackle. Turner, a new player, went
on, and the ball was put in play again, this time for a try through left
tackle. But the second's line held like a stone wall, and the runner was
forced back with the loss of a yard. Then the first eleven guards fell
back, and when the formation hit the second's line the latter broke like
paper, and the first streamed through for a dozen yards. And so it went
until the second found itself only a few yards from its goal line.
There, with the backs pressed close against the forwards, the second
held and secured the ball on downs, only to lose it again by a fumble on
the part of Post. Then a delayed pass gained two yards for the first and
a mass at left tackle found another. But the next play resulted
disastrously, for when the ball was passed back there was no one to take
it, and the quarter was borne back several yards before his own
astounded players could come to his assistance.

"That about settles Cloud," whispered Post to Joel, as they hurried up
to take the new position. "That was his signal to take the leather
through right end, and he was fast asleep. Remsen's laying for him."

But the advantage to the second was of short duration, for back went the
first's guards again, and down came the ball to their goal line with
short, remorseless gains, and presently, when their quarter knelt on the
last white line, the dreaded happened, and Blair lay between the posts
with half the second eleven on top of him, but with the ball a yard over
the line. An easy goal resulted, and just as the teams trotted back to
mid-field the whistle sounded, and the first twenty-minute half
was done.

The players wrapped themselves warmly in blankets and squatted in the
protection of the fence, and were immediately surrounded by the
spectators. Remsen and Blair talked with this player and that,
explaining his faults or saying a good word for his work. In the second
half many of the second eleven went into the first, the deposed boys
retiring to the side-lines, and several substitutes were put into the
second. Joel went back to full, Ned Post taking Clausen's place at right
half on the first eleven and Turner becoming once more a spectator.

It was the second eleven's ball, and Joel raced down the field after the
kick-off as far as their twenty-yard line, and there caught Blair's
return punt very neatly, ran three yards under poor interference, and
was then seized by the mighty Greer and hurled to earth with a shock
that completely took the breath out of him for a moment. But he was soon
on his feet again, and Whipple gave him an encouraging slap as he
trotted back to his place. The next play was an ordinary formation with
the ends back, and the ball passed to left end for a run back of quarter
and through the line outside of guard. It worked like a charm, and left
end sped through with Joel bracing him at the turn and the left half
going ahead. Four yards were netted, Meach, the substitute left half,
being tackled by Post. In the mix-up that followed Joel found himself
sprawling over the runner, with Cloud sitting astride the small of his
back, a very uncomfortable part of the body with which to support a
weighty opponent. But he would not have minded that alone; but when
Cloud arose his foot came into violent contact with Joel's head, which
caused that youth to see stars, and left a small cut back of his ear.

"That wasn't an accident," muttered Joel, as he picked himself up and
eyed Cloud. But the latter was unconcernedly moving to his position, and
Joel gave his head a shake or two and resolved to forgive and forget. A
play similar to the last was next tried with an outlet on the other
side, outside tackle. But it resulted in a loss of a yard, and at the
next down the ball was thrown back to Joel, who made a poor catch and
followed it with a short high punt to the opponent's forty yards.

"Your head's cut, March," said Wills, as they took up the new position.
Joel nodded. "Cloud," he answered briefly.

"Punch him," answered Wills. "He's mad because he made such a bull of
his play in the other half. If he tries tricks with me--"

"If he does, let him alone, if you want to stay on the team," said Joel.
"That sort of thing doesn't help. Watch your chance and spoil a play of
his. That's the best way to get even."

The next ten minutes were spent in desperate attack on the part of the
first and an equally desperate defense by the second eleven. Twenty
yards of gain for the former was the result, and the half was nearly up.
On a first down Blair ran back and Joel, whispering "Kick!" to himself,
turned and raced farther back from the line. Then the ball was snapped,
there was a crossing of backs, and suddenly, far out around the right
end came Cloud with the pigskin tightly clutched, guarded by Post and
the left end. It was an unexpected play, and the second's halfs saw it
too late. Meach and Wills were shouldered out of the way, and Cloud ran
free from his interference and bore down on Joel, looking very big
and ugly.

It was Cloud's opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green
full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright
indeed. But he was reckoning without his host. Joel started gingerly up
to meet him. The field was streaming down on Cloud's heels, but too far
away to be in the running. Ten yards distant from Joel, Cloud's right
arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly.

"Keep off!" he hissed as Joel prepared for a tackle. But Joel had no
mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything,
and his own advice to Wills occurred to him and made him grin. Cloud
swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a
leap Joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips.
Cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with Joel's
head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. A shout arose from the crowd. The
field came up and Joel scrambled to his feet. Cloud, his face red with
chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward Joel aimed a
vicious blow at his face. The latter ducked and involuntarily raised his
fist; then, ere Greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and
walked away.

"That will do, Cloud," said Remsen in sharp, incisive tones. "You may
leave."

And with a muttered word of anger Cloud strode from the field, passing
through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and
black looks.

"First's ball down here," cried Greer, and play went on; but Joel had
lost his taste for it, and when, a few minutes later, neither side
having scored again, time was called, he trotted back to the gymnasium
in a depressed mood.

"You did great work," exclaimed Outfield West, as he joined Joel on the
river path. "That settles Cloud's chances. Remsen was laying for him
anyhow, you know, and then that 'slugging!' Remsen hates dirty playing
worse than anything, they say."

"I'm sorry it happened, though," returned Joel.

"Pshaw! don't you be afraid of Cloud. He's all bluster."

"I'm not afraid of him. But I'm sorry he lost the team through me. Of
course I couldn't have let him go by, and I don't suppose it could have
been helped, but I wish some one else had tackled him."

"Of course, it couldn't have been helped," responded West cheerfully.
"And I'm glad it couldn't. My! isn't Cloud mad! I passed him a minute or
two ago. 'You ought to try golf, Bart,' said I. You should have seen the
look he gave me. I guess it was rather like 'rubbing it in.'" And West
grinned hugely at the recollection.

"How about the tournament, West?" asked Joel.

"Fine! There are twelve entries, and we're going to begin at nine in the
morning. I did the fourth hole this afternoon in two, and the eighth in
three. No one has ever done the fourth in two before; it's the Bogey
score. Don't forget that you have promised to go around with me. They
say Whipple is practicing every morning over in Turner's meadow. What
with that and football he's a pretty busy lad, I dare say. Don't forget,
nine o'clock day after to-morrow."

And Outfield West waved his hand gayly and swung off toward Hampton
House, while Joel entered the gymnasium and was soon enjoying the luxury
of a shower bath and listening to the conversation of the others.

"There'll be a shake-up to-morrow," observed Warren as he rubbed himself
dry with a big, crimson-bordered towel. "Mr. Remsen wasn't any too well
pleased to-day. He's going to put Greer on the scrub to-morrow."

"That's where you might as well be," answered the big center
good-naturedly. "The idea of playing a criss-cross with your right end
on the side-line!"

"We took two yards just the same," replied Warren.

"We gave it to you, my lad, because we knew that if you lost on such a
fool play your name would be--well, anything but Thomas 'Stumpy'
Warren." The reply to this sally was a boot launched at the center rush,
for Tom Warren's middle name was in reality Saalfield, and "Stumpy" was
a cognomen rather too descriptive to be relished by the quarter-back.
Greer returned the missile with interest, and the fight grew warm, and
boots and footballs and shin-guards filled the air.

In the dining hall that evening interest was divided between the golf
match to be played on the following Saturday morning and the football
game with the Westvale Grammar School in the afternoon. Golf had fewer
admirers than had the other sport, but what there were were fully as
enthusiastic, and the coming tournament was discussed until Joel's head
whirled with such apparently outlandish terms as "Bogey," "baffy,"
"put," "green," "foozle," and "tee."

Whipple, Blair, and West all had their supporters, and Joel learned a
number of marvelous facts, as, for instance, that Whipple had "driven
from Purgatory to The Hill in five," that Blair was "putting better than
Grimes did last year," and that "West had taken four to get out of
Sandy." All of which was undoubtedly intensely interesting, but was as
so much Sanskrit to Joel; and he walked back to his room after supper
with a greatly increased respect for the game of golf.




CHAPTER VII.


A LETTER HOME.

One of Joel's letters written to his mother at about this time contains
much that will prove of interest to the reader who has followed the
fortunes of that youth thus far. It supplied a certain amount of
information appreciated only by its author and its recipient: facts
regarding woolen stockings; items about the manner in which the boy's
washing was done; a short statement of his financial condition; a weak,
but very natural, expression of home-longing. But such I will omit, as
being too private in character for these pages.

"... I don't think you need worry. Outfield West is rather idle about
study, but he doesn't give Satan much of a show, for he's about the
busiest fellow I know in school. He's usually up a good hour before
breakfast, which we have at eight o'clock, and puts in a half hour
practicing golf before chapel. Then in the afternoon he's at it again
when the weather will let him, and he generally spends his evenings,
when not studying, in mending his clubs or painting balls. Then he's one
of the canvassers for the class crew; and belongs to the Senior Debating
Club, which draws its members from the two upper classes; and he's
president of the Golf Club. So you can see that he's anything but idle,
even if he doesn't bother much about lessons.

"He's naturally a very bright fellow; otherwise he couldn't get along
with his classes. I grow to like him better every day; he's such a
manly, kind-hearted fellow, and one of the most popular in school. He's
rather big, with fine, broad shoulders, and awfully good-looking. He has
light-brown hair, about the color of Cousin George's, and bright blue
eyes; and he always looks as though he had just got out of the
bath-tub--only stopped, of course, to put his clothes on. I guess we
must be pretty old-fashioned in our notions, we Maine country folks,
because so many of my pet ideas and beliefs have been changed since I
came here. You know with us it has always gone without dispute that rich
boys are mean and worthless, if not really immoral. But here they're not
that way. I guess we never had much chance to study rich people up our
way, mother. At the grammar school all the fellows looked down on
wealthy boys; but we never had any of them around. The richest chap was
Gilbert, whose father was a lumberman, and Gilbert used to wear shoes
that you wouldn't give to a tramp.

"I suppose West's father could buy Mr. Gilbert out twenty times and not
miss the money. Outfield--isn't it a queer name?--spends a lot of money,
but not foolishly; I mean he has no bad habits, like a few of the
fellows. I hope you will meet him some time. Perhaps I could have him
up to stay a few days with me next summer. He'd be glad to come.

"No, my roommate, Sproule, doesn't improve any on acquaintance. But I've
got so I don't mind him much. I don't think he's really as mean as he
makes you believe. He's having hard work with his studies nowadays, and
has less time to find fault with things.

"You ask how I spend my time. Dear little mother, you don't know what
life in a big boarding school like Hillton is. Why, I haven't an idle
moment from one day's end to the next. Here's a sample. This morning I
got up just in time for chapel--I'm getting to be a terrible chap for
sleeping late--and then had breakfast. By that time it was quarter to
nine. At nine I went to my mathematics. Then came Latin, then English.
At twelve I reported on the green and practiced signals with the second
squad until half past. Then came lunch. After lunch I scurried up to my
room and dug up on chemistry, which was at one-thirty. Then came Greek
at half past two. Then I had an hour of loafing--that is, I should have
had it, but I was afraid of my to-morrow's history, so put in part of
the time studying that. At a little before four I hurried over to the
gymnasium, got into football togs, and reached the campus 'just in time
to be in time.' We had a stiff hour's practice with the ball and learned
two new formations. When I got back to the 'gym' it was a quarter past
five. I had my bath, rubbed down, did two miles on the track, exercised
with the weights, and got to supper ten minutes late. West came over to
the room with me and stayed until I put him out, which was hard work
because he's heavier than I am, and I got my books out and studied until
half an hour ago. It is now just ten o'clock, and as soon as I finish
this I shall tumble into bed and sleep like a top.

"I can't answer your question about Mr. Remsen, because I do not know
him well enough to ask about his home or relatives. But his first name
is Stephen. Perhaps he is a relative of the Remsens you mention. Some
day I'll find out. Anyhow, he's the grandest kind of a fellow. I suppose
he's about thirty. He has plenty of money, West says, and is a lawyer by
profession. He has coached Hillton for three years, and the school has
won two out of three of its big games during those years. The big game,
as they call it, is the game on Thanksgiving Day with St. Eustace
Academy, of Marshall. This fall it is played here....

"Please tell father that I am getting on well with my studies, but not
to hope too much for the Goodwin Scholarship. There are so many, many
smart fellows here! Sometimes I think I haven't a ghost of a show.
But--well, I'm doing my best, and, after all, there are some other
scholarships that are worth getting, though I don't believe I shall be
satisfied with any other. West says I'm cheeky to even expect a show at
the Goodwin.... All the professors are very nice; even 'Turkey.' His
real name is Durkee, and he is professor of English. He is not popular
among the fellows, but is an awfully good instructor. The principal,
Professor Wheeler, is called 'Wheels,' but it sounds worse than it is.
Every one likes him. He is not at all old, and talks to the fellows
about football and golf; and West says he can play a fine game of the
latter when he tries.

"I have been elected to the Golf Club and have joined. It costs a dollar
and a half for this year, but West wanted me to join so much that I did.
There are a lot of nice fellows in it--the sort that it is well to know.
And I am going to try for the Senior Debating Club after the
holidays.... Tell father that he wouldn't be so down on football if he
could see the fellows that play it here at Hillton. Mr. Remsen is head
coach, as I have told you. Then there is an advisory committee of one
pupil, one graduate, and one professor. These are Wesley Blair, Mr.
Remsen, and Professor MacArthur. Then there is a manager, who looks
after the business affairs; and a trainer, who is Professor Beck; and,
of course, a captain. Wesley Blair is the captain. The second eleven is
captained by Tom Warren, who is a fine player, and who is substitute
quarter-back on the first or school eleven. In a couple of weeks both
the first and second go to training tables: the first at one of the
boarding houses in the village and the second in the school dining hall.
When that happens we go into training for sure, and have to be in bed
every night at ten sharp and get up every morning at seven. I'm pretty
sure now of a place on the second, and may possibly make the first
before the season's done....

"Of course, I want the overcoat. But you had better send it as it is,
and I will have the tailor here in the village cut it over. He is very
moderate in charges and does good work, so West tells me, and in this
way it will be sure to fit right. Thank father for me, please....
Good-night....

"Your loving son,

"JOEL."

The opportunity to inquire regarding Stephen Remsen's family connections
presented itself to Joel on the day preceding the golf tournament and
the football game with Westvale. On account of the latter there had been
only a half hour of light practice for the two squads, and Joel at half
past four had gone to his room to study. But when it came time to puzzle
out some problems in geometry Joel found that his paper was used up,
and, rather than borrow of his neighbors, he pulled on his cap and
started for the village store.

October had brought warm weather, and this afternoon, as he went along
the maple-bordered road that leads to the post office he found himself
dawdling over the dusty grasses and bushes, recognizing old friends and
making new ones, as right-minded folks will when the sun is warm and the
birds sing beside the way. He watched a tiny chipmunk scamper along the
top of the stone wall and disappear in the branches of a maple, looked
upward and saw a mass of fluffy white clouds going northward, and
thought wistfully of spring and the delights it promised here in the
Hudson Valley. The golden-rod had passed its prime, though here and
there a yellow torch yet lighted the shadowed tangles of shrub and vine
beneath the wall, but the asters still bloomed on, and it was while
bending over a clump of them that Joel heard the whir of wheels on the
smooth road and turned to see a bicyclist speeding toward him from the
direction of the academy.

When the rider drew near, Joel recognized Stephen Remsen, and he
withdrew toward the wall, that the Coach might have the benefit of the
level footpath and avoid the ruts. But instead of speeding by, Remsen
slowed down a few feet distant and jumped from his wheel.

"Hello, March!" was his greeting as he came up to that youth. "Are you
studying botany?" Joel explained that he had been only trying to
identify the aster, a spray of which he had broken off and still held
in his hand.

"Perhaps I can tell you what it is," answered Remsen as he took it.
"Yes, it's the Purple-Stemmed, _Aster puniceus_. Isn't it common where
you live?"

"I've never noticed it," answered Joel. "We have lots of the
_Novoe-Anglioe_ and _spectabilis_ in Maine, and some of the white
asters. It must be very lovely about here in spring."

"Yes, it is. Spring is beautiful here, as it is everywhere. The valley
of the Hudson is especially rich in flora, I believe. I used to be very
fond of the woods on Mount Adam when I was a boy here at Hillton, and
knew every tree in it." They were walking on toward the village, Remsen
rolling his bicycle beside him.

"It's a long while since then, I suppose, sir?" queried Joel.

"I graduated from Hillton ten years ago this coming June. I rowed stroke
in the boat that spring, and we won from Eustace by an eighth of a mile.
And we nearly burned old Masters down to the ground with our Roman
candles and sky rockets. You room there, don't you, March?"

"Yes, sir; Number 34."

"That was Billy Mathews's room that year. Some time if you look under
the carpet you'll find a depression in the middle of the floor. That's
where Billy made a bonfire one night and offered up in sacrifice all his
text-books. It took half an hour to put that fire out." Remsen was
smiling reminiscently.

"But what did he burn his books for, sir? Was it the end of the year?"

"No, but Billy had been expelled that day, and was celebrating the fact.
He was a nice old chap, was Billy Mathews. He's president of a Western
railroad now." Joel laughed.

"That bonfire must have made as much commotion as some of the explosions
in Number 15, Mr. Remsen."

"Hello! Are my efforts in pursuit of science still remembered here? Who
told you about that, March?"

"Mrs. Cowles. She said you were forever doing something terrible, but
that you were such a _nice_ boy." Remsen laughed heartily as he replied:

"Well, don't pattern your conduct on mine or Mathews's, March. We
weren't a very well-behaved lot, I fear. But I don't believe our pranks
did much harm. In those days football wasn't as popular as it is to-day,
at Hillton, and fellows couldn't work off their surplus animal spirits
thumping a pigskin as they can now. Football is a great benefactor in
that way, March. It has done away with hazing and street brawls and gate
stealing and lots of other deviltry. By the way, how are you getting on
with the game?"

"I think I'm getting the hang of it, sir. I'm having a hard time with
drop kicking, but I guess I'll learn after a while."

"I'm sure you will. I'm going to have Blair give you a bit of coaching
in it next week. He'll have more time then, after he has finished with
this golf business. Don't get discouraged. Peg away. It's worth the
work, March, and you have the making of a good back as soon as you learn
how to kick a goal and run a little faster. And whenever you're puzzled
about anything come to me and we'll work it out together. Will you?"

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"That's right. Well, here's where I turn off. Have you time to come and
pay me a visit?"

"Not to-day, I'm afraid, Mr. Remsen. I'm just going to the post office
for some paper, and--"

"Well, come and see me some time. I'm pretty nearly always at home in
the evenings and will be very glad to see you. And bring your friend
West with you. That's my headquarters down there, the yellow house; Mrs.
Hutchins's. If you cut across the field here it will save you quite a
distance. Good-by; and get to bed early to-night, March, if you can.
There's nothing like a good sleep before a game."

"Good-by," answered Joel. Then, "Mr. Remsen, one minute, please, sir,"
he called. "Are you any relation to the Remsens that live near
Clairmont, in Maine, sir?"

"Why, I shouldn't wonder," answered Remsen, with a smile. "I think I've
heard my father speak of relatives in Maine, but I don't recollect
where. Why do you ask?"

"My mother wrote me to find out. She's very much interested in people's
relatives, Mr. Remsen, and so I thought I'd ask and let her know. You
didn't mind my asking you, did you?"

"Certainly not. Tell your mother, March, that I hope those Remsens are
some of my folks, because I should like to be related to her friends.
And say, March, when you're writing to your mother about me you needn't
say anything about those explosions, need you?"

"I don't think it will be necessary, sir," laughed Joel.

"Very well; then just mention me as a dignified and reverend
attorney-at-law, and we'll keep the rest a secret between us."




CHAPTER VIII.


THE GOLF TOURNAMENT.

It was Saturday afternoon. The day was bright and sunny, and in the
shelter of the grand stand on the campus, where the little east wind
could not rustle, it was comfortably warm. The grass still held much of
its summer verdancy, and the sky overhead was as deeply blue as on the
mildest spring day. After a week of dull or stormy weather yesterday and
to-day, with their fair skies, were as welcome as flowers in May, and
gladness and light-heartedness were in the very air.

On the gridiron Westvale Grammar School and Hillton Academy were trying
conclusions. On the grand stand all Hillton, academy and village, was
assembled, and here and there a bright dress or wrap indicated the
presence of a mother or sister in the throng. The Westvale team had
arrived, accompanied by a coterie of enthusiastic supporters, armed with
tin horns, maroon-colored banners, and mighty voices, which, with small
hopes of winning on the field, were resolved to accomplish a notable
victory of sound. On the side-line, with a dozen other substitutes whose
greatest desire was to be taken on the first eleven, sat Joel. Outfield
West was sprawled beside him with his caddie bag clutched to his breast,
and the two boys were discussing the game. West had arrived upon the
scene but a moment before.

"We'll beat them by about a dozen points, I guess," Joel was
prophesying. "They say the score was twenty to nothing last year, but
Remsen declares the first isn't nearly as far advanced as it was this
time last season. Just hear the racket those fellows are making! You
ought to have seen Blair kick down the field a while ago. I thought the
ball never would come down, and I guess Westvale thought so too. Their
full-back nearly killed himself running backward, and finally caught it
on their five-yard line, and had it down there. Then Greer walked
through, lugging Andrews for a touch-down, after Westvale had tried
three times to move the ball. There's the whistle; half's up. How is the
golf getting along?"

"Somers and Whipple were at Look Off when I came away. I asked Billy
Jones to come over and call me when they got to The Hill. I think
Whipple will win by a couple of strokes. Somers is too nervous. I wish
they'd hurry up. We'll not get through the last round before dark if
they don't finish soon. You'll go round with me, won't you?"

"If the game's over. They're playing twenty-minute halves, you know; so
I guess it will be. I hope Blair will let me on this half. Have you
seen Cloud?"

"Yes; he's over on the seats. Who has his place?"

"Ned Post; and Clausen's playing at right. I'm glad that Blair is doing
such good work to-day. I think he was rather cut up about getting beaten
this morning."

"Yes; wasn't that hard luck? To think of his being downed by a cub of a
junior! Though that same junior is going to be a fine player some day.
He drives just grand. He had too much handicap, he did. Remsen didn't
know anything about him, and allowed him ten. Here they come again."

The two elevens were trotting out on the field once more, and Joel stood
up in the hope that Blair might see him and decide to take him on. But
Joel was doomed to disappointment, for the second half of the game began
with practically the same line-up. The score stood six to nothing in
favor of Hillton. The playing had been decidedly ragged on both sides;
and Remsen, as he left the team after administering a severe lecture,
walked past with a slight frown on his face.

"Well, I guess I'll go over and see if I can hurry those chumps up
some." West swung his bag over his shoulder and turned away. "When the
game's done, hurry over, March. You'll find us somewhere on the course."
Joel nodded, and West sauntered away toward the links. The second half
of the game was similar to the first, save in that Remsen's scolding had
accomplished an awakening, and the first put more snap into its playing.
Six more points were scored from a touch-down by the Hillton right end,
after a thirty-yard run, followed by a difficult goal by Blair. But the
Westvale rooters kept up their cheering bravely to the end, and took
defeat with smiling faces and upraised voices; and long after the coach
containing them had passed from sight their cheers could still be heard
in the distance toward the station.

The bulk of the spectators turned at the conclusion of the match toward
the links, and Joel followed in his football togs. At Home Hole he found
Whipple and West preparing for the deciding round of the tournament, and
the latter greeted him with a shout, and put his clubs into his keeping.
Then Whipple went to the tee and led off with a long drive for the first
hole, and the round began. West followed with a shorter shot and the
march was taken up.

The links at Hilton consists of nine holes, five out and four in. The
entire length of the course is a trifle over one and a half mile, and
although the land is upland meadow and given to growing long grass, yet
the course is generally conceded to be excellent. The holes are short,
allowing the round to be accomplished by a capable player in thirty-two
strokes. The course has thirteen bunkers of varying sizes, besides two
water hazards at the inlet and outlet of the lake. The lake itself is
spoiled as a hazard by the thick grove of trees on the side nearest the
Academy. Sometimes a poor drive lands a ball in that same grove, and
there is much trial and tribulation ere the player has succeeded in
dislodging it from the underbrush.

While generally level, the course is diversified by slight elevations,
upon which are the putting greens, their red and white flags visible
from all parts of the links. As has been said, the holes are short, the
longest, Lake Hole, being four hundred and ninety-six yards, and the
shortest, the first, but one hundred and thirty-three. Outfield West
once spent the better part of two weeks, at great cost to his class
standing, in making a plan of the links, and, while it is not warranted
accurate as to distances, it is reproduced here with his permission as
giving a clearer idea of the ground than any verbal description.

Play had begun this morning at nine o'clock, and by noon only Somers,
Whipple, and West had been left in the match. Blair had encountered
defeat most unexpectedly at the hands of Greene, a junior, of whose
prowess but little had been known by the handicapper; for, although
Blair had done the round in three strokes less than his adversary's
gross score, the latter's allowance of six strokes had placed him an
easy winner. But Blair had been avenged later by West, who had defeated
the youngster by three strokes in the net. In the afternoon Somers and
Whipple had met, and, as West had predicted, the latter won by
two strokes.

And now West and Whipple, both excellent players, and sworn enemies of
the links, were fighting it out, and on this round depended the
possession of the title of champion and the ownership for one year of
the handicap cup, a modest but highly prized pewter tankard. Medal
Play rules governed to-day, and the scoring was by strokes.

[Illustration: Plan of Hilton Academy Golf Links]

Whipple reached the first green in one stroke, but used two more to
hole-out. West took two short drives to reach a lie, from which he
dropped his ball into the hole in one try. And the honors were even. The
next hole was forty yards longer, and was played either in two short
drives or one long drive and an approach shot. It contained two hazards,
Track Bunker and High Bunker, the latter alone being formidable. Whipple
led off with a long shot that went soaring up against the blue and then
settled down as gently as a bird just a few yards in front of High
Bunker. He had reversed his play of the last hole, and was now relying
on his approach shot for position. West played a rather short drive off
an iron which left his ball midway between the two bunkers. Whipple's
next stroke took him neatly out of danger and on to the putting green,
but West had fared not so well.

There was a great deal of noise from the younger boys who were looking
on, much discussion of the methods of play, and much loud boasting of
what some one else would have done under existing circumstances. West
glanced up once and glared at one offending junior, and an admonitory
"_Hush!_" was heard. But he was plainly disturbed, and when the little
white sphere made its flight it went sadly aglee and dropped to earth
far to the right of the green, and where rough and cuppy ground made
exact putting well-nigh impossible. Professor Beck promptly laid down a
command of absolute silence during shots, and some of the smaller youths
left the course in favor of another portion of the campus, where a boy's
right to make all the noise he likes could not be disputed. But the harm
was done, and when play for the third hole began the score was: Whipple
7, West 8.

Even to one of such intense ignorance of the science of golf as Joel
March, there was a perceptible difference in the style of the two
competitors. Outfield West was a great stickler for form, and imitated
the full St. Andrews swing to the best of his ability. In addressing the
ball he stood as squarely to it as was possible, without the use of a
measuring tape, and drove off the right leg, as the expression is.
Despite an almost exaggerated adherence to nicety of style, West's play
had an ease and grace much envied by other golf disciples in the school,
and his shots were nearly always successful.

Whipple's manner of driving was very different from his opponent's. His
swing was short and often stopped too soon. His stance was rather
awkward, after West's, and even his hold on the club was not according
to established precedent. Yet, notwithstanding all this, it must be
acknowledged that Whipple's drives had a way of carrying straight and
far and landing well.

Joel followed the play with much interest if small appreciation of its
intricacies, and carried West's bag, and hoped all the time that that
youth would win, knowing how greatly he had set his heart upon so doing.

There is no bunker between second and third holes, but the brook which
supplies the lake runs across the course and is about six yards wide
from bank to bank. But it has no terrors for a long drive, and both the
players went safely over and won Academy Hole in three strokes. West
still held the odd. Two long strokes carried Whipple a scant distance
from Railroad Bunker, which fronts Ditch Hole, a dangerous lie, since
Railroad Bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost
meriting the title of hill, directly back of it. But if Whipple erred in
judgment or skill, West found himself in even a sorrier plight when two
more strokes had been laid to his score. His first drive with a brassie
had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron. The
ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the
spectators, but which caused Joel to look glum and West to grind the
turf under his heel in anger. For, like a thing possessed, that ball
fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found
lay up to its middle in gravel.

West groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and
carefully selected a club. Whipple meanwhile cleared the bunker in the
best of style, and landed on the green in a good position to hole out in
two shots. "Great Gobble!" muttered West as he swung his club, and fixed
his eye on a point an inch and a half back of the imbedded ball, "if I
don't get this out of here on this shot, I'm a gone goose!" March
grinned sympathetically but anxiously, and the onlookers held their
breath. Then back went the club--there was a scattering of sand and
gravel, and the ball dropped dead on the green, four yards from
the hole.

"Excellent!" shouted Professor Beck, and Joel jumped in the air from
sheer delight. "Good for you, Out!" yelled Dave Somers; and the rest of
the watchers echoed the sentiment in various ways, even those who
desired to see Whipple triumphant yielding their meed of praise for the
performance. And, "I guess, Out," said Whipple ruefully, "you might as
well take the cup." But Outfield West only smiled silently in response,
and followed his ball with businesslike attention to the game.

Whipple was weak on putting, and his first stroke with an iron failed to
carry his ball to the hole. West, on the contrary, was a sure player on
the green, and now with his ball but four yards from the hole he had
just the opportunity he desired to better his score. The green was level
and clean, and West selected a small iron putter, and addressed the ball
with all the attention to form that the oldest St. Andrews veteran might
desire. Playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than
not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, West gave a long
stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view. Whipple holed out on
his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood
fifteen strokes each.

The honor was West's, and he led off for End Hole with a beautiful
brassie drive that cleared the first two bunkers with room to spare.
Whipple, for the first time in the round, drove poorly, toeing his ball
badly, and dropping it almost off of the course and just short of the
second bunker. West's second drive was a loft over Halfway Bunker that
fell fairly on the green and rolled within ten feet of the hole. From
there, on the next shot, he holed out very neatly in eighteen. Whipple
meanwhile had redeemed himself with a high lofting stroke that carried
past the threatening dangers of Masters Bunker and back on to the course
within a few yards of West's lie. But again skill on the putting green
was wanting, and he required two strokes to make the hole. Once more the
honor was West's, and that youth turned toward home with a short and
high stroke. The subsequent hole left the score "the like" at 22, and
the seventh gave Whipple, 25, West 26.

"But here's where Mr. West takes the lead," confided that young
gentleman to Joel as they walked to the teeing ground. "From here to
Lake Hole is four hundred and ninety-six yards, and I'm going to do it
in three shots on to the green. You watch!"

Four hundred and ninety-odd yards is nothing out of the ordinary for an
older player, but to a lad of seventeen it is a creditable distance to
do in three drives. Yet that is what West did it in; and strange to
relate, and greatly to that young gentleman's surprise, Whipple
duplicated the performance, and amid the excited whispers of the
onlookers the two youths holed out on their next strokes; and the score
still gave the odd to West--29 to 30.

"I didn't think he could do it," whispered West to Joel, "and that makes
it look bad for your uncle Out. But never mind, my lad, there's still
Rocky Bunker ahead of us, and--" West did not complete his remark, but
his face took on a very determined look as he teed his ball. The last
hole was in sight, and victory hovered overhead.

Now, the distance from Lake Hole to the Home Hole is but a few yards
over three hundred, and it can be accomplished comfortably in two long
brassie drives. Midway lies The Hill, a small elevation rising from
about the middle of the course to the river bluff, and there falling off
sheer to the beach below. It is perhaps thirty yards across, and if the
ball reaches it safely it forms an excellent place from which to make
the second drive. So both boys tried for The Hill. Whipple landed at the
foot of it, while West came plump upon the side some five yards from the
summit, and his next drive took him cleanly over Rocky Bunker and to the
right of the Home Green. But Whipple summoned discretion to his aid, and
instead of trying to make the green on the next drive, played short, and
landed far to the right of the Bunker. This necessitated a short
approach, and by the time he had gained the green and was "made" within
holing distance of the flag, the score was once more even, and the end
was in sight.

And now the watchers moved about restlessly, and Joel found his heart
in his throat. But West gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the
situation. It was quite possible for a skillful player to hole out on
the next stroke from Whipple's lie. West, on the contrary, was too far
distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in
one play. Whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in
bettering his lie was the question. Whipple, West knew, was weak on
putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent's weakness. While
West pondered, Whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that
strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for
an occasional nervous whisper.

Then West leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. It was
the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but
West was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted
him. His mind was made up. Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on
the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club
above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant
goal. Then there was a pause. Whipple no longer studied his own play;
his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently
against the grass. Joel leaned breathlessly forward. Professor Beck
muttered under his breath, and then cried "S--sh!" to himself in an
angry whisper. And then West's club swung back gently, easily, paused an
instant--and--

Forward sped the ball--on and on--slower--slower--but straight as an
arrow--and then--Presto! it was gone from sight!

A moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that
moment Professor Beck announced:

"The odd to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-three."

Then the group became silent again. Whipple addressed his ball. It was
yet possible to tie the score. His face was pale, and for the first time
during the tournament he felt nervous. A better player could scarce have
missed the hole from Whipple's lie, but for once that youth's nerve
forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole.
The game was decided. Professor Beck again announced the score:

"The two more to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-four."

Again Whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the
victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng
broke silence. And as West and Whipple, victor and vanquished, shook
hands over the Home Hole, Professor Beck announced:

"Thirty-two to thirty-five. West wins the Cup!"




CHAPTER IX.


AN EVENING CALL.

The last week of October brought chilling winds and flying clouds. Life
at Hillton Academy had gone on serenely since West's victory on the
links. The little pewter tankard reposed proudly upon his mantel beside
a bottle of chow-chow, and bore his name as the third winner of the
trophy. But West had laid aside his clubs, save for an occasional hour
at noon, and, abiding by his promise to Joel, he had taken up his books
again with much resolution, if little ardor. Hillton had met and
defeated two more football teams, and the first eleven was growing
gradually stronger. Remsen was seen to smile now quite frequently during
practice, and there was a general air of prosperity about the gridiron.

The first had gone to its training table at "Mother" Burke's, in the
village, and the second ate its meals in the center of the school dining
hall with an illy concealed sense of self-importance. And the grinds
sneered at its appetites, and the obscure juniors admired reverently
from afar. Joel had attended both recitations and practice with
exemplary and impartial regularity, and as a result his class standing
was growing better and better on one hand, and on the other his muscles
were becoming stronger, his flesh firmer, and his brain clearer.

The friendship between him and Outfield West had ripened steadily, until
now they were scarcely separable. And that they might be more together
West had lately made a proposition.

"That fellow Sproule is a regular cad, Joel, and I tell you what we'll
do. After Christmas you move over to Hampton and room with me. You have
to make an application before recess, you know. What do you say?"

"I should like to first rate, but I can't pay the rent there," Joel had
objected.

"Then pay the same as you're paying for your den in Masters," replied
West. "You see, Joel, I have to pay the rent for Number 2 Hampton
anyhow, and it won't make any difference whether I have another fellow
in with me or not. Only, if you pay as much of my rent as you're paying
now, why, that will make it so much cheaper for me. Don't you see?"

"Yes, but if I use half the room I ought to pay half, the rent." And to
this Joel stood firm until West's constant entreaties led to a
compromise. West was to put the matter before his father, and Joel
before his. If their parents sanctioned it, Joel was to apply for the
change of abode. As yet the matter was still in abeyance.

Richard Sproule, as West had suggested rather more forcibly than
politely, was becoming more and more objectionable, and Joel was not a
bit grieved at the prospect of leaving him. Of late, intercourse between
the roommates had become reduced to rare monosyllables. This was the
outcome of a refusal on Joel's part to give a portion of his precious
study time to helping Sproule with his lessons. Once or twice Joel had
consented to assist his roommate, and had done so to the detriment of
his own affairs; but the result to both had proved so unsatisfactory
that Joel had stoutly refused the next request. Thereupon Sproule had
considered himself deeply aggrieved, and usually spent the time when
Joel was present in sulking.

Bartlett Cloud, since his encounter with Joel on the field the afternoon
that he was put off the team, had had nothing to say to him, though his
looks when they met were always dark and threatening. But in a school as
large as Hillton there is plenty of room to avoid an objectionable
acquaintance, so long as you are not under the same roof with him, and
consequently Cloud and Joel seldom met. The latter constantly regretted
having made an enemy of the other, but beyond this regret his
consideration of Cloud seldom went.

So far Joel had not found an opportunity to accept the invitation that
Remsen had extended to him, though that invitation had since been once
or twice repeated. But to-night West and he had made arrangement to
visit Remsen at his room, and had obtained permission from Professor
Wheeler to do so. The two boys met at the gymnasium after supper was
over and took their way toward the village. West had armed himself with
a formidable stick, in the hope, loudly expressed at intervals, that
they would be set upon by tramps. But Remsen's lodgings were reached
without adventure, and the lads were straightway admitted to a cosey
study, wherein, before an open fire, sat Remsen and a guest. After a
cordial welcome from Remsen the guest was introduced as Albert Digbee.

"Yes, we know each other," said West, as he shook hands. "We both room
in Hampton, but Digbee's a grind, you know, and doesn't care to waste
his time on us idlers." Digbee smiled.

"It isn't inclination, West; I don't have the time, and so don't attempt
to keep up with you fellows." He shook Joel's hand. "I'm glad to meet
you. I've heard of you before."

Then the quartet drew chairs up to the blaze, and, as Remsen talked,
Joel examined his new acquaintance.

Digbee was a year older than West and Joel. He was in the senior class,
and was spoken of as one of the smartest boys in the school. Although a
Hampton House resident, he seldom was seen with the others save at the
table, and was usually referred to among themselves as "Dig," both
because that suggested his Christian name and because, as they said, he
was forever digging at his books. In appearance Albert Digbee was a
tall, slender, but scarcely frail youth, with a cleanly cut face that
looked, in the firelight, far too pale. His eyes were strikingly bright,
and though his smiles were infrequent, his habitual expression was one
of eager and kindly interest. Joel had often come across him in class,
and had long wanted to know him.

"You see, boys," Remsen was saying, "Digbee here is of the opinion that
athletics in general and football in particular are harmful to schools
and colleges as tending to draw the attention of pupils from their
studies, and I maintain the opposite. Now, what's your opinion, West?
Digbee and I have gone over it so often that we would like to hear some
one else on the subject."

"Oh, I don't know," replied West. "If fellows would give up football and
go in for golf, there wouldn't be any talk about athletics being
hurtful. Golf's a game that a chap can play and get through with and
have some time for study. You don't have to train a month to play for an
hour; it's a sport that hasn't become a business."

"I can testify," said Joel gravely, "that Out is a case in point. He
plays golf, and has time left to study--how to play more golf."

"Well, anyhow, you know I _do_ study some lately, Joel," laughed West.
Joel nodded with serious mien.

"I think you've made a very excellent point in favor of golf, West,"
said Digbee. "It hasn't been made a business, at least in this school.
But won't it eventually become quite as much of a pursuit as
football now is?"

"Oh, it may become as popular, but, don't you see, it will never become
as--er--exacting on the fellows that play it. You can play golf without
having to go into training for it."

"Nevertheless, West," replied the head coach, "if a fellow can play golf
without being in training, doesn't it stand to reason that the same
fellow can play a better game if he is in training? That is, won't he
play a better game if he is in better trim?"

"Yes, I guess so, but he will play a first-class game if he doesn't
train."

"But not as good a game as he will if he does train?"

"I suppose not," admitted West.

"Well, now, a fellow can play a very good game of football if he isn't
in training," continued Remsen, "but that same fellow, if he goes to bed
and gets up at regular hours, and eats decent food at decent times, and
takes care of himself in such a way as to improve his mental, moral, and
physical person, will play a still better game and derive more benefit
from it. When golf gets a firmer hold on this side of the Atlantic,
schools and colleges will have their golf teams of, say, from two to a
dozen players. Of course, the team will not play as a team, but the
members of it will play singly or in couples against representatives of
other schools. And when that happens it is sure to follow that the
players will go into almost as strict training as the football men
do now."

"Well, that sounds funny," exclaimed West.

"Digbee thinks one of the most objectionable features of football is the
fact that the players go into it so thoroughly--that they train for it,
and study it, and spend a good deal of valuable time thinking about it.
But to me that is one of its most admirable features. When a boy or a
man goes in for athletics, whether football or rowing or hockey, he
desires, if he is a real flesh-and-blood being, to excel in it. To do
that it is necessary that he put himself in the condition that will
allow of his doing his very best. And to that end he trains. He gives up
pastry, and takes to cereals; he abandons his cigarettes and takes to
fresh air; he gives up late hours at night, and substitutes early hours
in the morning. And he is better for doing so. He feels better, looks
better, works better, plays better."

"But," responded Digbee, "can a boy who has come to school to study, and
who has to study to make his schooling pay for itself, can such a boy
afford the time that all that training and practicing requires?"

"Usually, yes," answered Remsen. "Of course, there are boys, and men
too, for that matter, who are incapable of occupying their minds with
two distinct interests. That kind should leave athletics alone. And
there are others who are naturally--I guess I mean-unnaturally--stupid,
and who, should they attempt to sandwich football or baseball into their
school life, would simply make a mess of both study and recreation. But
they need not enter into the question of the harm or benefit of
athletics, since at every well-conducted school or college those boys
are not allowed to take up with athletics. Yes, generally speaking, the
boy who comes to school to study can afford to play football, train for
football, and think football, because instead of interfering with his
studies it really helps him with them. It makes him healthy, strong,
wide-awake, self-reliant, and clearheaded. Some time I shall be glad to
show you a whole stack of careful statistics which prove that football
men, at least, rather than being backward with studies, are nearly
always above the average in class standing. March, you're a hard-worked
football enthusiast, and I understand that you're keeping well up with
your lessons. Do you have trouble to attend to both? Do you have to
skimp your studies? I know you give full attention to the pigskin."

"I'm hard put some days to find time for everything," answered Joel,
"but I always manage to make it somehow, and I have all the sleep I want
or need. Perhaps if I gave up football I might get higher marks in
recitations, but I'd not feel so well, and it's possible that I'd only
get lower marks. I agree with you, Mr. Remsen, that athletics, or at
least football, is far more likely to benefit a chap than to hurt him,
because a fellow can't study well unless he is in good health
and spirits."

"Are you convinced, Digbee?" asked Remsen. Digbee shook his head
smilingly.

"I don't believe I am, quite. But you know more about such things than
I do. In fact, it's cheeky for me to argue about them. Why, I've never
played anything but tennis, and never did even that well."

"You know the ground you argue from, and because I have overwhelmed you
with talk it does not necessarily follow that I am right," responded his
host courteously. "But enough of such dull themes. There's West most
asleep.--March, have you heard from your mother lately?"

"Yes, I received a letter from her yesterday morning. She writes that
she's glad the relationship is settled finally; says she's certain that
any kin of the Maine Remsens is a person of good, strong moral
character." When the laugh had subsided, Remsen turned to West.

"Have you ever heard of Tommy Collingwood?"

"Wasn't he baseball captain a good many years ago?"

"Yes, and used to row in the boat. Well, Tommy was a good deal better at
spinning top on Academy steps than doing lessons, and a deal fonder of
playing shinney than writing letters. But Tommy's mother always insisted
that Tommy should write home once a week, and Tommy's father wrote and
explained what would happen to Tommy if he didn't obey his mother; and
as Tommy's folks lived just over in Albany it was a small thing for
Tommy's father to run over some day with a strap; so Tommy obeyed his
parents and every week wrote home. His letters weren't long, nor were
they filled with a wealth of detail, but they answered the purpose in
lieu of better. Each one ran: 'Hillton Academy, Hillton, N.Y.,' with
the date. 'Dear Father and Mother, I am well and studying hard. Your
loving son, Thomas Collingwood.'

"Well, when Christmas recess came, Tommy went home. And one day his
mother complimented Tommy on the regularity of his correspondence. Tommy
looked sheepish. 'To tell the truth, mother, I didn't write one of those
letters each week,' explained Tommy. 'But just after school opened I was
sick for a week, and didn't have anything to do; so I wrote 'I am well'
twelve times, and dated each ahead.'"

Digbee accompanied the other two lads back to the yard, and he and March
discussed studies, while West mooned along, whistling half aloud and
thrashing the weeds and rocks with his cudgel, for the tramps refused to
appear on the scene. He and Digbee went out of their way to see Joel
safely to his dormitory, and then Joel accompanied them on their
homeward way as far as Academy Building. There good-nights were said,
and Joel, feeling but little inclined for sleep, drew his collar up and
strolled to the front of the building, where, from the high steps, the
river was visible for several miles in either direction. The moon was
struggling out from a mass of somber clouds overhead, and the sound of
the waters as they swirled around the rocky point was plainly heard.

Joel sat there on the steps, under the shadow of the dark building,
thinking of many things, and feeling very happy and peaceful, until a
long, shrill sound from the north told of the coming of the 9.48 train;
then he made his way back to Masters, up the dim stairs, and into his
room, where Dickey Sproule lay huddled in bed reading The Three
Guardsmen by the screened light of a guttering candle.




CHAPTER X.


THE BROKEN BELL ROPE.

Joel arrived at chapel the following morning just as the doors were
being closed. Duffy, the wooden-legged doorkeeper, was not on duty, and
the youth upon whom his duties had devolved allowed Joel to pass without
giving his name for report as tardy. During prayers there was an evident
atmosphere of suppressed excitement among the pupils, but not until
chapel was over did Joel discover the cause.

"Were you here when it happened?" asked West.

"When what happened?" responded Joel.

"Haven't you heard? Why, some one cut the bell rope, and when 'Peg-leg'
went to ring chapel bell the rope broke up in the tower and came down on
his head and laid him out there on the floor, and some of the fellows
found him knocked senseless. And they've taken him to the infirmary. You
know the rope's as big as your wrist, and it hit him on top of the head.
I guess he isn't much hurt, but 'Wheels' is as mad as never was, and
whoever did it will have a hard time, I'll bet!"

"Poor old Duffy!" said Joel. "Let's go over and find out if he's much
hurt. It was a dirty sort of a joke to play, though I suppose whoever
did it didn't think it would hurt any one."

At the infirmary they found Professor Gibbs in the office.

"No, boys, he isn't damaged much. He'll be all right in a few hours. I
hope that the ones who did it will be severely punished. It was a most
contemptible trick to put up on Duffy."

"I hope so too," answered West indignantly. "You may depend that no
upper middle boy did it, sir." The professor smiled.

"I hope you are right, West."

At noon hour Joel was summoned to the principal's office. Professor
Wheeler, the secretary, and Professor Durkee were present, and as Joel
entered he scented an air of hostility. The secretary closed the door
behind him.

"March, I have sent for you to ask whether you can give us any
information which will lead to the apprehension of the perpetrators of
the trick which has resulted in injury to Mr. Duffy. Can you?"

"No, sir," responded Joel.

"You know absolutely nothing about it?"

"Nothing, sir, except what I have been told."

"By whom?"

"Outfield West, sir, after chapel. We went to the infirmary to inquire
about 'Peg'--about Mr. Duffy, sir." The secretary repressed a smile. The
principal was observing Joel very closely, and Professor Durkee moved
impatiently in his seat.

"I can not suppose," continued the principal, "that the thing was done
simply as a school joke. The boy who cut the rope must have known when
he did so that the result would be harmful to whoever rang the chapel
bell this morning. I wish it understood that I have no intention of
dealing leniently with the culprit, but, at the same time, a confession,
if made now, will have the effect of mitigating his punishment." He
paused. Joel turned an astonished look from him to Professor Durkee,
who, meeting it, frowned and turned impatiently away. "You have nothing
more to tell me, March?"

"Why, no, sir," answered Joel in a troubled voice. "I don't understand.
Am I suspected--of--of this--thing, sir?"

"Dear me, sir," exclaimed Professor Durkee, explosively, turning to the
principal, "it's quite evident that--"

"One moment, please," answered the latter firmly. The other
subsided.--"You had town leave last night, March?"

"Yes, sir."

"You went with Outfield West?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time did you return to your room?"

"At about a quarter to ten, sir."

"You are certain as to the time?"

"I only know that I heard the down train whistle as I left Academy
Building. I went right to my room, sir."

"Was the door of Academy Building unlocked last night?"

"I don't know. I didn't try it, sir."

"What time did you leave Mr. Remsen's house?"

"A few minutes after nine."

"You came right back here?"

"Yes, sir. We came as far as Academy Building, and West and Digbee went
home. I sat on the front steps here until I heard the whistle blow. Then
I went to my room."

"Why did you sit on the steps, March?"

"I wasn't sleepy; and the moon was coming out--and--I wanted to think."

"Do you hear from home very often?"

"Once or twice a week, sir."

"When did you get a letter last, and from whom was it?"

"From my mother, about three days ago."

"Have you that letter?"

"Yes, sir. It is in my room."

"You sometimes carry your letters in your pocket?"

"Why, yes, but not often. If I receive them on the way out of the
building I put them in my pocket, and then put them away when I
get back."

"Where do you keep them?"

"In my bureau drawer."

"It is kept locked?"

"No, sir. I never lock it."

"Do you remember what was in that last letter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was any one mentioned in it?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Remsen was mentioned. And Outfield West, and my brother,
and father."

"Is this your letter?" Professor Wheeler extended it across the desk,
and Joel took it wonderingly.

"Why, yes, sir. But where--I don't understand--!" Again he looked toward
Professor Durkee in bewilderment.

"Nor do I," answered that gentleman dryly.

"March," continued the principal, as he took the letter again, "this was
found this morning, after the accident, on the floor of the bell tower.
Do you know how it came there?" Joel's cheeks reddened and then grew
white as the full meaning of the words reached him. His voice suddenly
grew husky.

"No, sir, I do not." The words were spoken very stoutly and rang with
sincerity. A silence fell on the room. Professor Wheeler glanced
inquiringly at Professor Durkee, and the latter made a grimace of
impatience that snarled his homely face into a mass of wrinkles.

"Look here, boy," he snapped, "who do you think dropped that letter
there?"

"I can't think, sir. I can't understand it at all. I've never been in
the tower since I've been in school."

"Do you know of any one who might like to get you into trouble in such
a way as this?"

"No, sir," answered Joel promptly. Then a sudden recollection of
Bartlett Cloud came to him, and he hesitated. Professor Durkee
observed it.

"Well?" he said sharply.

"I know of no one, sir."

"Humph!" grunted the professor, "you do, but you won't say."

"If you suspect any one it will be best to tell us, March," said
Professor Wheeler, more kindly. "You must see that the evidence is much
against you, and, while I myself can not believe that you are guilty, I
shall be obliged to consider you so until proof of your innocence is
forthcoming. Have you any enemy in school?"

"I think not, sir."

The door opened and Remsen appeared.

"Good-morning," he said. "You wished to see me, professor?"

"Yes, in a moment. Sit down, please, Remsen." Remsen nodded to Joel and
the secretary, shook hands with Professor Durkee, and took a chair. The
principal turned again to Joel.

"You wish me to understand, then, that you have no explanation to offer
as to how the letter came to be in the bell tower? Recollect that
shielding a friend or any other pupil will do neither you nor him
any service."

Joel was hesitating. Was it right to throw suspicion on Bartlett Cloud
by mentioning the small occurrence on the football field so long before?
It was inconceivable that Cloud would go to such a length in mere spite.
And yet--Remsen interrupted his thoughts.

"Professor, if you will dismiss March for a while, perhaps I can throw
some light on the matter. Let him return in half an hour or so."
Professor Wheeler nodded.

"Come back at one o'clock, March," he said.

Outside Joel hesitated where to go. He must tell some one his trouble,
and there was only one who would really care. He turned toward Hampton
House, then remembered that it was dinner hour and that Outfield would
be at table. He had forgotten his own dinner until that moment. In the
dining hall West was still lingering over his dessert. Joel took his
seat at the training table, explaining his absence by saying that he had
been called to the office, and hurried through a dinner of beef and rice
and milk. When West arose Joel overtook him at the door. And as the
friends took their way toward Joel's room, he told everything to West in
words that tumbled over each other.

Outfield West heard him in silence after one exclamation of surprise,
and when Joel had finished, cried:

"Why didn't you tell about Cloud? Don't you see that this is his doing?
That he is getting even with you for his losing the football team?"

"I thought of that, Out, but it seemed too silly to suppose that he
would do such a thing just for--for that, you know."

"Well, you may be certain that he did do it; or, at least, if he didn't
cut the rope himself, found some one to do it for him. It's just the
kind of a revenge that a fellow of his meanness would think of. He won't
stand up and fight like a man. Here, let's go and find him!"

"No, wait. I'll tell Professor Wheeler about him when I go back; then if
he thinks--If he did do it, Out, I'll lick him good for it!"

"Hooray! And when you get through I'll take a hand, too. But what do you
suppose Remsen was going to tell?"

Joel shook his head. They found Sproule in the room, and to him West
spoke as follows:

"Hello, Dickey! You're not studying? It's not good for you; these sudden
changes should be avoided." Sproule laughed, but looked annoyed at the
banter. "Joel and I have come up for a chat, Dickey," continued West.
"Now, you take your Robinson Crusoe and read somewhere else for a while,
like a nice boy."

Sproule grew red-faced, and turned to West angrily.

"Don't you see I'm studying? If you and March want to talk, why, either
go somewhere else, or talk here."

"But our talk is private, Dickey, and not intended for little boys'
ears. You know the saying about little pitchers, Dickey?"

"Well, I'm not going out, so you can talk or not as you like."

"Oh, yes, you are going out, Dickey. Politeness requires it, and I shall
see that you maintain that delightful courteousness for which you are
noted. Now, Dickey!" West indicated the door with a nod and a smile.
Sproule bent his head over his book and growled a response that sounded
anything but polite. Then West, still smiling, seized the unobliging
youth by the shoulders, pinioning his arms to his sides, and pushed him
away from the table and toward the door. Joel rescued the lamp at a
critical moment, the chairs went over on to the floor, and a minute
later Sproule was on the farther side of the bolted door, and West was
adjusting his rumpled attire.

"I'll report you for this, Outfield West!" howled Sproule through the
door, in a passion of resentment.

"Report away," answered West mockingly.

"And if I miss my Latin I'll tell why, too!"

"Well, you'll miss it all right enough, unless you've changed mightily.
But, here, I'll shy your book through the transom."

This was done, and the sound of ascending feet on the stairway reaching
Sproule's ears at that moment, he grabbed his book and took himself off,
muttering vengeance.

"Have you looked?" asked West.

"Yes; it's not there. But there are no others missing. Who could have
taken it?"

"Any one, my boy; Bartlett Cloud, for preference. Your door is
unlocked, he comes in when he knows you are out, looks on the table,
sees nothing there that will serve, goes to the bureau, opens the top
drawer, and finds a pile of letters. He takes the first one, which is,
of course, the last received, and sneaks out. Then he climbs into the
bell tower at night, cuts the rope through all but one small strand, and
puts your letter on the floor where it will be found in the morning.
Isn't that plain enough?" Joel nodded forlornly. "But cheer up, Joel.
Your Uncle Out will see your innocence established, firmly and beyond
all question. And now come on. It's one o'clock, and you've got to go
back to the office, while I've got a class. Come over to my room at
four, Joel, and tell me what happens."

Remsen and the secretary were no longer in the office when Joel
returned. Professor Durkee was standing with his hat in his hand,
apparently about to leave.

"March," began the principal, "Mr. Remsen tells us that you were struck
at by Bartlett Cloud on the football field one day at practice. Is that
so?" Joel replied affirmatively.

"Does he speak to you, or you to him?"

"No, sir; but then I've never been acquainted with him."

"Do you believe that he could have stolen that letter from your room?"

"I know that he could have done so, sir, but I don't like to think--"

"That he did? Well, possibly he did and possibly he didn't. I shall
endeavor to find out. Meanwhile I must ask you to let this go no
further. You will go on as though this conversation had never occurred.
If I find that you are unjustly suspected I will summon you and ask your
pardon, and the guilty one will be punished. Professor Durkee here has
pointed out to me that such conduct is totally foreign to his conception
of your character, and has reminded me that your standing in class has
been of the best since the beginning of the term. I agree with him in
all this, but duty in the affair is very plain and I have been
performing it, unpleasant as it is. You may go now, March; and kindly
remember that this affair must be kept quiet,"

Joel turned with a surprised but grateful look toward Professor Durkee,
but was met with a wrathful scowl. Joel hurried to his recitation, and
later, before West's fireplace, the friends discussed the unfortunate
affair in all its phases, and resolved, with vehemence, to know the
truth sooner or later.

But Joel's cup was not yet filled. When he returned to the dormitory
after supper, he found two missives awaiting him. The first was from
Wesley Blair:

"DEAR MARCH" (it read): "Please show up in the morning at Burke's for
breakfast with the first eleven. You are to take the place of Post at
L.H.B. It will be necessary for you to report at the gym at eleven each
day for noon signals; please arrange your recitations to this end. I am
writing this because I couldn't see you this afternoon; hope you are all
right. Yours,

       "WESLEY BLAIR."

Joel read this with a loudly beating heart and flushing cheeks. It was
as unexpected as it was welcome, that news; he _had_ hoped for an
occasional chance to substitute Post or Blair or Clausen on the first
team in some minor game, but to be taken on as a member was more than he
had even thought of since he had found how very far from perfect was his
playing. He seized his cap with the intention of racing across to
Hampton and informing West of his luck; then he remembered the other
note. It was from the office, and it was with a sinking heart that he
tore it open and read:

"You are placed upon probation until further notice from the Faculty.
The rules and regulations require that pupils on probation abstain from
all sports and keep their rooms in the evenings except upon permission
from the Principal. Respectfully,

     "CURTIS GORDON, Secretary."




CHAPTER XI.


TWO HEROES.

One afternoon a week later Outfield West and Joel March were seated on
the ledge where, nearly two months before, they had begun their
friendship. The sun beat warmly down and the hill at their backs kept
off the east wind. Below them the river was brightly blue, and a skiff
dipping its way up stream caught the sunlight on sail and hull until, as
it danced from sight around the headland, it looked like a white gull
hovering over the water. Above, on the campus, the football field was
noisy with voices and the pipe of the referee's whistle; and farther up
the river at the boathouse moving figures showed that some of the boys
were about to take advantage of the pleasant afternoon.

"Some one's going rowing," observed Outfield. "Can you row, Joel?"

"I guess so; I never tried." West laughed.

"Then I guess you can't. I've tried. It's like trying to write with both
hands. While you're looking after one the other has fits and runs all
over the paper. If you pull with the left oar the right oar goes up in
the air or tries to throw you out of the boat by getting caught in the
water. Paddling suits me better. Say, you'll see a bully race next
spring when we meet Eustace. Last spring they walked away from us. But
the crew is to have a new boat next year. Look! those two fellows row
well, don't they? Remsen says a chap can never learn to row unless he
has been born near the water. That lets me out. In Iowa we haven't any
water nearer than the Mississippi--except the Red Cedar, and that
doesn't count. By the way, Joel, what did Remsen say to you last night
about playing again?"

"He said to keep in condition, so that in case I got off probation I
could go right back to work. He says he'll do all he can to help me, and
I know he will. But it won't do any good. 'Wheels' won't let me play
until he's found out who did that trick. It's bad enough, Out, to be
blamed for the thing when I didn't do it, but to lose the football team
like this is a hundred times worse. I almost wish I _had_ cut that old
rope!" continued Joel savagely; "then I'd at least have the satisfaction
of knowing that I was only getting what I deserved." West looked
properly sympathetic.

"It's a beastly shame, that's what I think. What's the good of
'believing you innocent,' as 'Wheels' says, if he goes ahead and
punishes you for the affair? What? Why, there isn't any, of course! If
it was me I'd cut the pesky rope every chance I got until they let up on
me!" Joel smiled despite his ill humor.

"And I've lost half my interest in lessons, Out. I try not to, but I
can't help it. I guess my chance at the scholarship is gone higher
than a kite."

"Oh, hang the scholarship!" exclaimed West. "But there's the St. Eustace
game in three weeks. If you don't play in that, Joel, I'll go to
'Wheels' and tell him what I think about it!"

"It's awfully rough on a fellow, Out, but Professor Wheeler is only
doing what is right, I suppose. He can't let the thing go unnoticed, you
see, and as long as I can't prove my innocence I guess he's right to
hold me to blame for it."

"Tommyrot!" answered West explosively. "The faculty's just trying to
have us beaten! Why--Say, don't tell a soul, Joel, but Blair's worried
half crazy. They had him up yesterday, and 'Wheels' told him that if he
didn't get better marks from now on he couldn't play. What do you think
of that? They're not _decent_ about it. They're trying to put us _all_
on probation. Why, how do I know but what they'll put _me_ on?"

Outfield hit his shoe violently with the driver he held until it hurt
him. For although Joel was debarred from playing golf there was nothing
to keep him from watching West play, and this afternoon the two had been
half over the course together, West explaining the game, and Joel
listening intently, and all the while longing to take a club in hand and
have a whack at the ball himself.

"That's bad," answered Joel thoughtfully. "It would be all up with us
if Blair shouldn't play."

"And that's just what's going to happen if 'Wheels' keeps up his present
game," responded Outfield. "Who are those chaps in that shell, Joel? One
looks like Cloud, the fellow in front." Joel watched the approaching
craft for a moment.

"It is Cloud," he answered. "And that looks like Clausen with him. Why
isn't he practicing, I wonder?"

"Haven't you heard? He was dropped from the team yesterday. Wills has
his place. Post says, by the way, that he's sorry you're in such a fix,
but he's mighty glad to get back on the first. He's an awfully decent
chap, is Post. Did you see that thing he has in this month's Hilltonian
about Cooke? Says the Fac's going to establish a class in bakery and put
Cooke in as teacher because he's such a fine _loafer_! Say, what's the
matter down there?"

The shell containing Cloud and Clausen had reached a point almost
opposite to where West and Joel were perched, and as the latter looked
toward it at West's exclamation he saw Cloud throw aside his oars and
stand upright in the boat. Clausen had turned and was looking at his
friend, but still held his oars.

"By Jove, Joel, she's sinking!" cried Outfield. "Look! Why doesn't
Clausen get out? There goes Cloud over. I wonder if Clausen can swim?
swim? Come on!"

And half tumbling, half climbing, West sped down the bank on to the
tiny strip of rocks and gravel that lay along the water. Joel followed.
Cloud now was in the water at a little distance from the shell, which
had settled to the gunwales. Clausen, plainly in a state of terror, was
kneeling in the sinking boat and crying to the other lad for help. The
next moment he was in the water, and his shouts reached the two lads on
the beach. Cloud swam toward him, but before he could reach him Clausen
had gone from sight.

"What shall we do?" cried West. "He's drowning! Can you swim?" For Joel
had already divested himself of his coat and vest, and was cutting the
lacings of his shoes. West hesitated an instant only, then
followed suit.

"Yes." Off went the last shoe, and Joel ran into the water. West, pale
of face, but with a determined look in his blue eyes, followed a moment
later, a yard or two behind, and the two set out with desperate strokes
to reach the scene of the disaster. As he had taken the water Joel had
cast a hurried glance toward the spot where Clausen had sunk, and had
seen nothing of that youth; only Cloud was in sight, and he seemed to be
swimming hurriedly toward shore.

Joel went at the task hand over hand and heard behind him West, laboring
greatly at his swimming. Presently Joel heard his name cried in an
exhausted voice.

"I--can't make--it--Joel!" shouted West. "I'll--have to--turn--back."

"All right," Joel called. "Go up to the field and send some one for
help." Then he turned his attention again to his strokes, and raising
his head once, saw an open river before him with nothing in sight
between him and the opposite bank save, farther down stream, a floating
oar. He had made some allowance for the current, and when in another
moment he had reached what seemed to him to be near the scene of the
catastrophe, yet a little farther down stream, he trod water and looked
about. Under the bluff to the right Cloud was crawling from the river.
West was gone from sight. About him ran the stream, and save for its
noise no sound came to him, and nothing rewarded his eager, searching
gaze save a branch that floated slowly by. With despair at his heart, he
threw up his arms and sank with wide-open eyes, peering about him in the
hazy depths. Above him the surface water bubbled and eddied; below him
was darkness; around him was only green twilight. For a moment he
tarried there, and then arose to the surface and dashed the water from
his eyes and face. And suddenly, some thirty feet away, an arm clad in a
white sweater sleeve came slowly into sight.

With a frantic leap through the water Joel sped toward it. A bare head
followed the upstretched arm; two wild, terror-stricken eyes opened and
looked despairingly at the peaceful blue heavens; the white lips moved,
but no sound came from them. And then, just as the eyes closed and just
as the body began to sink, as slowly as it had arisen, and for the last
time, Joel reached it.

There was no time left in which to pause and select a hold of the
drowning boy, and Joel caught savagely at his arm and struck toward the
bank, and the inert body came to the surface like a water-logged plank.

"Clausen!" shouted Joel. "Clausen! Can you hear? Brace up! Strike out
with your right hand, and don't grab me! Do you hear?"

But there was no answer. Clausen was like stone in the water. Joel cast
a despairing glance toward the bluff. Then his eyes brightened, for
there sliding down the bank he saw a crowd of boys, and as he looked
another on the bluff threw down a coil of new rope that shone in the
afternoon sunlight as it fell and was seized by some one in the
throng below.

Nerved afresh, Joel took a firm grasp on Clausen's elbow and struck out
manfully for shore. It was hard going, and when a bare dozen long
strokes had been made his burden so dragged him down that he was obliged
to stop, and, floundering desperately to keep the white face above
water, take a fresh store of breath into his aching lungs. Then drawing
the other boy to him so that his weight fell on his back, he brought one
limp arm about his shoulder, and holding it there with his left hand
started swimming once more. A dozen more strokes were accomplished
slowly, painfully, and then, as encouraging shouts came from shore, he
felt the body above him stir into life, heard a low cry of terror in his
ear, and then--they were sinking together, Clausen and he, struggling
there beneath the surface! Clausen had his arm about Joel's neck and was
pulling him down--down! And just as his lungs seemed upon the point of
bursting the grasp relaxed around his neck, the body began to sink and
Joel to rise!

With a deafening noise as of rushing water in his ears, Joel reached,
caught a handful of cloth, and struggled, half drowned himself, to the
surface. And then some one caught him by the chin--and he knew no more
until he awoke as from a bad dream to find himself lying in the sun on
the narrow beach, while several faces looked down into his.

"Did you get him?" he asked weakly.

"Yep," answered Outfield West, with something that sounded like a sob
in his voice. "He's over there. He's all right. Don't get up," he
continued, as Joel tried to move. "Stay where you are. The fellows are
bringing a boat, and we'll take you both back in it."

"All right," answered Joel. "But I guess I'll just look around a bit."
And he sat up. At a little distance a group among which Joel recognized
the broad back of Professor Gibbs were still working over Clausen. But
even as he looked Joel was delighted to see Clausen's legs move and hear
his weak voice speaking to the professor. Then the boat was rowed in,
the occupants panting with their hurried pull from the boathouse, and
Joel clambered aboard, disdaining the proffered help of West and
others, and Clausen was lifted to a seat in the bow.

On the way up river Joel told how it happened, West throwing in an eager
word here and there, and Clausen in a low whisper explaining that the
shell had struck on a sunken rock or snag when passing the island, and
had begun to sink almost immediately.

"And Cloud?" asked Professor Gibbs. There was no reply from either Joel
or Clausen or-West. Only one of the rowers answered coldly:

"He's safe. I saw him on the path near the Society Building. He was
running toward Warren." A silence followed. Then--

"You've never learned to swim, Clausen?"

"No, sir."

"But it is the rule that no boy is allowed on the river who can not
swim. How is that?"

"I--I said I could, sir."

"Humph! Your lie came near to costing you dear, Clausen."

Then no more was said in the boat until the float was reached, although
each occupant was busy with his thoughts. Clausen was helped, pale and
shaking, to his room, and West and Joel, accompanied by several of their
schoolmates, trotted away to the gymnasium, where Joel was put through
an invigorating bath and a subsequent rubbing that left him none the
worse for his adventure. The story had to be told over and over to each
new group that came in after practice, and finally the two friends
escaped to West's room, where they discussed the affair from the
view-point of participants.

"When I got back to the bluff with the other fellows you weren't to be
seen, Joel," West was saying, "and I thought it was all up with poor old
Joel March."

"That's just what I thought a bit later," responded Joel, "when that
fellow had me round the neck and was trying to show me the bottom of
the river."

"And then, when they brought you in, Whipple and Christie, and you were
all white and--and ghastly like, you know"--Outfield West whistled long
and expressively--"then I thought you _were_ a goner."

Joel nodded. "And Cloud?" he asked presently.

"Cloud has settled himself," responded West. "When he thought Clausen
was drowning he just cut and ran--I mean swam--to shore. The fellows are
madder than hornets. As Whipple said, you can't insist on a fellow
saving another fellow from drowning, but you can insist on his not
running away. They're planning to show Cloud what they think of him,
somehow. They wouldn't talk about it while I was around. I wonder why?"
Outfield stopped suddenly and frowned perplexedly. "Why, a month or six
weeks ago I would have been one of the first they would have asked to
help! I'm afraid it's associating with you, Joel. You're corrupting me!
Say, didn't I make a mess of it this afternoon? I got about ten yards
off the beach and just had to give up and pull back--and pull hard.
Blessed if I didn't begin to wonder once if I'd make it! The fact is,
Joel, I'm an awful dab at swimming. And I ought to be punched for
letting you go out there all alone."

"Nonsense, Out! You couldn't help getting tired, especially if you
aren't much of a swimmer. And now you speak of it I remember you saying
once that you couldn't--" Joel stopped short and looked at West in
wondering amazement. And West grew red and his eyes sought the floor,
and for almost a minute there was silence in the room. Then Joel arose
and stood over the other lad with shining eyes.

"Out," he muttered huskily, "you're a brick!"

West made no reply, but his feet shuffled nervously on the hearth.

"To think of you starting out there after me! Why, you're the--the hero,
Out; not me at all!"

"Oh, shut up!" muttered West.

"I'll not! I'll tell every one in school!" cried Joel. "I'll--"

"If you do, Joel March, I'll thrash you!" cried West.

"You can't!--you can't, Out!" Then he paused and laid a hand
affectionately on the other's shoulder as he asked softly:

"And it's really so, Out? You can't--" West shook his head.

"I'm afraid it's so, Joel," he answered apologetically. "You see out in
Iowa there isn't much chance for a chap to learn, and--and so before
this afternoon, Joel, I never swam a stroke in my life."




CHAPTER XII.


THE PROBATION OF BLAIR.

Wallace Clausen's narrow escape from death and Joel's heroic rescue were
nine-day wonders in the little world of the academy and village. In
every room that night the incident was discussed from A to Z: Clausen's
foolhardiness, March's grit and courage, West's coolness, Cloud's
cowardice. And next morning at chapel when Joel, fearing to be late,
hurried in and down the side aisle to his seat, his appearance was the
signal for such an enthusiastic outburst of cheers and acclamations that
he stopped, looked about in bewilderment, and then slipped with crimson
cheeks into his seat, the very uncomfortable cynosure of all eyes.

Older boys, who were supposed to know, stoutly averred that such a
desecration of the sacred solitude of chapel had never before been heard
of, and "Peg-Leg," long since recovered from his contact with the bell
rope, shook his gray head doubtfully, and joined his feeble tones with
the cheers of the others. And then Professor Wheeler made his voice
heard, and commanded silence very sternly, yet with a lurking smile, and
silence was almost secured when, just as the door was being closed,
Outfield West slipped through, smiling, his handsome face flushed from
his tear across the yard. And again the applause burst forth, scarcely
less great in volume or enthusiasm, and West literally bolted back to
the door, found it closed, was met with a grinning shake of the head
from Duffy, looked wildly about for an avenue of escape, and finding
none, slunk to his seat at Joel's side, while the boys joined laughter
at his plight to their cheers for his courage.

"You promised not to tell!" hissed West with blazing cheek.

"I didn't, Out; not a word," whispered Joel.

Many eyes were still turned toward the door, but their owners were
doomed to disappointment, for Bartlett Cloud failed to appear at chapel
that morning, preferring to accept the penalty of absence rather than
face his fellow-pupils assembled there in a body. But he did not escape
public degradation; for, although he waited until the last moment to go
to breakfast, he found the hall filled, and so passed to his seat amid a
storm of hisses that plainly told the contempt in which his schoolmates
held him. And then, as though scorning to remain in his presence, the
place emptied as though by magic, and he was left with burning cheeks to
eat his breakfast in solitude.

Joel and Outfield were publicly thanked and commended by the principal,
and every master had a handshake and a kind and earnest word for them.
The boys learned that Clausen had taken a severe cold from his
immersion in the icy water, and had gone to the infirmary. Thither they
went and made inquiry. He would be up in a day or two, said Mrs.
Creelman; but they could not see him, since Professor Gibbs had charged
that the patient was not to be disturbed. And so, leaving word for him
when he should awake, Joel and West took themselves away, relieved at
not having to receive any more thanks just then.

But three days later Clausen left the infirmary fully recovered, and
Joel came face to face with him on the steps of Academy Building. A
number of fellows on their way to recitations stopped and watched the
meeting. Clausen colored painfully, appeared to hesitate for a moment,
and then went to Joel and held out his hand, which was taken and
gripped warmly.

"March, it's hard work thanking a fellow for saving your life, and--I
don't know how to do it very well. But I guess you'll understand
that--that--Oh, hang it, March! you know what I'd like to say. I'm more
grateful than I could tell you--ever. We haven't been friends, but it
was my fault, I know, and if you'll let me, I'd like to be--to know
you better."

"You're more than welcome, Clausen, for what I did. I'm awfully glad
West and I happened to be on hand. But there wasn't anything that you or
any fellow couldn't have done just as well, or better, because I came
plaguey near making a mess of it. Anyhow, it's well through with. As
for being friends, I'll be very glad to be, Clausen. And if you don't
mind climbing stairs, and have a chance, come up and see me this
evening. Will you?"

"Yes, thanks. Er--well, to-night, then." And Clausen strode off.

After supper West and Clausen came up to Joel's room, and the four boys
sat and discussed all the topics known to school. Richard Sproule was at
his best, and strove to do his share of the entertaining, succeeding
quite beyond Joel's expectations. When the conversation drew around to
the subject of the upsetting on the river, Clausen seemed willing enough
to tell his own experiences, but became silent when Cloud's name was
mentioned.

"I've changed my room, and haven't seen Cloud since to speak to," he
said. And so Cloud's name was omitted from discussion.

"I'm sorry," said Clausen, "that I made such a dunce of myself when you
were trying to get me out. I don't believe I knew what I was doing. I
don't remember it at all."

"I'm sure you didn't," answered Joel. "I guess a fellow just naturally
wouldn't, you know. But I was glad when you let go!"

"Yes, you must have been. The fellows all say you were terribly plucky
to keep at it the way you did. When they got you it was all they could
do to make you let go of me, they say."

"The queerest thing," said West, with a laugh, "was to see Post
standing on shore and trying to throw a line to you all. It never came
within twenty yards of you, but he kept on shouting: 'Catch hold--catch
hold, can't you? Why don't you catch hold, you stupid apes?'"

"And some one told me," said Sproule, "that Whipple took his shoes,
sweater, and breeches off, and swam out there with his nose-guard on."

"Used it for a life-preserver," suggested West.--"Did you get lectured,
Clausen?"

"Yes, he gave it to me hard; but he's a nice old duffer, after all. Said
I had had pretty near punishment enough. But I've got to keep in bounds
all term, and can't go on the river again until I learn how to swim."

"Shouldn't think you'd want to," answered Sproule.

"Are you still on probation, March?" asked Clausen.

"Yes, and it doesn't look as though I'd ever get off. If I could find
out who cut that rope I'd--I'd--"

"Well, I must be going back," exclaimed Clausen hurriedly. "I wish,
March, you'd come and see me some time. My room's 16 Warren. I'm in with
a junior by the name of Bowler. Know him?"

Joel didn't know the junior, but promised to call, and West and Clausen
said good-night and stumbled down the stairway together.

The next morning Joel dashed out from his history recitation plump into
Stephen Remsen, who was on his way to the office.

"Well, March, congratulations! I'm just back from a trip home and was
going to look you up this afternoon and shake hands with you. I'll do it
now. You're a modest-enough-looking hero, March."

"I don't feel like a hero, either," laughed Joel in an endeavor to
change the subject. "I'm just out from Greek history, and if I could
tell Mr. Oman what I think--"

"Yes? But tell me, how did you manage--But we'll talk about that some
other time. You're feeling all right after the wetting, are you?" And as
Joel answered yes, he continued: "Do you think you could go to work
again on the team if I could manage to get you off probation?"

"Try me!" cried Joel. "Do you think they'll let up on me?"

"I'm almost certain of it. I'm on my way now to see Professor Wheeler,
and I'll ask him about you. I have scarcely any doubt but that, after
your conduct the other day, he will consent to reinstate you, March, if
I ask him. And I shall be mighty glad to do so. To tell the truth, I'm
worried pretty badly about--well, never mind. Never cross a river until
you come to it."

"But, Mr. Remsen, sir," said Joel, "do you mean that he will let me play
just because--just on account of what happened the other day?"

"On account of that and because your general conduct has been of the
best; and also, because they have all along believed you innocent of the
charge, March. You know I told you that when Cloud and Clausen were
examined each swore that the other had not left the room that evening,
and accounted for each other's every moment all that day. But,
nevertheless, I am positive that Professor Wheeler took little stock in
their testimony. And as for Professor Durkee, why, he pooh-pooed the
whole thing. You seem to have made a conquest of Professor
Durkee, March."

"He was very kind," answered Joel thoughtfully. "I don't believe, Mr.
Remsen, that I want to be let off that way," he went on. "I'm no less
guilty of cutting the bell rope than I was before the accident on the
river. And until I can prove that I am not guilty, or until they let me
off of their own free wills, I'd rather stay on probation. But I'm very
much obliged to you, Mr. Remsen."

And to this resolve Joel adhered, despite all Remsen's powers of
persuasion. And finally that gentleman continued on his way to the
office, looking very worried.

The cause of his worry was known to the whole school two days later when
the news was circulated that Wesley Blair was on probation. And great
was the consternation. The football game with St. Eustace Academy was
fast approaching, and there was no time to train a satisfactory
substitute for Blair's position at full-back, even had one been in
reach. And Whipple as temporary captain was well enough, but Whipple as
captain during the big game was not to be thought of with equanimity.
The backs had already been weakened by the loss of Cloud, who, despite
his poor showing the first of the season, had it in him to put up a
rattling game. And now to lose Blair! What did the faculty mean? Did it
want Hillton to lose? But presently hope took the place of despair among
the pupils. He was going to coach up and pass a special exam the day
before the game. Professor Ludlow was to help him with his modern
languages and Remsen with his mathematics, while Digbee, that confirmed
old grind, had offered to coach him on Greek. And so it would be all
right, said the school; you couldn't down Blair; he'd pass when the
time came!

But Remsen--and Blair himself, had the truth been known--were not so
hopeful. And Remsen went to West and besought him to induce Joel to
allow him (Remsen) to ask for his reinstatement. And this West very
readily did, bringing to bear a whole host of arguments which slid off
from Joel like water from a duck's back. And Remsen groaned and shook
his head, but always presented a smiling, cheerful countenance in
public. Those were hard days for the first eleven. Despair and
discouragement threatened on all sides, and, as every thoughtful one
expected, there was such a slump in the practice as kept Remsen and
Whipple and poor Blair awake o' nights during the next week. But Whipple
toiled like a Trojan, and Remsen beamed contentment and scattered
tongue-lashings alternately; and Blair, ever armed with a text-book,
watched from the side-line whenever the chance offered.

Joel seldom went to the field those days. The sight of a canvas-clad
player made him ready to weep, and a soaring pigskin sent him wandering
away by himself along the river bluff in no enviable state of mind. But
one day he did find his way to the gridiron during practice, and he and
Blair sat side by side, or raced down the field, even with a runner, and
received much consolation in the sort of company that misery loves, and,
deep in discussion of the faults and virtues of the players, forgot
their troubles.

"Why, it wouldn't have mattered if you were playing, March," said Blair.
"For there's no harm in telling you now that we were depending on you
for half the punting. Remsen thinks you are fine and so do I. 'With
March to take half the punting off your hands,' said he one day, 'you'll
have plenty of time to run the team to the Queen's taste.' Why, we had
you running on the track there, so you would get your lungs filled out
and be able to run with the ball as well as kick it. If you were playing
we'd be all right. But as it is, there isn't a player there that can be
depended on to punt twenty yards if pushed. Some of 'em can't even catch
the ball if they happen to see the line breaking! St. Eustace is eight
pounds heavier in the line than we are, and three or four pounds heavier
back of it. So what will happen? Why, they'll get the ball and push us
right down the field with a lot of measly mass plays, and we won't be
able to kick and we won't be able to go through their line. And it's
dollars to doughnuts that we won't often get round their ends. It's a
hard outlook! Of course, if I can pass--" But there Blair stopped and
sighed dolefully. And Joel echoed the sigh.

The last few days before the event of the term came, and found the first
eleven in something approaching their old form. Blair continued to burn
the midnight oil and consume page after page of Greek and mathematics
and German, which, as he confided despondently to Digbee, he promptly
forgot the next moment. Remsen made up a certain amount of lost sleep,
and Whipple gained the confidence of the team. Joel studied hard, and
refound his old interest in lessons, and dreamed nightly of the Goodwin
scholarship. West, too, "put in some hard licks," as he phrased it, and
found himself climbing slowly up in the class scale. And so the day of
the game came round.

The night preceding it two things of interest happened: the eleven and
substitutes assembled in the gymnasium and listened to a talk by Remsen,
which was designed less for instruction than to take the boys' mind off
the morrow's game; and Wesley Blair took his examination in the four
neglected studies, and made very hard work of it, and finally crawled
off to a sleepless night, leaving the professors to make their
decision alone.

And as the chapel bell began to ring on Thanksgiving Day morning, Digbee
entered Blair's room, and finding that youth in a deep slumber, sighed,
wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, placed this in plain sight upon
the table, and tiptoed noiselessly out.

And the message read:

"We failed on the Greek. I'm sorrier than I can tell you.--Digbee."




CHAPTER XIII


THE GAME WITH ST. EUSTACE.

There is a tradition at Hillton, almost as firmly inwrought as that
which credits Professor Durkee with wearing a wig, to the effect that
Thanksgiving Day is always rainy. To-day proved an exception to the
rule. The sun shone quite warmly and scarce a cloud was to be seen. At
two o'clock the grand stand was filled, and late arrivals had perforce
to find accommodations on the grass along the side-lines. Some fifty
lads had accompanied their team from St. Eustace, and the portion of the
stand where they sat was blue from top to bottom. But the crimson of
Hillton fluttered and waved on either side and dotted the field with
little spots of vivid color wherever a Hilltonian youth or ally sat,
strolled, or lay.

Yard and village were alike well-nigh deserted; here was the staid
professor, the corpulent grocer, the irrepressible small boy, the
important-looking senior, the shouting, careless junior, the giggling
sister, the smiling mother, the patronizing papa, the crimson-bedecked
waitress from the boarding house, the--the--band! Yes, by all means,
the band!

There was no chance of overlooking the band. It stood at the upper end
of the field and played and played and played. The band never did things
by halves. When it played it played; and, as Outfield West affirmed, "it
played till the cows came home!"

There were plenty of familiar faces here to-day; Professor Gibbs's, old
"Peg-Leg" Duffy's, Professor Durkee's, the village postmaster's, "Old
Joe" Pike's, and many, many others. On the ground just outside the rope
sat West and a throng of boys from Hampton House. There were Cooke and
Cartwright and Somers and Digbee--and yes, Wesley Blair, looking very
glum and unhappy. He had donned his football clothes, perhaps from force
of habit, and sat there taking little part in the conversation, but
studying attentively the blue-clad youths who were warming-up on the
gridiron. A very stalwart lot of youngsters, those same youths looked to
be, and handled the ball as though to the manner born, and passed and
fell and kicked short high punts with discouraging ease and vim.

But one acquaintance at least was missing. Not Bartlett Cloud, for he
sat with his sister and mother on the seats; not Clausen, for he sat
among the substitutes; not Sproule, since he was present but a moment
since. But Joel March was missing. In his room at Masters Hall Joel sat
by the table with a Greek history open before him. I fear he was doing
but little studying, for now and then he arose from his chair, walked
impatiently to the window, from which he could see in the distance the
thronged field, bright with life and color, turned impatiently away,
sighed, and so returned again to his book. But surely we can not tarry
there with Joel when Hillton and St. Eustace are about to meet in
gallant if bloodless combat on the campus. Let us leave him to sigh and
sulk, and return to the gridiron.

A murmur that rapidly grows to a shout arises from the grand stand, and
suddenly every eye is turned up the river path toward the school. They
are coming! A little band of canvas-armored knights are trotting toward
the campus. The shouting grows in volume, and the band changes its tune
to "Hilltonians." Nearer and nearer they come, and then are swinging on
to the field, leaping the rope, and throwing aside sweaters and coats.
Big Greer is in the lead, good-natured and smiling. Then comes Whipple,
then Warren, and the others are in a bunch--Post, Christie, Fenton,
Littlefield, Barnard, Turner, Cote, Wills. The St. Eustace contingent
gives them a royal welcome, and West and Cooke and Somers and others
take their places in front of the seats and lead the cheering.

"Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, Hillton!" The mighty chorus
sweeps across the campus and causes more than one player's heart to
swell within him.

"S-E-A, S-E-A, S-E-A, Saint Eustace!" What the cheer lacks in volume is
atoned for by good will, and a clapping of hands from the hostile seats
attests admiration. Hillton is warming for the fray. Greer and Whipple
are practicing snapping-back, the latter passing the ball to Warren,
who seizes it and runs a few steps to a new position, where the play is
repeated. The guards and tackles are throwing themselves on to the
ground and clutching rolling footballs in a way that draws a shudder of
alarm from the feminine observer. Stephen Remsen is talking with the
ends very earnestly under the goal posts, and Post and Wills are aiming
balls at the goal with, it must be acknowledged, small success.

Then a whistle blows, the two teams congregate in the center of the
field, the opposing captains flip a coin, the referee, a Yates College
man, utters a few words of warning, and the teams separate, St. Eustace
taking the ball and the home team choosing the northern goal. Then the
cheering lessens. St. Eustace spreads out; Cantrell, their center,
places the ball; the referee's whistle sounds, the pigskin soars aloft,
and the game is on.

In charity toward Hillton let us pass over the first half as soon as may
be. Suffice to tell that the wearers of the crimson fought their best;
that Whipple ran the team as well as even Remsen could desire; that Post
made a startling run of forty yards, had only the St. Eustace full-back
between him and the goal--and then ran plump into that full-back's arms;
that Greer and Barnard and Littlefield stood like a stone wall--and went
down like one; that Wills kicked, and Post kicked, and Warren kicked,
and none of them accomplished aught save to wring groans from the souls
of all who looked on. In short, it was St. Eustace's half from kick-off
to call of time, and all because Hillton had never a youth behind the
line to kick out of danger or gain them a yard. For St. Eustace was
heavier in the line than Hillton and heavier back of it, and with the
ball once in her possession St. Eustace had only to hammer away at
center, guard, or tackle with "guards back" or "tandem," to score
eventually. And that is what she did. And yet four times did Hillton
hold St. Eustace literally on her goal-line and take the ball. And each
time by hook or crook, by a short, weak punt or a clever, dashing run
around end, did Hillton win back a portion of her lost territory, only
to lose it again at the second or third attempt to advance the ball.

The halves were twenty-five minutes long, and in that first twenty-five
minutes St. Eustace scored but once, though near it thrice that many
times. Allen, St. Eustace's right half-back, had plunged over the line
for a touch-down at the end of fifteen minutes of play and Terrill had
missed an easy goal. Then the grand stand was silent save for one small
patch, whereon blue flags went crazy and swirled and leaped and danced
up and down as though possessed of life. And over the field sped, sharp
and triumphant, the St. Eustace cheer. And the score stood: St. Eustace
5, Hillton O.

The first half ended with the leather but ten yards from the north goal,
and a great murmuring sigh of relief went up from the seats and from
along the side-lines when the whistle sounded. Then the Hillton players,
pale, dirty, half defeated, trotted lamely off the field and around the
corner of the stand to the little weather-beaten shed which served for
dressing room. And the blue-clad team trotted joyfully down to their
stage, and there, behind the canvas protections were rubbed down and
plastered up, and slapped on the back by their delighted coach
and trainer.

In the Hillton quarters life was less cheerful during the ten minutes of
intermission. After the fellows had rubbed and redressed, Remsen talked
for a minute or two. There was no scolding, and no signs of either
disappointment or discouragement. But he cautioned the team against
carelessness, predicted a tied score at the end of fifteen minutes, and
called for three-times-three for Hillton, which was given with reviving
enthusiasm. A moment later the team trotted back to the field.

     "Touch her down,
      Touch her down,
      Touch her down again!
      H-I-double-L-T-O-N!"

chanted the wearers of the crimson; and--"St. Eustace! St. Eustace! St.
Eustace!" shouted the visitors as they waved their bright blue banners
in air. The whistle piped merrily, the ball took its flight, and it was
now or never for old Hillton!

Stephen Remsen joined the string of substitutes and found a seat on the
big gray blanket which held Browne and Clausen. From there he followed
the progress of the game.

Outwardly he was as happy and contented, as cool and disinterested, as
one of the goal posts. Inwardly he was railing against the fate that had
deprived Hillton of both the players who, had they been in the team,
could have saved the crimson from defeat. Wesley Blair joined him, and
with scarce a word they watched St. Eustace revert to her previous
tactics, and tear great gaping holes in the Hillton line, holes often
large enough to admit of a coach and four, and more than large enough to
allow Allen or Jansen to go tearing, galloping through, with the ball
safe clutched, for three, five? or even a dozen yards!

No line can long stand such treatment, and, while the
one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Greer still held out, Barnard, the big
right-guard, was already showing signs of distress. St. Eustace's next
play was a small wedge on tackle, and although Barnard threw himself
with all his remaining strength into the breach he was tossed aside like
a bag of feathers and through went the right and left half-backs,
followed by full with the ball, and pushed onward by left-end and
quarter. When down was called the ball was eight yards nearer Hillton's
goal, and Barnard lay still on the ground.

Whipple held up his hand. Thistelweight--a youth of some one hundred and
forty pounds--struggled agitatedly with his sweater and bounded into the
field, and Barnard, white and weak, was helped limping off. For awhile
St. Eustace fought shy of right-guard, and then again the weight of all
the backs was suddenly massed at that point, and, though a yard
resulted, the crimson wearers found cause for joy, and a ringing cheer
swept over the field. But Littlefield at left-guard was also weakening,
and the tackle beside him was in scarce better plight. And so, with
tandem on tackle, wedge, or guard back, St. Eustace plowed along toward
the Hillton goal, and a deep silence held the field save for the squad
of blue-decked cheerers on the seats.

Remsen looked at his watch. "Eighteen minutes to play," he announced
quietly. Blair nodded. He made no attempt to disguise his dejection.
Clausen heard, and suddenly turned toward the coach. He was pale, and
Remsen wondered at his excitement.

"Can't we tie them, sir?" he asked breathlessly.

"I'm afraid not. And even if we could they'd break loose." Clausen paid
no heed to the sorry joke.

"But they'll win, sir! Isn't there anything to do?" Remsen stared. Then
he smiled. "Failing an extraordinary piece of luck, my lad, we're
already beaten. Our line can't hold them; we have no one to kick, even
should we get a chance, and--"

"But if Blair was there, sir, or March?"

"It might make a difference. Hello! there they go through tackle-guard
hole again. Lord, six yards if an inch!" Blair groaned and rolled over
in despair. The whistle sounded, and as the pile of writhing youths
dissolved it was seen that Tom Warren was hurt. Out trotted the rubber.
The players sank exhausted to the ground and lay stretched upon the
sward, puffing and panting. Two minutes went by. Then Whipple called
for Clausen.

"Clausen," cried Remsen turning, "go in and--" But Clausen was not to be
seen. "Clausen!" cried a dozen voices. There was no response, and Browne
was taken on instead, and Warren, with an ankle that failed him at every
step, struggled off the field.

"What's become of Clausen?" asked Remsen. But no one could answer.

The play went on. With the ball on Hillton's twenty-yard line a fumble
gave it to the home team, and on the first down Browne gathered it in
his arms and tried to skirt St. Eustace's left end, but was thrown with
a loss of a yard. A similar play with Wills as the runner was tried
around the other end and netted a yard and a half. It was the third down
and four and a half yards to gain. Back went the ball to Post and he
kicked. But it was a poor performance, that kick, and only drove the
pigskin down the side-line to the forty-yard line, where it bounded in
touch. But it delayed the evil moment of another score for St. Eustace,
and the seats cheered.

"Twelve minutes left," announced Remsen.

Relentless as fate the St. Eustace forwards surged on toward the
opposing goal. Two yards, three yards, one yard, five yards, half a
yard, always a gain, never a check, until once more the leather reposed
just in front of the Hillton goal and midway between the ten and
fifteen-yard line. Then a plunge through the tackle-guard hole,
followed by a tandem on guard, and another five yards was passed. The
cheering from the wearers of the blue was now frantic and continuous.
There was two years of defeat to make up for, and victory was hovering
over the azure banner!

"Eight minutes to play," said Remsen. "If we can only keep them from
scoring again!" Suddenly there was a murmur from the seats, then a cry
of surprise from Remsen's side, then a shout of exultation that gathered
and grew as it traveled along the line. And around the corner of the
stand came a youth who strove to lace his torn and tattered canvas
jacket as he ran. Remsen leaped to his feet, dropping his pipe
unnoticed, and hastened toward him. They met and for a moment conversed
in whispers.

"It's Joel March!" cried Blair. "He's going to play!" exclaimed a dozen
voices. "But he can't," cried a dozen others. "He's on probation." "He
is! He is! He's going on! He's going to play!"

And so he was. Whipple had already seen him, and had sunk to the ground
nursing an ankle which had suddenly gone lame. "Time!" he cried, and
obedient to his demand the referee's whistle piped. "Give your place to
Post, Wills!" he commanded, and then, limping to Joel, he led that
youth apart.

"Can you play?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes."

"Then get in there at full-back, and, O March, kick us out of this
bloody place! I'll give you the ball on the next down. Kick it for all
you're worth." He gave Joel a shove. "All right, Mr. Referee!" The
whistle sounded.

Forward charged St. Eustace. But, gathering encouragement from the
knowledge that back of them stood a full who would put them out of
danger if the opportunity were given him, Hillton stood fast.

"Second down, five yards to gain!" cried the umpire.

Again the wearers of bedraggled blue stockings surged and broke against
the line. And again there was no gain. Back of Hillton, less than eight
yards away, lay the goal-line. Desperation lends strength. Huddled
together, shoulder to shoulder, the backs bracing from behind, the
crimson-clad youths awaited the next charge. It was "the thin red line"
again. Then back went the ball, there was a moment of grinding canvas,
of muttered words and smothered gasps, of swaying, clutching, falling,
and "Down!" was heard.

"Hillton's ball; first down," announced the umpire.

What a cheer went up from the grand stand! What joy was in Remsen's
heart as the St. Eustace full-back went trotting up the field and Greer
stooped over the ball! Then came a pause, a silence. Every one knew what
to look for. Squarely between the posts and directly under the cross-bar
stood Joel March, his left foot on the goal-line. Back came the ball,
straight and low into Joel's outstretched hands. The line blocked long
and hard. One step forward, an easy, long swing of his right leg, and
Joel sent the ball sailing a yard over the upstretched hands of the
opposing line and far and high down the field.

There it was gathered into the arms of the St. Eustace full-back, but
ere that player had put his foot twice to ground he was thrown, and the
teams lined up on St. Eustace's forty-five-yard line. Then it was that
the god of battle befriended Hillton; for on the next play St. Eustace
made her first disastrous fumble, and Christie, Hillton's right end,
darted through, seized the rolling spheroid, and started down the field.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty yards he sped, the St. Eustace backs trailing
after him.

"A touch-down!" cried Remsen. "No, the half's gaining! He's got him! No,
missed him, by Jove! A-ah!"

The run was over, and Christie lay panting on the ground, with the
triumphant St. Eustace half-back sitting serenely on his head; for,
although the latter had missed his tackle, Christie had slipped in
avoiding him. But cheers for Christie and Hillton filled the afternoon
air, and the two elevens lined up near St. Eustace's twenty-five-yard
line, yet well over toward the side of the field.

"If it was only in the middle of the field," groaned Blair, "a
place-kick would tie the score. How much time is there, Mr. Remsen?"

"About two and a half minutes," answered Remsen. "But I've an idea that,
middle or no middle, Whipple's going to signal a kick."

"It can't be done," answered Blair with conviction, "drop or placement!
March is only fair at goals, and at that angle--"

"What's the matter with the man?" cried Remsen; "what's he up to?" For
the Hillton backs were clustered well up behind the line as though for a
wedge attack. And as Remsen wondered, the ball was put in play, the line
blocked sharply, and Christie left his place at right end, and skirting
behind the backs received the ball by a double pass _via_ right
half-back and ran for the middle of the field, the backs helping the end
and tackle to hold the St. Eustace right line. Christie gained the
center of the gridiron and advanced a yard toward the opponent's goal
ere the St. Eustace right half-back reached him. Then there was a quick
line-up, and Joel took up his position for a kick.

"Well done, Whipple!" cried Remsen and Blair in a breath.

"But the time!" muttered Remsen, "does he know--"

"One minute to play!" came the ominous announcement.

Then, while a snap of the fingers could have been heard the length of
the field, Whipple glanced deliberately around at the backs, slapped the
broad back of the center sharply, seized the snapped ball, and made a
swift, straight pass to Joel. Then through the Hillton line went the St.
Eustace players, breaking down with vigor born of desperation the
blocking of their opponents. With a leap into the air the St. Eustace
left-guard bore down straight upon Joel; there was a concussion, and
the latter went violently to earth, but not before his toe had met the
rebounding ball; and the latter, describing a high arc, sailed safely,
cleanly over the bar and between the posts! And then, almost before the
ball had touched the ground, the whistle blew shrilly, and apparent
defeat had been turned into what was as good as victory to the
triumphant wearers of the Hillton crimson!

Hillton and St. Eustace had played a tie.

And over the ropes, rushing, leaping, shouting, broke the tide of
humanity, crimson flags swirled over a sea of heads, and pandemonium
ruled the campus!

And on the ground where he had fallen lay Joel March.




CHAPTER XIV.


THE GOODWIN SCHOLARSHIP.

"But how did it all happen?" asked Outfield West breathlessly.

He had just entered and was seated on the edge of the bed whereon Joel
lay propped up eating his Thanksgiving dinner from a tray. It was seven
o'clock in the evening, and Dickey Sproule was not yet back. The yard
was noisy with the shouts of lads returning from the dining hall, and an
occasional cheer floated up, an echo of the afternoon's event. Joel
moved a dish of pudding away from Outfield's elbow as he answered
between mouthfuls of turkey:

"I was up here studying at the table there when I heard some one coming
up stairs two steps at a time. It was Clausen. He threw open the door
and cried: 'They're winning, March, they're winning! Come quick! Remsen
says we can tie them if you play. It's all right, March. We'll go to the
office and I'll tell everything. Only come, hurry!' Well, of course I
thought first he was crazy. Then I guessed what was up, because I knew
that Eustace had scored--"

"You couldn't have known; you were studying."

"Well, I--I wasn't studying all the time, Out. So up I jumped, and we
raced over to the office and found Professor Wheeler there asleep on the
leather couch under the window. 'It was Cloud and I, sir, that cut the
rope!' said Clausen. 'I'm very sorry, sir, and I'll take the punishment
and glad to. But March hadn't anything to do with it, sir; he didn't
even know anything about it, sir!' Professor Wheeler was about half
awake, and he thought something terrible was the matter, and it took the
longest time to explain what Clausen was talking about. Then he said he
was glad to learn that I was innocent, and I thanked him, and he started
to ask Clausen a lot of questions. 'But St. Eustace is winning, sir!' I
cried. He looked at me in astonishment. 'Indeed, I'm very sorry to hear
it,' he said. 'But it isn't too late now, sir,' said Clausen. 'For
what?' asked 'Wheels.' 'For me to go on the team,' said I. 'You know,
sir, you put me on probation and I can't play.' 'Oh,' said he, 'but you
were put on probation by the faculty, and the faculty must take you
off.' 'But meanwhile Hillton will be beaten!' said Clausen. 'Can't he
play, sir? He can save the day!' Wheels thought a bit. 'What's the
score?' he asked. Clausen told him. 'Yes,' he said at last, 'run and get
to work. I'll explain to the faculty. And by the way, March, remember
that a kick into touch is always the safest.'"

"Isn't he a rummy old guy?" exclaimed West. "And then?"

"Then I struck out for the gym, got into my canvas togs somehow or
other, and reached the field just about in time. Luckily I knew the
signals. And then after I'd kicked that goal that big Eustace chap
struck me like a locomotive, and I went down on the back of my head; and
that's all except that they brought me up here and Professor Gibbs
plastered me up and gave me a lot of nasty sweet water to take."

"And Clausen?"

"From the little I heard I think Cloud cut the rope and made Clausen
promise not to tell. And he kept his promise until he saw Hillton
getting beaten yesterday, and then he couldn't stand it, and just up and
told everything, and saved us a licking."

"Didn't I tell you Cloud did it? Didn't I--" There came a knock on the
door and in response to Joel's invitation Professor Wheeler and Stephen
Remsen entered. West leaped off the bed--there is a rule at Hillton
forbidding occupying beds save for sleep--and upset Joel's tea.
Professor Wheeler smiled as he said:

"West, you're rather an uneasy fellow to have in a sick-room. Get
something and dry that off the floor there, please.--Well, March, I
understand you got there in the nick of time to-day. Mr. Remsen says you
saved us from defeat."

"Indeed he did, professor; no one else save Blair could have done it
to-day. That goal from the twenty-five-yard line was as pretty a
performance as I've ever seen.--How are you feeling, lad?"

"All right," answered Joel. "I've got a bit of a headache, but I'll be
better in the morning."

"Your appetite doesn't seem to have failed you," said the principal.

"No, sir, I was terribly hungry."

"That's a good sign, they say.--West, you may take your seat again." The
professor and Stephen Remsen occupied the two chairs, and West without
hesitation sat down again on the bed.

"March, I have learned the truth of that affair. Bartlett Cloud, it
appears, cut the bell rope simply in order to throw suspicion on you. He
managed to secure a letter of yours through--hem!--through your
roommate, who, it seems, also bears you a grudge for some real or
fancied slight. Clausen, while a party to the affair, appears to have
taken no active part in it, and only remained silent because threatened
with bodily punishment by Cloud. These boys will be dealt with as
they deserve.

"But I wish to say to you that all along it has been the belief of the
faculty, the entire faculty, that you had no hand in the matter, and we
are all glad to have our judgments vindicated. An announcement will be
made to-morrow which will set you right again before the school. And
now, in regard to Richard Sproule; do you know of any reason why he
should wish you harm?" "No, sir. We don't get along very well, but--"

"I see. Now, it will be best for you to change either your room or your
roommate. Have you any preference which you do?"

"I should like to change my room, sir. I should like to go in with West.
He has a room to himself in Hampton, and wants to have me join him."

"But do you realize that the rent will be very much greater, March?"

"Yes, sir, but West wants me to pay only what I have paid for this room,
sir. He says he'd have to pay for the whole room if I didn't go in with
him, and so it's fair that way. Do you think it is, sir?"

"What would your father say, West?"

"I've asked him, sir. He says to go ahead and do as I please." The
principal smiled as he replied:

"Well, March, then move over to West's room to-morrow. It will be all
fair enough. And I shall be rather glad to have you in Hampton House.
Digbee is an example of splendid isolation there; it will be well to
have some one help him maintain the dignity of study amid such a number
of--er--well, say lilies of the field, West; they toil not, if you
remember, and neither do they spin. Don't get up in the morning if your
head still hurts, March; we don't want you to get sick.--Keep a watch on
him, West; and, by the way, if he wants more tea, run over to the dining
hall and tell the steward I said he was to have it. Good-night, boys."

"Good-night, sir." Remsen shook hands with Joel.

"March, I hope I shall be able to repay you some day for what you did
this afternoon. It meant more to me, I believe, than it did to even you
fellows. I'm going Thursday next. Come and see me before then if you
can. Good-night."

When the door had closed Outfield shouted, "Hurrah!" in three different
keys and pirouetted about the room. "It's all fixed, Joel. Welcome to
Hampton, my lad! Welcome to the classic shades of Donothing Hall! We
will live on pickles and comb-honey, and feast like the Romans of old!
We--" He paused. "Say, Joel, I guess Cloud will be expelled, eh?" Joel
considered thoughtfully with a spoonful of rice pudding midway between
saucer and mouth. Then he swallowed the delicacy. "Yes," he replied,
"and I'm awful glad of it."

But Joel was mistaken; for Cloud was not to be found the next morning,
and the condition of his room pointed to hasty flight. He had taken
alarm and saved himself from the degradation of public dismissal. And so
he passed from Hillton life and was known there no more. Clausen escaped
with a light punishment, for which both Joel and West were heartily
glad. "Because when you get him away from Cloud," said West, "Clausen's
not a bad sort, you know."

Richard Sproule was suspended for the balance of the fall term, and was
no longer monitor of his floor. Perhaps the heaviest punishment was the
amount of study he was required to do in order to return after Christmas
recess, entailing as it did a total relinquishment of Mayne Reid, Scott,
and Cooper. And when he did return his ways led far from Joel's. Very
naturally that youth had now risen to the position of popular hero, and
unapproachable seniors slapped him warmly on the shoulder--a bit of
familiarity Joel was too good-natured to resent--and wide-eyed little
juniors admired him open-mouthed as he passed them. But Joel bore
himself modestly withal, and was in no danger of being spoiled by a
state of things that might well have turned the head of a more
experienced lad than he. It is a question if Outfield did not derive
more real pleasure and pride out of Joel's popularity than did Joel
himself. Every new evidence of the liking and admiration in which the
latter was held filled Outfield's heart with joy.

At last Joel found time to begin his course in golf, and almost any day
the two lads might have been seen on the links, formidably armed with a
confusing assortment of clubs, Outfield quite happy to be exhibiting the
science of his favorite sport, and Joel plowing up the sod in a way to
cause a green-tender, had there been such a person on hand, the most
excruciating pain. But Joel went at golf as he went at everything else,
bending all his energies thereto, and driving thought of all else from
his mind, and so soon became, if not an expert, at least a very
acceptable player who won commendation from even West--and where golf
was concerned Outfield was a most unbiased and unsympathetic judge.

One afternoon Whipple and Blair, the latter once more free from
probation, played a match with Joel and West, and were fairly beaten by
three holes--a fact due less, it is true, to Joel's execution with the
driver than West's all-around playing. But Joel, nevertheless, derived
not a little encouragement from that result, and bade fair to become
almost if not quite as enthusiastic a golfer as West. At first, in the
earlier stages of his initiation, Joel was often discouraged, whereupon
West was wont to repeat the famous reply of the old St. Andrews player
to the college professor, who did not understand why, when he could
teach Latin and Greek, he failed so dismally at golf. "Ay, I ken well ye
can teach the Latin and Greek," said the veteran, "but it takes
_brains_, mon, to play the gowf!" And Joel more than half agreed
with him.

Remsen departed a week after Thanksgiving, being accompanied to the
train by almost as enthusiastic a throng as had welcomed him upon his
arrival. He had consented to return to Hillton the following year and
coach the eleven once more. "I had expected to make this the last year,"
he said, "but now I shall coach, if you will have me, until we win a
decisive victory from St. Eustace. I can't break off my coaching career
with a tie game, you see." And Christie occasioned laughter and applause
by replying, "I'm afraid you're putting a premium on defeat, sir,
because if we win next year's game you won't come back." He shook hands
cordially with Joel, and said:

"When the election of next year's captain comes off, my boy, it's a
pretty sure thing that you'll have a chance at it. But if you'll take my
advice you'll let it alone. I tell you this because I'm your friend all
through. Next fall will be time enough for the honors; this year should
go to hard work without any of the trouble that falls to the lot
of captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Remsen," Joel answered. "I hadn't thought of their doing
such a thing. I don't see why they should want me. But if it's offered
you may be sure I'll decline. I'd be totally unfitted for it; and,
besides, I haven't got the time!"

And so, when two weeks later the election was held in the gymnasium one
evening, Joel did decline, to the evident regret of all the team, and
the honor went to Christie, since both Blair and Whipple were seniors
and would not be in school the next autumn. And Christie made a very
manly, earnest speech, and subsequently called for three times three for
Blair, and three times three for Remsen, and nine times three for
Hillton, all of which were given with a will.

As the Christmas recess approached, Joel spent a great deal of valuable
time in unnecessary conjecture as to his chance of winning the Goodwin
scholarship, and undoubtedly lessened his chance of success by worrying.
The winners were each year announced in school hall on the last day of
the term. The morning of that day found Outfield West very busy packing
a heap of unnecessary golf clubs and wearing apparel into his trunk and
bags, and found Joel seated rather despondently on the lounge looking
on. For West was to spend his vacation with an uncle in Boston, and
Joel, although Outfield had begged him to go along, asserting positively
that his uncle would be proud and happy to see him (Joel), was to spend
the recess at school, since he felt he could not afford the expense of
the trip home. West hesitated long over a blue-checked waistcoat and at
length sighed and left it out.

"Isn't it most time to go over?" asked Joel.

"No; don't you be in a hurry. There's a half hour yet. And if you're
going to get the Goodwin you'll get it, and there isn't any use stewing
over it," replied West severely. "As for me, I'm glad I'm not a grind
and don't have to bother my head about such tommyrot. Just sit on the
lid of this pesky thing, Joel, will you? I'm afraid that last coat was
almost too much for it."

But even suspense comes to an end, and presently Joel found himself
seated by West in the crowded hall, and felt his face going red and pale
by turns, and knew that his heart was beating with unaccustomed violence
beneath his shabby vest. Professor Wheeler made his speech--and what a
long one it seemed to many a lad!--and then the fateful list was lifted
from the table.

"Senior class scholarships have been awarded as follows," announced the
principal. "The Calvin scholarship to Albert Park Digbee, Waltham,
Massachusetts." Joel forgot his unpleasant emotions while he clapped and
applauded. But they soon returned as the list went on. Every
announcement met with uproarous commendation, and boy after boy arose
from his seat and more or less awkwardly bowed his recognition. The
principal had almost completed the senior list.

"Ripley scholarships to George Simms Lennox, New York city; John Fiske,
Brookville, Mississippi; Carleton Sharp Eaton, Milton, Massachusetts;
William George Woodruff, Portland, Maine. Masters scholarships to Howard
McDonnell, Indianapolis, Indiana; Thomas Grey, Yonkers, New York;
Stephen Lutger Williams, Connellsville, Rhode Island; Barton Hobbs,
Farmington, Maine; Walter Haskens Browne, Denver, Colorado; and Justin
Thorp Smith, Chicago, Illinois."

Joel's hands were cold and his feet just wouldn't keep still. The
principal leaned down and took up the upper middle class list. West
nudged Joel smartly in the ribs, and whispered excitedly:

"Now! Keep cool, my boy, keep cool!"

Then Joel heard Professor Wheeler's voice reading from the list, and for
a moment it seemed to come from a great distance.

"Upper middle class scholarships have been awarded as follows:" There
was a pause while he found his place. "Goodwin scholarship to Harold
Burke Reeves, Saginaw, Michigan."

West subsided in his seat with a dismal groan. Joel did not hear it. It
is doubtful if he heard anything until several minutes later, when the
pronouncement of his name awoke him from the lethargy into which he
had fallen.

"Masters scholarships to Joel March, Marchdale, Maine--"

"It's better than nothing, Joel," whispered Outfield. "It's fifty
dollars, you know." But Joel made no reply. What was a Masters to him
who had set his heart on the first prize of all? Presently, when the
lists were over, he stole quietly out unnoticed by his chum, and when
West returned to the room he found Joel at the table, head in hands, an
open book before him. West closed the door and walked noiselessly
forward in the manner of one in a sick-room, At length he asked in a
voice which strove to be natural and unconcerned:

"What are you doing, Joel?"

The head over the book only bent closer as its owner answered doggedly:

"Studying Greek!"




CHAPTER XV.


THE BOAT RACE.

The balance of that school year was a season of hard study for Joel. It
was not in his nature to remain long despondent over the loss of the
Goodwin scholarship, and a week after the winter term commenced he was
as cheerful and light-hearted as ever. But his failure served to spur
him on to renewed endeavors, and as a result he soon found himself at
the head of the upper middle. Rightly or wrongly--and there is much to
be said on both sides--he gave up sports almost entirely. Now and then
West persuaded him to an afternoon on the links, but this was
infrequent. The hockey season opened with the first hard ice on the
river, and West joined the team that met and defeated St. Eustace in
January. There was one result of his application to study that Joel had
not looked for. Outfield West, perhaps from a mere desire to be
companionable, took to lessons, and, much to his own pretended dismay,
began to earn the reputation of a diligent student.

"You won't talk," growled West, "you won't play chess, you won't eat
things. You just drive a chap to study!" As spring came in the school
talk turned to baseball and rowing. For the former Joel had little
desire, but rowing attracted him, and he began to allow himself the
unusual pleasure of an hour away from lessons in the afternoon that he
might go down to the boathouse with West, and there, in a sunny angle of
the building, watch the crews at work upon the stream. Hillton was
trying very hard to turn out a winning crew, and Whipple, who was
captain of the first eight, toiled as no captain had toiled before in
the history of Hillton aquatics.

The baseball season ended disastrously with a severe drubbing for the
Hillton nine at the hands of St. Eustace on the latter's home ground.
The fellows said little, but promised to atone for it when the boat race
came off. This occurred two days before class day, which this year came
on June 22d, and very nearly every pupil traveled down the river to
Marshall to witness it. The day away from school came as a welcome
relief after the worry and brain-aching of the spring examination, and
Joel, although he knew for a certainty that he had passed with the
highest marks, was glad to obey Outfield's stern decree and accompany
that youth to the scene of the race.

They went by train and arrived at the little town at noon. After a regal
repast of soup and sandwiches, ice cream and chocolate eclairs, the two
set out for the river side. The Hillton crew had come down the day
before with their new shell, and had spent the night at the only hotel
in the village. The race was to be started at three, and West and Joel
spent the intervening time in exploring the river banks for a mile in
each direction from the bridge, and in getting their feet wet and their
trousers muddy.

By the hour set for the start the river sides were thronged with
spectators, and rival cheers floated across the sparkling stream from
bank to bank. That side of the river whereon St. Eustace Academy lies
hidden behind a hill held the St. Eustace supporters, while upon the
other bank the Hillton lads and their friends congregated. But the long
bridge, something more than a mile below, was common ground, and here
the foes mingled and strove to outshout each other.

The river is broad here below Marshall, and forms what is almost a
basin, hemmed in on either side by low wooded bluffs. From where Joel
and West, with a crowd of Hillton fellows, stood midway upon the bridge,
the starting point, nearly a mile and a half up stream was plainly
visible, and the finish line was a few rods above them. West was
acquainted with several of the St. Eustace boys, and to these Joel was
introduced and was welcomed by them with much cordiality and examined
with some curiosity. He had accomplished the defeat of their Eleven, and
they would know what sort of youth he was.

While they were talking, leaning against the railing of the bridge, Joel
suddenly caught West's arm and drew his attention to a boy some distance
away who was looking toward the starting point through a pair of field
glasses. West indulged in a long whistle, plainly indicative of
amazement.

"Who's that fellow over there?" he asked. One of the St. Eustace boys
followed the direction of his gaze.

"Well, you ought to know him. He knows you. That's Bartlett Cloud. He
was at Hillton last term, and left because he was put off the Eleven; or
so he says."

"Humph!" ejaculated Outfield West. "He left to keep from being
expelled, he did. He left because he was mixed up in some mighty dirty
work, and knew that, even if they let him stay in school, no decent
fellow would associate with him. And you can tell him from me that if he
says I know him he's a liar. I don't know him from--from mud! I should
think you'd be proud of him at Eustace."

"We didn't know that," answered the St. Eustace boy in perplexity. "We
thought--"

"What?" demanded West as the other paused.

"Well, he said that the coach was down on him, and gave his place to
your friend here, and--"

"No," answered Joel quietly. "I didn't take his place. He tried to
strike me one day at practice, and Remsen, our coach, put him off. That
was all. Afterward he--he--But it isn't worth talking about."

"But I didn't know that St. Eustace made a practice of taking in
cast-off scamps from other schools," said West. The other lad flushed as
he answered apologetically:

"We didn't know, West. He said he was a friend of yours and so--But the
other fellows shall know about him." Then there was a stir on the bridge
and a voice cried, "There they go to the float!"

Up the stream at the starting point two shells were seen leisurely
paddling toward a float anchored a few yards off the right bank. The
colors were easily distinguishable, and especially did the crimson of
Hillton show up to the eager watchers on the bridge. Every eye was
turned toward the two boats, and a silence held the throng, a silence
which lasted until sixteen oar-blades caught the water almost together,
and the two boats began to leave the float behind. Then cries of
"They're off!" were raised, and there was a general shoving and pushing
for places of observation on the up-stream side of the structure, while
along the banks the crowds began to move about again.

It was Joel's first sight of a boat race, and he found himself becoming
very excited, while West, veteran though he was, breathed a deal faster,
and talked in disjointed monosyllables.

"Side by side!... No, Hillton's ahead!... Isn't she?... Eh ... You
can't... see from here ... which is ... leading.... Get another hold on
my ... arm, ... Joel; that one's black ... and blue! ... Hillton's
ahead! Hillton's ahead by a half length!"

But she wasn't. Side by side the two shells swept on toward the first
half-mile mark. They were both rowing steadily, with no endeavor to draw
away, Hillton at thirty strokes, St. Eustace at thirty-two. The course
was two miles, almost straight away down the river. The half-mile buoy
was not distinguishable from where Joel stood, but the mile was plainly
in sight. Some one who held a stop-watch behind Joel uttered an
impatient growl at the slow time the crews were making.

"There'll be no record broken to-day," he said. "They're eight seconds
behind already for the first quarter."

But Joel didn't care about that. If only those eight swaying forms might
pass first beyond the finish line he cared but little what the time
might be. The cheering, which had ceased as the boats left the start,
now began again as they approached the finish of the first quarter of
the course.

"Rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah, Hillton!" rang out from the
right bank.

"S, E, A; S, E, A; S, E, A; Saint Eustace!" replied the left bank with a
defiant roar of sound that was caught by the hills and flung back in
echoes across the water. "Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace!"
"Hillton! Hillton! Hillton!"

Then the cheering grew louder and more frenzied as, boat to boat, the
rival eights passed the half-mile buoy, swinging along with no
perceptible effort over the blue, dancing water.

"Anybody's race," said Outfield West, as he lowered his glasses. "But
Hillton's got the outside course on the turn." The turn was no more than
a slight divergence from the straight line at the one-mile mark, but it
might mean from a half to three quarters of a length to the outside
boat should they maintain their present relative positions. For the next
half mile the same moderate strokes were used until the half-course buoy
was almost reached, when Hillton struck up to thirty-two and then to
thirty-four, and St. Eustace increased her stroke to the latter number.
It was a race for the position nearest the buoy, and St. Eustace won it,
Hillton falling back a half length as the course was changed. Then the
strokes in both boats went back to thirty-two, Hillton seemingly willing
to keep in the rear. On and on they came, the oars taking the water in
unison, and shining like silver when the sun caught the wet blades. And
back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were.
There was no let up of the cheering now. Back and forth went challenge
and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly
shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans.

As the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who
looked that the real race was yet to come. Hillton suddenly hit up her
stroke to thirty-four, to thirty-six, to thirty-eight, and, a bit ragged
perhaps, but nevertheless at a beautiful speed, drew up to St. Eustace,
shoved her nose a quarter length past, and hung there, despite St.
Eustace's best efforts to shake her off.

Both boats were now straining their uttermost, and from now on to the
finish it was to be the stiffest rowing of which each was capable.
Hillton _was_ ragged on the port side, and bow was plainly tuckered.
But St. Eustace also showed signs of wear, and there was an evident
disposition the length of the boat to hurry through the stroke. Joel was
straining his eyes on the crimson backs, and West was vainly and
unconsciously endeavoring to see through the glasses from the wrong end.
The three-quarter mark swept past the boats, and Hillton still
maintained her lead.

The judges' boat, a tiny, saucy naphtha launch, had steamed down to the
finish, and now quivered there as though from impatience and excitement,
and awaited the victor. Suddenly there was a groan of dismay from the
St. Eustace supporters. And no wonder. Their boat had suddenly dropped
behind until its nose was barely lapping the rival shell. Number Four
was rowing "out of time and tune," as Joel shouted triumphantly, and
although he soon steadied down, the damage was hard to repair, for
Hillton, encouraged by the added lead, was rowing magnificently.

But with strokes that brought cries of admiration even from her foes St.
Eustace struggled gloriously to recover her lost water. Little by little
the nose of her boat crept up and up, until it was almost abreast with
Number Three's oar, while cries of encouragement from bridge and shore
urged her on. But now Green, the Hillton coxswain, turned his head
slightly, studied the position of the rival eight, glanced ahead at the
judges' boat, and spoke a short, sharp command.

And instantly, ragged port oars notwithstanding, the crimson crew seemed
to lift their boat from the water at every stroke, and St. Eustace,
struggling gamely, heroically, to the last moment, fell farther and
farther behind. A half length of clear water showed between them, then a
length, then--and now the line was but a stone-throw away--two fair
lengths separated the contestants. And amid the deafening, frenzied
shrieks of their schoolmates, their crimson-clad backs rising and
falling like clock-work, all signs of raggedness gone, the eight heroes
swept over the line winners by two and a half lengths from the St.
Eustace crew, and disappeared under the bridge to emerge on the other
side with trailing oars and wearied limbs.

And as they went from sight, Joel, stooping, yelling, over the railing,
saw, with the piercing shriek of the launch's whistle in his ears, the
upraised face of Green, the coxswain, smiling placidly up at him.




CHAPTER XVI.


GOOD-BY TO HILLTON.

Joel took the preliminary examination for Harwell University in June,
and left class day morning for home. He had the satisfaction of seeing
his name in the list of honor men for the year, having attained A or B
in all studies for the three terms. The parting with Outfield West was
shorn of much of its melancholy by reason of the latter's promise to
visit Joel in August. The suggestion had been made by Outfield, and Joel
had at once warmly pressed him to come.

"Only, you know, Out," Joel had said, "we don't live in much style. And
I have to work a good deal, so there won't be much time for fun."

"What do you have to do?" asked West.

"Well, milk, and go to mill, and perhaps there will be threshing to do
before I leave. And then there's lots of other little things around the
farm that I generally do when I'm home."

"That's all right," answered West cheerfully. "I'll help. I milked a cow
once. Only--Say, what do you hit a cow with when you milk her?"

"I don't hit her at all," laughed Joel. "Do you?"

"I _did_. I hit her with a plank and she up and kicked me eight times
before I could move off. Perhaps I riled her. I thought you should
always hit them before you begin."

Joel had not seen his parents since he had left home in the preceding
fall, and naturally a warm welcome awaited him. Mr. March, to Joel's
relief, did not appear to regret the loss of the Goodwin scholarship
nearly as much as Joel himself had done, and seemed rather proud than
otherwise of the lad's first year at the Academy.

In August Outfield West descended at the little station accompanied by
two trunks, a golf-bag, a photograph camera, and a dress-suit case; and
Farmer March regarded the pile of luggage apprehensively, and
undoubtedly thought many unflattering thoughts of West. But as no one
could withstand that youth for long, at the end of three days both
Joel's father and mother had accepted him unreservedly into their
hearts. As for Joel's brother Ezra, and his twelve-year-old sister, they
had never hesitated for a single instant.

Mr. March absolutely forbade Joel from doing any of the chores after
West arrived at the farm, and sent the boys off on a week's hunting and
fishing excursion with Black Betty and the democrat wagon. West took his
camera along, but was prevailed on to leave his golf clubs at the farm;
and the two had eight days of ideal fun in the Maine woods, and
returned home with marvelous stories of adventure and a goodly store of
game and fish.

West was somewhat disappointed in the golfing facilities afforded by the
country about Marchdale, but politely refrained from allowing the fact
to be known by Joel. Outside of the "pasture" and the "hill-field" the
ground was too rocky and broken to make driving a pleasure, and after
losing half a dozen balls Outfield restricted himself to the pasture,
where he created intense interest on the part of the cows. He found that
he got along much more peaceably with them when he appeared without
his red coat.

In September, happy, healthy, and well browned, the two boys returned to
Hillton with all the dignity becoming the reverend Senior. West had
abandoned his original intention of entering Yates College, and had
taken with Joel the preliminary examination for Harwell; and they were
full of great plans for the future, and spent whole hours telling each
other what marvelous things awaited them at the university.

Joel's Senior year at Hillton was crowded with hard work and filled with
incident. But, as it was more or less a repetition of the preceding
year, it must needs be told of briefly. If space permitted I should like
to tell of Joel's first debate in the Senior Debating Society, in which
he proved conclusively and to the satisfaction of all present that the
Political Privileges of a Citizen of Athens under the Constitution of
Cleisthenes were far superior to those of a Citizen of Rome at the Time
of the Second Punic War. And I should like to tell of the arduous
training on the football field and in the gymnasium, by means of which
Joel increased his sphere of usefulness on the Eleven, and learned to
run with the ball as well as kick it, so proving the truth of an
assertion made by Stephen Remsen, who had said, "With such long legs as
those, March, you should be as fine a runner as you are a kicker."

And I should like to go into tiresome detail over the game with St.
Eustace, in which Joel made no star plays, but worked well and steadily
at the position of left half-back, and thereby aided in the decisive
victory for Hillton that Remsen had spoken of; for the score at the end
of the first half was, Hillton 5, St. Eustace 0; and at the end of the
game, Hillton 11, St. Eustace 0.

Joel and Remsen became fast and familiar friends during that term, and
when, a few days after the St. Eustace game, Remsen took his departure
from the Academy, no more to coach the teams to glorious victory or
honorable defeat, Joel of all the school was perhaps the sorriest to
have him go. But Remsen spoke hopefully of future meetings at Harwell,
and Joel and West waved him farewell from the station platform and
walked back to the yard in the manner of chief mourners at a funeral.

Outfield West again emerged triumphant from the golf tournament, and the
little pewter mug remained securely upon his mantel, a receptacle for
damaged balls. For some time the two missed the familiar faces of
Digbee and Blair and Whipple and some few others. Somers and Cooke still
remained, the latter with radiant hopes of graduation the coming June,
the former to take advanced courses in several studies. Clausen was a
frequent visitor to Number Four Hampton, and both West and Joel had
conceived a liking for him which, as the year went by, grew into sincere
friendship. Those who had been intimate with Wallace Clausen when he was
under the influence of Bartlett Cloud saw a great difference in the lad
at this period. He had grown manlier, more earnest in tone and
attainments, and had apparently shaken off his old habit of weak
carelessness as some insects shed their skins. He, too, was to enter
Harwell the coming fall, a fact which strengthened the bond between the
three youths.

One resolve was uppermost in Joel's heart when he began his last year at
Hillton, and that was to gain the Goodwin scholarship. His failure the
year before had only strengthened his determination to win this time;
and win he did, and was a very proud and happy lad when the lists were
read and the name of "Joel March, Marchdale, Maine," led all the rest.
And it is to be supposed that there was much happiness in the great
rambling snow-covered farmhouse up north when Joel's telegram was
received; for Joel could not wait for the mail to carry the good news,
but must needs run at once to the village and spend a bit of his
prospective fortune on a "night message."

Despite this fortune of two hundred and forty dollars, Joel elected to
spend his Christmas holidays again at Hillton, and Outfield, when he
learned of the intention, declined his uncle's invitation and remained
also. The days passed quickly and merrily. There was excellent skating
on the river, and Joel showed West the methods of ice-fishing, though
with but small results of a finny nature.

Cicero's Orations gave place to De Senectute, the Greek Testament to
Herodotus, and Plane Geometry to Solid; and spring found Joel with two
honor terms behind him, and as sure as might be of passing his final
examination for college.

Again in June St. Eustace and Hillton met on the river, and, as though
to atone for her defeat on the gridiron, Fate gave the victory to St.
Eustace, the wearers of the blue crossing the finish a full length ahead
of the Hillton eight. The baseball team journeyed down to Marshall and
won by an overwhelming majority of runs, and journeyed home again in the
still of a June evening, bringing another soiled and battered ball to
place in the trophy case of the gymnasium.

And finally, one bright day in early summer, Joel put on his best
clothes and, accompanied by West and Clausen, took his way to the
chapel, where, amid an eloquent silence, Professor Wheeler made his
farewell address, and old, gray-haired Dr. Temple preached the
Valedictory Sermon. Then the diplomas were presented, and, save for the
senior class exercises in the school hall in the afternoon, Class Day
was over, and Joel March's school days were past. Joel was graduated at
the head of the class, an honor man once more; and Outfield West,
greatly to every one's amazement, not excepting his own, was also on the
honor list. Cooke passed at last, and later confided to West that he
didn't know what he'd do now that they wouldn't let him stay longer at
Hillton; he was certain he would feel terribly homesick at Harwell. West
playfully suggested that he stay at Hillton and take an advanced course,
and Cooke seemed quite in the notion until he found that he would be
obliged to make the acquaintance of both Livy and Horace.

A lad can not stay two years at a school without becoming deeply
attached to it, and both Joel and West took their departures from
Hillton feeling very melancholy as the wooded hill, crowned by the
sun-lit tower, faded from sight. West went directly to his home,
although Joel had tried to persuade him to visit at Marchdale for a few
weeks. In July Joel received a letter from Outfield asking him to visit
him in Iowa, and, at the solicitation of his parents, he decided to
accept the invitation. The West was terra incognita to Joel, and he
found much to interest and puzzle him. The methods of farming were so
different from those to which he had been accustomed that he spent the
first week of his stay in trying to revolutionize them, much to the
amusement of both Outfield and his father. He at length learned that
Eastern ways are not Western ways, and so became content to see wheat
harvested by machinery and corn cultivated with strange, new implements.

He received one day a letter forwarded from Marchdale which bore the
signature of the captain of the Harwell Varsity Football Eleven. It
asked him to keep in practice during the summer, and, if convenient, to
report on the field two days before the commencement of the term.
Remsen's name was mentioned and Joel knew that he had him to thank for
the letter.

The friends had decided to take a room together, and had applied for one
in the spring. Much to their gratification they were given a third floor
room in Mayer, one of the best of the older college dormitories. When
the time came for going East both West and Joel were impatient to be on
the way. Mrs. West accompanied the boys, and the little party reached
the old, elm-embowered college town four days before the opening of the
term. Agreeably to the request of the football captain, Joel reported on
the field in football togs the day after reaching town, and was given a
cordial welcome. Captain Button was not there, but returned with the
Varsity squad from a week's practice at a neighboring village two
days later.

Mrs. West meanwhile toiled ceaselessly at furnishing the boys' room, and
the result was a revelation to Joel, to whom luxurious lounges and
chairs, and attractive engravings, were things hitherto admired and
longed for from a distance. And then, bidding a farewell to the lads,
Outfield's mother took her departure for home, and they were left
practically rulers of all they surveyed, and, if the truth were told, a
trifle sobered by the suddenness of their plunge into independence.

And one warm September day the college bell rang for chapel and the two
lads had begun a new, important, and to them exciting chapter of
their lives.




CHAPTER XVII.


THE SACRED ORDER OF HULLABALOOLOO.

Picture a mild, golden afternoon in early October, the yellowing green
of Sailors' Field mellow and warm in the sunlight, the river winding its
sluggish way through the broad level marshes like a ribbon of molten
gold, and the few great fleecy bundles of white clouds sailing across
the deep blue of the sky like froth upon some placid stream. Imagine a
sound of fresh voices, mellowed by a little distance, from where, to and
fro, walking, trotting, darting, but ever moving like the particles in a
kaleidoscope, many squads of players were practicing on the football
field. Such, then, is the picture that would have rewarded your gaze had
you passed through the gate and stood near the simple granite shaft
which rises under the shade of the trees to commemorate the little
handful of names it bears.

Had you gone on across the intervening turf until the lengthened shadow
of the nearest goal post was reached you would have seen first a
squad--a veritable awkward squad--arranged in a ragged circle and
passing a football with much mishandling and many fumbles. Further along
you would have seen a long line of youths standing. Their general
expression was one of alertness bordering on alarm. The casual observer
would have thought each and every one insane, as, suddenly darting from
the line, one after another, they flung themselves upon the ground,
rolled frantically about as though in spasms, and then arose and went
back into the rank. But had you observed carefully you would have
noticed that each spasm was caused by a rolling ball, wobbling its
erratic way across the turf before them.

Around about, in and out, forms darted after descending spheroids, or
seized a ball from outstretched hands, started desperately into motion,
charged a few yards, and then, as though reconsidering, turned and
trotted back, only to repeat the performance the next moment. And
footballs banged against broad backs with hollow sounds, or rolled about
between stoutly clad feet, or ascended into the air in great arching
flights. And a babel of voices was on all sides, cries of warning, sharp
commands, scathing denouncements.

"Straighten your arm, man; that's not a baseball!" "Faster, faster! Put
some ginger into it!" "Get on your toes, Smith. Start when you see the
ball coming. This isn't a funeral!" "Don't stoop for the ball; fall on
it! The ground will catch you!" "Jones, what _are_ you doing? Wake up."
"No, _no_, NO! Great Scott, the ball won't _bite_ you!"

The period was that exasperating one known as "the first two weeks,"
when coaches are continually upon the border of insanity and players
wonder dumbly if the game is worth the candle. To-day Joel, one of a
squad of unfortunates, was relearning the art of tackling. It was Joel's
first experience with that marvelous contrivance, "the dummy." One after
another the squad was sent at a sharp spurt to grapple the inanimate
canvas-covered bag hanging inoffensively there, like a body from a
gallows, between the uprights.

There are supposed to be two ways to tackle, but the coach who was
conducting the operations to-day undoubtedly believed in the existence
of at least thrice that number; for each candidate for Varsity honors
tackled the dummy in a totally different style. The lift tackle is
performed by seizing the opponent around the legs below the hips,
bringing his knees together so that further locomotion is an
impossibility to him, and lifting him upward off the ground and
depositing him as far backward toward his own goal as circumstances and
ability will permit. The lift tackle is the easiest to make. The dive
tackle pertains to swimming and suicide. Running toward the opponent,
the tackler leaves the ground when at a distance of a length and a half
and dives at the runner, aiming to tackle a few inches below the hips. A
dive tackle well done always accomplishes a well-defined pause in the
runner's progress.

Joel was having hard work of it. Time and again he launched himself at
the swaying legs, bringing the canvas man to earth, but always picking
himself up to find the coach observing him very, very coldly, and to
hear that exasperating gentleman ask sarcastically if he (Joel) thinks
he is playing "squat tag." And then the dummy would swing back into
place, harboring no malice or resentment for the rough handling, and
Joel would take his place once more and watch the next man's attempt,
finding, I fear, some consolation in the "roast" accorded to the latter.

It was toward the latter part of the second week of college. Joel had
practiced every day except Sundays, and had just arrived at the
conclusion that football as played at Harwell was no relation, not even
a distant cousin to the game of a similar name played at Hillton. Of
course he was wrong, since intercollegiate football, whether played by
schoolboys or college students, is still intercollegiate football. The
difference lies only in the state of development. At Hillton the game,
very properly, was restricted to its more primary methods; at Harwell it
is developed to its uttermost limits. It is the difference between whist
over the library table and whist at the whist club.

But all things come to an end, and at length the coach rather
ungraciously declared he could stand no more and bade them join the rest
of the candidates for the run. That run was two miles, and Joel finally
stumbled into the gymnasium tuckered out and in no very good temper just
as the five o'clock whistle on the great printing house sounded.

After dinner in the dining hall that evening Joel confided his doubts
and vexations to Outfield as they walked back to their room. "I wouldn't
care if I thought I was making any progress," he wailed, "but each day
it gets worse. To-day I couldn't seem to do a start right, and as for
tackling that old dummy, why--"

"Well, you did as well as the other chaps, didn't you?" asked Outfield.

"I suppose so. He gave it to us all impartially."

"Well, there you are. He can't tell you you're the finest young tacklers
that ever happened, because you'd all get swelled craniums and not do
another lick of work. I know the sort of fellow he is. He'll never tell
you that you are doing well; only when he's satisfied with you he'll
pass you on. You see. And don't you care what he says. Just go on and do
the best you know how. Blair told me to-day that if you tried you could
make the Varsity before the season is over. What do you think of that?
He says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that's fit
to take the place of Dangfield, who was left-half last year."

"I dare say," answered Joel despondently, "but Durston will never let me
stop tackling that dummy arrangement. I'll be taking falls out of it all
by myself when the Yates game is going on. Who invented that
thing, anyhow?"

But, nevertheless, Joel's spirits were very much better when the two
lads reached the room and West had turned on the soft light of the
argand. And taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in
the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading.

Hazing has "gone out" at Harwell, and so, when at about nine the two
boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to
West's loud "Come" five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks
entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think.

"March?" asked a deep voice.

"Yes," answered Joel with a wondering frown.

"West?"

"Yep. What in thunder do you want? And who in thunder are you?"

"Freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. The maskers had
closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid
inquisitorial postures between it and the table.

"None of your business," answered West crossly. "Get out, will you?"

"Not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "You are freshies,
nice, new, tender little freshies. We are here to initiate you into the
mysteries of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. Stand up!" Neither
moved; they were already standing, West puzzled and angry, Joel
wondering and amused.

"Well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. Joel looked meaningly at
Outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the
Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo. But the latter were prepared. Over went
the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of
books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the
two roommates. The battle was short but decisive, and when it was done,
Joel lay gasping on the floor and Outfield sprawled breathless on
the couch.

"Will you give up?" asked the first mask.

"Yes," growled West, and Joel echoed him.

"Then you may get up," responded the mask. "But, mind you, no tricks!"
Joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the
masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "Freshman March will
favor us with a song," announced the mask.

"I can't sing a word," answered Joel.

"You must. Hullabalooloo decrees it."

"Then Hullabalooloo can come and make me," retorted Joel stubbornly.

"What," asked the mask in a deep, grewsome voice, "what is the penalty
for disobedience?"

"Tossed in the blanket," answered the other four in unison.

"You hear, Freshman March?" asked the mask. "Choose."

"I'll sing, I guess," answered Joel, with a grin. But West jumped up.

"Don't you do it, Joel! They can't make you sing! And they can't make me
sing; and the first one that comes in reach will get knocked down!"

"Oh, well, I don't mind singing," answered Joel. "That is, I don't mind
trying. If they can stand it, I can. What shall I sing?"

"What do you know?"

"I only know one song. I'll sing that, but on one condition."

"Name it?" answered the mask.

"That you'll join in and sing the chorus."

There was a moment of hesitation; then the masks nodded, and Joel
mounted to a chair and with a comical grimace of despair at West, who
sat scowling on the couch, he began:

     "There is a flag of crimson hue,
      The fairest flag that flieth,
     Whose folds wave over hearts full true,
      As nobody denieth.
     Here's to the School, the School so dear;
      Here's to the soil it's built on!
     Here's to the heart, or far or near,
      That loves the Flag of Hillton.'"

Joel was not much of a singer, but his voice was good and he sang as
though he meant it. Outfield sat unresponsive until the verse was nearly
done; then he moved restlessly and waited for the chorus, and when it
came joined in with the rest; and the strains of Hilltonians rang
triumphantly through the building.

     "Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
      Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
      Hilltonians, Hilltonians, our loyalty we'll prove
      Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!"

The Knights of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo signified their
approval and demanded the next verse. And Joel sang it. And when the
chorus came the maskers lost much of their dignity and waved their arms
about and shouted the refrain so loud that doors up and down the hall
opened and wondering voices shouted "Shut up!" or "More! M-o-r-e!" for
two minutes after. As the last word was reached Joel leaned quickly
forward toward an unsuspicious singer, and, snatching the mask from his
face, revealed the countenance of Louis Whipple.

And then, amid much laughter, the other masks were slipped off, and the
remaining members of the Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo stood revealed as
Blair, Cartwright, Somers, and Cooke.

And Outfield, joining in the laugh at his own expense, was seized by
Cooke and waltzed madly around the table, while the rest once more
raised the strains of Hilltonians:

     "Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling
      Unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!
      Hilltonians, Hilltonians, we stand to do or die,
      Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!"




CHAPTER XVIII.


VISITORS FROM MARCHDALE.

Despite Joel's dark forebodings, he was at last released from tackling
practice. And with that moment he began to take hope for better things.
Under the charge of Kent, one of the coaches and an old Harwell half,
Joel was instructed in catching punts till his arms ached and his eyes
watered, and in kicking until he seemed to be one-sided. Starting with
the ball he no longer dreaded, since he had mastered that science and
could now delight the coach by leaping from a stand as though shot from
the mouth of a cannon.

Signals he had no trouble with. His memory was excellent, and he
possessed the faculty of rapid computation; though as yet his brain had
been but little taxed, since the practice code was still in use. At the
end of the third week both Varsity and scrub teams were at length
selected, and Joel, to his delight, found himself playing left-half on
the latter. Two match games a week was now the rule for the Varsity, and
Joel each Wednesday and Saturday might have been found seated under the
fence dividing the gridiron from the grand stand wrapped nearly from
sight, if the afternoon was chilly, in a great gray blanket, and
watching the play with all the excited ardor of the veriest schoolboy on
the stand behind.

One Saturday Prince, the Varsity left-half, twisted his ankle, and Joel
was taken on in his place. They were playing Amherst, and Joel has ever
since held that college in high esteem, for that it was against its
Eleven he made his _debut_ into Harwell football life. And how he
played! The captain smiled as he watched him prance down the field after
a punt, never content to be there in time, but always striving to get
there first, and not seldom succeeding. Once he succeeded too well.

It was in the second half. Blair--it was his first year on the team--was
playing full-back. On a first down he punted the ball a long and rather
low kick into Amherst's territory. Joel bowled over an Amherst end who
was foolish enough to get in the way and started down the field like an
Indian warrior on the war path. The Harwell ends were a little in
advance but off to the sides, and Joel sprinted hard and easily passed
them both. Kingdon, the right half, gave him a good run, but he too was
passed, and Joel reached the Amherst full-back just as that gentleman
turned for the ball, which had passed unexpectedly over his head. The
goal line was but thirty yards distant. Joel saw only the full-back, the
ball, and the goal line. He forgot everything else. A small cyclone
struck the full, and when he picked himself up it was to see a
crimson-legged player depositing the pigskin back of goal and to hear a
roar of laughter from the seats!

Then he yelled "Off side!" at the top of his lungs and tore down on
Joel, and, much to that young gentleman's surprise, strove to wrest the
ball from him. It was quite uncalled for, and Joel naturally resented it
to the extent of pushing violently, palms open, against the Amherst
man's jacket, with the result that the Amherst gentleman sat down
backward forcibly upon the turf at some distance. And again the stands
laughed. But Joel gravely lifted the ball and walked back to the
thirty-yard line with it. The center took it with a grin, and, as the
five yards of penalty for off side was paced, Joel was rewarded for his
play with the muttered query from the captain:

"What were you doing, you idiot?"

But too great zeal is far more excusable than too small, and Joel was
quickly forgiven, and all the more readily, perhaps, since Amherst was
held for downs, and the ball went over on the second next play. But Joel
called himself a great many unpleasant names during the rest of the
game, and for a long while after could not think of his first touch-down
without feeling his cheeks redden. Nevertheless, his manner of getting
down the field under kicks undoubtedly impressed the coaches favorably,
for when the scrub was further pruned to allow it to go to training
table Joel was retained.

One bright October day Joel and Outfield went into town to meet the
former's parents at the station; for Mr. and Mrs. March had long before
made up their minds to the visit, and the two boys had been looking
forward to it for some time. It was worth going a long way to see the
pleasure with which the old farmer and his wife greeted the great
long-legged youth who towered so far above them there on the station
platform. Joel kissed his mother fondly, patted his father patronizingly
but affectionately on the back, and asked fifty questions in as many
minutes. And all his mother could do was to gaze at him in reverent
admiration and sigh, over and over:

"Land sakes, Joel March, how you do grow!"

It must not be thought that West was neglected. Farmer March, in
especial, showed the greatest pleasure at meeting him again, and shook
hands with him four times before the street was reached and the car that
was to carry them to the college town gained. The boys conducted the
visitors to their room, and made lunch for them on a gas stove, Outfield
drawing generously on his private larder, situated under the foot of his
bed. Then the four hunted up a pleasant room in one of the student
boarding houses, and afterward showed the old people through
the college.

There was a good deal to see and many questions to answer, since Joel's
father was not a man to leave an object of interest until he had learned
all there was to be told about it. The elms in the yard were fast losing
their yellow leaves, but the grass yet retained much of its verdancy,
and as for the sky, it was as sweetly blue as on the fairest day in
spring. Up one side of the yard and down the other went the sightseers,
poking into dark hallways, reading tablets and inscriptions, the latter
translated by West into the most startling English, pausing before the
bulletins to have the numerous announcements of society and club
meetings explained, drinking from the old pump in the corner, and so
completing the circuit and storming the gymnasium, where at last Joel's
powers of reply were exhausted and Outfield promptly sprang into the
breech, explaining gravely that the mattresses on the floor were used by
Doctor Major, the director of the gymnasium, who invariably took a
cat-nap during the afternoon, that the suspended rings were used to
elevate sophomores while corporeal punishment was administered by
freshmen, and that the queer little weights in the boxes around the
walls were reserve paper weights.

Then the line of march was taken up toward Sailors' Field, where they
arrived just in time to see the beginning of the practice game between
the Varsity and the scrub. Joel had been excused from attendance that
day, and so he took his seat beside the others on the grand stand and
strove to elucidate the philosophy of football.

"You see the scrubs have the ball. They must get it past the Varsity
down to the end of the field, where they can either put it down over the
line or kick it over that cross-piece there. That's center, that fellow
that's arranging the ball. He kicks off. There it goes, and a good kick,
too. Sometimes the center-rush isn't a good kicker; then some one else
kicks off. Blair has the ball. Look, see him dodge with it. He gained
ten yards that time."

"Oh!" It was Joel's mother who exclaimed. "Why, Joel, that other man
threw him down."

"That's part of the game, mother. He did that to keep Blair from getting
the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. He isn't hurt, you see."

"And do you mean that they do that all the time?"

"Pretty often."

"And do _you_ get thrown around that way, Joel?"

"Sometimes, mother; when I'm lucky enough to get the ball."

"Well, I never."

"Football's not a bad game, Mr. March," West was saying. "But it doesn't
come up to golf, you know. It's too rough."

"It does look a little rough," answered Mr. March. "Do they often get
hurt? Seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and
another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of
them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little
uncomfortable."

West laughed.

"Sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a
shoulder-bone bust, or something like that. But it isn't often anything
worse occurs."

"Well, I suppose it's all right then. Only when I was a boy we never
went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke;
you young fellows are tougher than we were, I guess."

"I shouldn't wonder, sir. I believe Joel has been feeling pretty bad for
a long time because he's got nothing worse than a broken finger."

"What? Broke his finger, did he? Eh? He didn't write anything about it;
what's he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents
about it?" West glanced apprehensively at Joel, but the latter had
missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of Barton, of
the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line.

"Well, it wasn't much of a break, sir. It's all right now, and I think
he thought you'd be worried, you know. I'm sure if it had been anything
important he would have written at once."

"Humph," grunted Joel's father. "If he's going to break himself in
pieces he'd better stop football. I won't have him taking risks. I'll
tell him so!"

The fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either
resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the
tuition of a coach. Suddenly Joel looked down to see Briscom, the scrub
captain, climbing the seats. He ducked his bare head to the others and
sank into the seat at Joel's side.

"Look here, March, can you help us out the next half? They've taken
Webster on the Varsity, and"--he lowered his voice to a confidential
roar--"we want to make a good showing to-day."

"Of course," answered Joel, "I'll come at once. Can I get some togs from
some fellow?"

"Yes. I'll ask Whitman to find some. I'm sorry to take you away from
your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know."

So when the whistle blew Joel was at left half-back on the scrub,
attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him. And Mrs.
March was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw Joel down as
she had seen Blair thrown. Mr. March had not quite recovered from his
resentment over his son's failure to apprise him of the broken finger,
which, after all, was only broken in West's imagination, and viewed his
advent on the field with disfavor.

Outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding Joel's finger
was to lead to unpleasant results, when Mr. March relieved his mind
somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was
trying to make an end run inside Dutton with half the scrub hauling,
pushing, pulling, shoving him along.

"Er--isn't that likely to be bad for that finger of his?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered West. "He looks out for his finger all right
enough. There, he made the distance. Bully work. Good old Joel."

"Did he do well then, Mr. West?" asked Joel's mother. "Of course he
did, mother," answered Mr. March disdainfully. "Didn't you see him
lugging all those fellows along with him? How much does that
count, West?"

"Well, that doesn't score anything, but it helps. The scrub has to pass
that line down there before it can score. What they're trying to do now
is to get down there, and Joel's helping. You watch him now. I think
they're going to give him the ball again for another try around end."
West was right in his surmise. Kicks were barred to-day save as a last
resort, and the game was favoring the scrub as a consequence. The ball
was passed to the right half-back; Joel darted forward like an arrow,
took the ball from right, made a quick swerve as he neared the end of
the line, and ran outside of the Varsity right end, Captain Dutton, who
had been playing pretty well in, in the expectation of another try
through tackle-end hole. As Joel got safely by it is more than likely
that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark
of Dutton's the week before: "What were you doing, you idiot?"

Joel got safely by Dutton, and fooled the sprightly Prince, but very
nearly ran into the arms of Kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six
inches. Then the race began. Joel's path lay straight down by the side
line. The field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope
for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require
a punt-out.

"Ain't that Joel?" cried Mr. March, forgetting his grammar and his
dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet.
"Ain't that Joel there running? Hey? They can't catch him. I'll lay Joel
to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. Every day, sir. Hey? What?"

"I think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered West gayly.
"Hello, there's Blair leaving the bunch. Tally-Ho!"

"I don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted Mr. March, "he can't--I
don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. Eh?"

"Looks like it," answered West, while Mrs. March, with her hand on her
husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly."

"Geewhillikins!" cried Mr. March, "Joel's caught! No, he's
not--yet--Eh?--Too bad, too bad. Run, Joel, he's got ye!" Suddenly Mr.
March, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet.

"Here! Stop that, you fellow! Hi!" He turned angrily to Outfield, his
eyes blazing. "What'd he knock him down for? Eh? What's he sitting on my
boy for? Is that fair? Eh?"

West and Mrs. March calmed him down and explained that tackling was
quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from
going on again; for Blair had cut short Joel's triumph fifteen yards
from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down
the field were slowly settling again in their seats. Mr. March was
presently relieved to see Joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming
out of water, and trot back to his position.

Another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force
the ball over the Varsity's goal line, but without success, and the
match was over, and Briscom was happy; for the Varsity had scored but
once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. Joel trotted off
with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and West conducted his
parents back to the gate, where they awaited him. On the way Mr. March
confided to West that "football wasn't what he'd call a parlor game, but
on the whole it appeared to be rather interesting."

In the evening the quartet went into town to the theater and Joel's
mother cried happily over the homely pathos of The Old Homestead, and
Outfield laughed uproariously upon the slightest provocation, and every
one was extremely happy. And afterward they "electriced" back to
college, as West put it, and the two boys stayed awake very, very late,
laughing and giggling over the humors of the play and Joel's
broken finger.

Mr. and Mrs. March left the next day at noon, and Joel accompanied them
to the depot, West having a golf engagement which he could not break.
And when good-by had been said, and the long train had disappeared from
sight, Joel returned to college on foot, over the long bridge spanning
the river, busy with craft, past the factories noisy with the buzz of
wheels and the clang of iron, and on along the far-stretching avenue
until the tower of the dining hall loomed above the tops of the autumn
branches, entering the yard just as the two o'clock bell was ringing.




CHAPTER XIX.


A VARSITY SUB.

Give a boy the name of being a hero and it will stick. Joel was still
pointed out by admiring Hillton graduates to their friends at Harwell as
"March, the fellow who kicked the winning goal-from-field in the St.
Eustace game two years ago." And while Joel had performed of late no
doughty deed to sustain his reputation for valor, the freshman class
accepted him in all faith as a sort of class hero, off duty for the
moment, perchance, but ever ready to shed glory upon the class by some
soul-stirring act.

Consequently when it was told through college that Joel March had been
taken on to the Varsity Eleven as substitute left half-back no one was
surprised, unless it was Joel himself. The freshman class wagged its
head knowingly and said: "I told you they couldn't get on without
March," and held its head higher for that one of its members was a
Varsity player. It is not a frequent thing to find a freshman on the
Varsity team, even as substitute, and Joel's fame grew apace and many
congratulations were extended to him, in classroom and out. Blair was
one of the first to climb the stairs of Mayer and express pleasure at
the event. He found Joel seated in the window, propped up with half a
dozen crimson pillows, attempting to sketch the view across the yard to
send home to his sister. West was splicing a golf shaft and whistling
blithely over the task.

"Hello, Sophy," cried that youth, "have you come to initiate us into the
Sacred Order of Hullabalooloo? Dump those books off the chair and be
seated. March is such a beastly untidy chap," he sighed; "he _will_
leave his books around that way despite all I can say!"

"These books, Out," replied Blair, "bear the name of one West on their
title pages, and, in fact, on a good many other pages, too. What say
you?" A look of intense surprise overspread the face of Outfield.

"How passing strange," he muttered. "And is there a chemistry note-book
among them?"

"I think so. Here is one that contains mention of C2H6O, H2SO4, and
other mystic emblems which appear very tiresome; it also contains
several pages filled with diagrams of the yard and plans of Pompeii
before the devastation."

"Yes," answered West, "that's my chem. note-book. It's been missing ever
since Tuesday. But those are not diagrams of the yard, my sophomoric
friend; they're plans of the golf course."

"Well, just as you say. Catch! Say, March, I've just heard that you've
made the Varsity. I'm most splendidly glad, my young friend. You make
three Hillton fellows on the team. There's Selkirk, and you, and yours
tenderly; and we'll show them what's what when Yates faces us. And I'll
tell you a little fact that may interest you. Prince won't last until
the Yates game, my lad. He's going silly in his ankle. But don't say I
told you, for of course it's a dead secret. And if he gives out you'll
get the posish. And then if you can make another one of those
touch-downs in the Yates game--"

"Shut up, please, Blair!" groaned Joel.

"Nonsense, you're all right. I heard Button saying last week that
nothing short of a ten-story house could have stopped you that day."

"He must think me an awful fool," responded Joel. "The idea of not
remembering that I was off-side!"

"Pshaw; why, the first time I played against Eustace at Hillton I
tackled the referee in mistake for the man with the ball! And threw him,
too! And sat on his head!" West grinned.

"And they _did_ say, Blair, that you were feeling aggrieved against that
referee because he had called you down for holding. And I _have_ heard
that you weren't such a fool as you looked."

"Nothing in it, my boy," answered Wesley Blair airily. "Mere calumny. Am
I one to entertain feelings of anger and resentment against my fellow
men? Verily, very much not. But he put me off, did that referee chap.
He was incapable of accepting the joke. What is more depressing than a
fellow who can't see a joke, March?"

"Two fellows who can't see--et cetera," answered Joel promptly.

"Wrong, very wrong. I don't know what the answer is, but I'm quite
certain it isn't that. Well, I must be going. _I_ have studies. _I_
don't waste the golden moments in idleness. I grind, my young and
thoughtless friends, I grind. Well, I only came up to congratulate you,
Mr. March, of Maine. I have done so. I now depart. Farewell! Never allow
the mere fact of being off-side interfere with--"

Blair slammed the door just in front of a whizzing golf ball and
clattered downstairs. Presently he appeared on the walk beneath the
window and wiggled his fingers derisively with the thumb against a
prominent feature of his face. But at the first squeak of the window
being pushed up he disappeared around the corner.

Joel's days were now become very busy ones. Every morning he was
awakened at seven, and at eight was required to be on hand at the
training table for breakfast. The quarters were at Old's, a boarding
house opposite the college yard, and here in a big, sunny front room the
two long tables were laid with numerous great dishes of oatmeal or
hominy, platters of smoking steak, chops or crisp bacon, plates of
toast, while potatoes, usually baked, flanked the meat. The beverage was
always milk, and tall pitchers of it were constantly filled and emptied
during this as well as the other meals. And then there were eggs--eggs
hard boiled, eggs soft boiled, eggs medium, eggs poached--until, at the
end of the season, the mere mention of eggs caused Joel's stomach to
writhe in disgust.

During breakfast disabilities were inquired after, men who were known to
have nerves were questioned as to their night's rest, and orders for the
day were given out. This man was instructed to see the doctor, another
to interview the trainer, a third to report to the head coach. The meal
over, save for a half hour of practice for the backs behind the
gymnasium the men were free to give all their energies to lessons, and
so hurried away to recitation hall or room.

At one o'clock the team assembled again for lunch, with books in hand,
and at break-neck speed devoured the somewhat elaborate repast, each man
rushing in, eating, and rushing out, with no attempt at sociability or
heed to the laws of digestion.

Afternoon practice was at four o'clock. Individual practice was followed
by team practice against an imaginary foe, and this in turn gave place
to a line-up against the second eleven. Two stiff twenty-minute halves
were played. Then again individuals were seized on by captain and
coaches and put through paces to remedy some fault or other. And then
the last player trots off the field, and the coaches, conversing
earnestly among themselves, follow, and the day's work is done. There
are still the bath and the rub-down and the weighing; but these are
gone through with leisurely while the day's work is discussed and the
coaches, circulating among the fellows, inflict an epilogue of criticism
and instruction.

There remained usually the better part of an hour before dinner, and
this period Joel spent in his room, where with the lamp throwing its
glow over his shoulder, he strove to take his mind from the subject of
tackling and starting, of punting and passing, and fix it upon his
studies for the morrow.

For life was far from being all play that fall--if hard practice and
strict training can be called play!--and Joel found it necessary to
occupy every moment not taken up by eating, sleeping, and practicing on
the gridiron with hard study. It can scarcely be truthfully asserted
that Joel's lessons suffered by reason of his adherence to athletics,
though a lecture now and then was slighted that he might use the time in
pursuing some study that lack of leisure had necessitated his
neglecting.

But a clear head, a good digestion, and racing blood render studying a
pleasure rather than a task, and Joel found that, while giving less time
than before to lessons, he learned them fully as well. One thing is
certain: his standing in class did not suffer, even when the coaches
were more than usually severe. Joel's experience that fall, and many a
time later, led him to conclude that the amount of outdoor athletics
indulged in and the capability for study are in direct ratio.

West, too, was a most studious young gentleman that term, and began to
pride himself on his recently discovered ability to learn. To be sure,
golf was a hard taskmaster, but with commendable self-denial he did not
allow it to interfere with his progress in class. Both he and Joel had
earned the name of being studious ere the end of the fall term, and
neither of them resented it.

Unlike the preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable
and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be
entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually
tabooed. The menu was elaborate. There were soup, two or three kinds of
meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding
or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the
milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. At one end of the
table--whether head or foot is yet undecided--sat the captain, at the
other end the head coach. Other coaches were present as well, and the
trainer sat at the captain's left.

There was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched
upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part.
When all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes
to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a
manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling.
This is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try
it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well
studded with suspended disks of crockery. Bread fights--so named because
the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes--were extremely popular,
and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which
coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging
vegetable.

His evenings usually belonged to Joel to spend as he wished, though not
unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some
visiting authority curtailed them considerably. He had always to be in
bed by ten o'clock.

But sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not
readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on
the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of
the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held
in view for him. And one night he awoke to find Outfield shaking him
violently by the shoulder.

"Wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily.

"You," answered Outfield. "You've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for
half an hour. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

"The signals," muttered Joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a
run around left end by left half-back. And don't forget to start
when the ball's snapped. And jump high if you're blocked.
And--don't--forget--to--" Snore--snore! "Well," muttered West as he
stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all
crazy games--"

But West was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to
sleep when his head struck the pillow. As a consequence the rest of his
remark was never heard.




CHAPTER XX.


AN OLD FRIEND.

"MARCH! Joel March!"

Joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a
recitation to Mayer and his room. The familiar tones came from the
direction of the library, and turning he saw Stephen Remsen trotting
toward him with no regard for the grass. Joel hurdled the knee-high wire
barrier and strode to meet him. The two shook hands warmly, almost
affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet.

"March, I'm delighted to see you again! I was just going to look you up.
Which way were you going?"

"Up to the room. Can't you come up for a while? When'd you arrive? Are
you going to stay now?"

"Third down!" laughed Remsen. "No gain! What a fellow you are for
questions, March! I got in this morning, and I'm going to stay until
after the Yates game. They telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles.
Instead of going to your room let's go to mine. I've taken a suite of
one room and a closet at Dixon's on the avenue. I haven't unpacked my
toothbrush yet. Come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it
all over."

So Joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard,
traversing the quadrangle in front of University and debouching on to
the avenue near where the tall shaft of the Soldiers' Monument gleams in
the sunlight. But they did not wait until Remsen's room was gained to
"talk it all over." Joel had lots to tell about the Hillton fellows whom
he had not lost sight of: of how Clausen was captain of the freshman
Eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how West
was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how
Dicky Sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling
along under popular dislike; how Whipple and Cooke were rooming together
in Peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for
rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and
liked by every fellow who knew him; how Digbee was grinding in Lanter
with Somers; how Cartwright had joined the Glee Club; and how Christie
had left college and gone into business with his father.

"And Cloud?" asked Remsen. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes, once or twice. I've heard that he was very well liked when he left
St. Eustace last year. I dare say he has turned over a new leaf since
his father died."

"Indeed? I hadn't heard of that."

"West heard it. He died last spring, and left Cloud pretty near
penniless, they say. I have an idea that he has taken a brace and is
studying more than he used to."

"The chap has plenty of good qualities, I suppose. We all have our bad
ones, you know. Perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the
lad's better nature. They say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and,
like lots of other proverbs, I guess it's sometimes true."

Then Remsen told of his visit to Hillton a few weeks previous. The
Eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; Greene, an upper
middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with St.
Eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran
players. That same Greene was winning the golf tournament when he was
there, Remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever
before, thanks to the hard work of West, Whipple, Blair, and a few
others in building it up.

The two friends reached the house, and Remsen led the way into his room,
and set about unpacking his things. Joel took up a position on the bed
and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair
of stockings to a typewriter.

"It's a strange fact," said Remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under
the pillow, "that Outfield West is missed at Hillton more than any
fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. Perhaps I
don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that
every one naturally likes. What I do mean is that one would naturally
suppose fellows like Blair or Whipple would leave the most regrets
behind them, for Blair was generally conceded to be the most popular
fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and Whipple was surely
running him a close second. And certainly their memories are still
green. But everywhere I went it was: 'Have you heard from Outfield
West?' 'How's West getting on at college?' And strange to say, such
inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. Professor Wheeler
asked after West particularly, and so did Briggs, and several others of
the faculty; and Mrs. Cowles as well.

"But you are still the hero there, March. The classic history of Hillton
still recounts the prowess of one Joel the First, who kicked a goal from
field and defeated thereby the hosts of St. Eustace. And Professor
Durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive
and appreciative member of his class. And now tell me, how are you
getting on with Dutton?"

So Joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the
ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his
listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of Varsity
substitute.

"Yes, I saw in the paper last week that you had been placed on the sub
list of the Varsity. I hope you'll have a chance to play against Yates,
although I don't wish Prince any harm. He's a good fellow and a hard
worker. Hello, it's one-fifteen. Let's get some lunch."

A half hour later they parted, Joel hurrying off to recitation and
Remsen remaining behind to keep an appointment with a friend. After this
they met almost every day, and Remsen was a frequent caller at Joel's
room, where he with Joel and Outfield held long, cosy chats about every
subject from enameling golf balls to the Philosophy of Kant and the
Original Protoplasm.

Meanwhile the season hurried along. Harwell met and defeated the usual
string of minor opponents by varying scores, and ran up against the red
and blue of Keystone College with disastrous results. But one important
contest intervened between the present time and the game with Yates, and
the hardest sort of hard work went on daily inside the inclosed field. A
small army of graduates had returned to coach the different players, and
the daily papers were filled, according to their wont, with columns of
sensational speculation and misinformation regarding the merits of the
team and the work they were performing. Out of the mass of clashing
"facts" contained in the daily journals but one thing was absolutely
apparent: to wit, the work of the Harwell Eleven was known only to the
men and the coaches, and neither would tell about it.

At last, when chill November had been for a few days in the land, the
game with the red and white clad warriors from Ithaca took place on a
wet and muddy field, and Joel played the game through from start to
finish, Prince being engaged in nursing his treacherous ankle, which had
developed alarming symptoms with the advent of wet weather. The game
resulted in a score of twenty-four to five, the Ithacans scoring a neat,
but inexcusable, goal from field in the first half. Joel played like a
Trojan, and went around the left end of the opposing line time and again
for good gains, until the mere placing of the ball in his hands was
accepted by the spectators as equal to an accomplished gain.

Wesley Blair made a dashing charge through a crowded field for twelve
yards and scored a touch-down that brought the onlookers to their feet
cheering. Dutton, the captain, played a steady brilliant interfering
game, and Kingdon, at right half-back, plunged through the guard-tackle
holes time and again with the ball hugged to his stomach, and kept his
feet in a manner truly marvelous until the last inch had been gained.

But critics nevertheless said unkind things of the team work as they
wended their way back over the sodden turf, and shook their heads
dubiously over the field-goal scored by the opponents. There would be a
general shaking up on the morrow, they predicted, and we should see what
we should see. And the coaches, too, although they dissembled their
feelings under cheerful countenances, found much to condemn, and the
operations of bathing, dressing, and weighing that afternoon were less
enjoyable to the breathless, tattered men.

The next day the team "went into executive session," as Joel called it,
and the predicted shake-up took place. Murdoch, the left guard, was
deemed too slight for the place, and was sent to the side line, from
where he presently crawled to a seat on the great empty stand, and
hiding his blanketed head wept like a child. And there were other
changes made. Joel kept his place at left half, pending the bettering of
Prince's ankle, and Blair was secure at full. But when the practice game
began, many of the old forms were either missing or to be seen in the
second Eleven's line, and the coaches hovered over the field of battle
with dark, forbidding looks, and said mean things whenever the
opportunity presented itself, and were icily polite to each other, as
men will be when they know themselves to be in the right and every one
else in the wrong. And so practice that Thursday was an unpleasant
affair, and had the desired effect; for the men played the game for all
that was in them and attended strictly to the matter in hand, forgetting
for the time the intricacies of Latin compositions and the terrors of
coming examinations. When it was over Joel crawled off of the scale with
the emotions of a weary draught horse and took his way slowly toward
home. In the square he ran against Outfield, who, armed with a monstrous
bag of golf requisites, had just leaped off a car.

"Hello, Joel," he cried. "What's happened? Another off-sider? Have you
broken that finger again? Honest Injun, what's up?"

"Nothing, Out; I'm just kind of half dead. We had two thirty-minute
halves, with forty-'leven coaches yelling at us every second, and a
field like a turnip patch just before seeding. Oh, no, there's nothing
the matter; only if you know of any quiet corner where I can die in
peace, lead me there, Out. I won't keep you long; it will soon be over."

"No, I don't, my flippant young friend, but I know something a heap
better."

"Nothing can be better any more, Out. Still--well, what is it?"

"A couple of hot lemonades and a pair of fat sandwiches at Noster's.
Come along."

"You're not so bad, Out," said Joel as they hurried up the street. "You
have _moments_ of almost human intelligence!"




CHAPTER XXI.


THE DEPARTURE.

The backs and substitute backs, together with Story, the quarter,
Captain Dutton, and one or two assistant coaches, including Stephen
Remsen, were assembled in Bancroft 6. The head coach was also present,
and with a long pointer in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other
was going through a sequence for the benefit of the backs, who had been
called a half hour ahead of the rest of the Eleven. The time was a half
hour after dinner.

On the blackboard strange squares and lines and circles confronted the
men in the seats. The head coach placed the tip of the pointer on a
diagram marked "No. 2. Criss-Cross."

"This is the second of the sequence, and is an ordinary criss-cross from
left half-back to right half-back. If you don't understand it readily,
say so. I want you to ask all the questions you can think of. The halves
take positions, as in the preceding play, back of the line behind the
tackle-guard holes. The ball goes to left half, who runs just back of
quarter. Right half starts a moment after the ball is put in play, also
going back of quarter and outside of left half and receiving the ball
at a hand pass from the latter, and continuing on through the hole
between left end and tackle. Right end starts simultaneously with left
half, taking the course indicated, in front of quarter and close to the
line, and interfering through the line for the runner."

[Illustration: 2nd PLAY]

"Left end blocks opposing end outward. Quarter clears the hole out for
the runner. Full-back does not start until the pass from quarter to left
half is made. He must then time himself so as to protect the second
pass. In case of a fumble the ball is his to do the best he can with
through the end-tackle hole. If the pass is safe he follows left half
through, blocking opposing left end long enough to keep him out of
the play.

"You will go through this play to-morrow and you will get your slips
to-morrow evening here. Now is there anything not clear to you?"

Apparently there was a great deal, for the questions came fast and
furious, the coaches all taking a hand in the discussion, and the
diagram being explained all over again very patiently by the head. Then
another diagram was tackled.

[Illustration: 3rd PLAY]

"The third of this sequence is from an ordinary formation," began the
head coach. "It is intended to give the idea of a kick, or, failing
that, of a run around left end. It will very probably be used as a
separate play in the last few minutes of a half, especially where the
line-up is near the side line, right being the short side of the field.
You will be given the signal calling this as a separate play
to-morrow evening.

"Full-back stands as for a kick, and when the signal is given moves in a
step or two toward quarter as unnoticeably as possible; position 2 in
the diagram. He must be careful to come to a full stop before the ball
is snapped back, and should time himself so that he will not have to
stay there more than a second. The instant the ball is snapped full-back
runs forward to the position indicated here by 3, and receives the ball
on a short pass from quarter. Left half starts at the same instant, and
receives the ball from full as he passes just behind him, continuing on
and around the line outside of right end. It is right half's play to
make the diversion by starting with the ball and going through the line
between left tackle and guard; he is expected to get through and into
the play on the other side. Left end starts when the ball is snapped,
and passing across back of the forwards clears out the hole for the
runner. Quarter interferes, assisted by full-back, and should at all
costs down opposing half. Right end helps right tackle throw in opposing
end. Much of the success of this play depends on the second pass, from
full-back to left half, and it must be practiced until there is no
possibility of failure. Questions, fellows."

After the discussion of the last play a half hour's talk on
interference was given to the rest of the Eleven and substitutes, who
had arrived meanwhile. Remsen and Joel left Bancroft together and
crossed the yard toward the latter's room. The sky was bright with
myriads of stars and the buildings seemed magnified by the wan radiance
to giant castles. Under the shadow of University Remsen paused to light
his pipe, and, without considering, the two found themselves a moment
later seated on the steps.

From the avenue the clang-clang of car gongs sounded sharp and clear,
and red and white and purple lights flitted like strange will-o'-wisps
through the half light, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the
common. The lights in the stores beamed dimly. A green shade in Pray's
threw a sickly shaft athwart the pavement. But even as they looked a
tall figure, weariness emanating from every movement, stepped between
window and light, book in hand, and drew close the blinds.

"Poor devil!" sighed Remsen. "Three hours more of work, I dare say,
before he stumbles, half blind, into bed. And all for what, Joel? That
or--that?" He pointed with his pipe-stem to where Jupiter shone with
steady radiance high in the blue-black depths; then indicated a faint
yellow glow that flared for an instant in the darkness across the yard
where a passer had paused to light his pipe.

"We can't all be Jupiters, Remsen," answered Joel calmly. "Some of us
have to be little sticks of wood with brimstone tips. But they're very
useful little things, matches. And, after all, does it matter as long
as we do what we have to do as well as we can? Old Jupiter up there is a
very fine chap undoubtedly, and if he shirked a minute or two something
unpleasant would probably occur; but he isn't performing his task any
better than the little match performed his. 'Scratch--pouf' and the
match's work's done. But it has lighted a fire. Can you do better,
Mr. Jupiter?"

Remsen made no reply for a moment, but Joel knew that he was smiling
there beside him. A little throng of students passed by, humming softly
a song in time with their echoing footsteps, and glanced curiously at
the forms on the steps. Then Remsen struck a match on the stone.

"'Scratch--pouf!'" he said musingly, relighting his pipe. In the act of
tossing the charred splinter away he stopped; then he laid it beside him
on the step. "Good little match," he muttered. Joel laughed softly.

"March," asked Remsen presently, "have you changed your mind yet about
studying law?"

"No; but sometimes I get discouraged when I think of what a time it will
take to arrive anywhere. And sometimes, too, I begin to think that a
fellow who can't talk more readily than I ought to go into the hardware
business or raise chickens for a living instead of trying to make a
lawyer out of himself."

"It isn't altogether talk, March," answered Remsen, "that makes a good
lawyer. Brains count some. If you get where you can conduct a case to a
successful result you will never miss the 'gift o' the gab.' Talking's
the little end of the horn in my profession, despite tradition.

"I asked for a reason, March," he went on. "What do you say to our
forming a partnership? When you get through the Law School you come to
me, if you wish, and tell me that you are ready to enter my office, and
I'll answer 'I'm very glad to have you, Mr. March.' Of course we could
arrange for a regular partnership a year or so later. Meanwhile the
usual arrangement would be made. It may be that you know of some very
much better office which you would prefer to go to. If you do, all
right. If you don't, come to me. What do you say?"

"But--but what good would I do you?" Joel asked, puzzled at the offer.
"I'd like it very much, of course, but I can't see--"

"I'll tell you, March. I have a good deal of faith in your future, my
boy. You have a great deal of a most valuable thing called application,
which I have not, worse luck. You are also sharp-witted and level-headed
to a remarkable degree. And some day, twenty or thirty years from now,
you'll likely be _hard_-headed, but I'll risk that. By the time you're
out of college I shall be wanting a younger man to take hold with me.
There will be plenty of them, but I shall want a good one. And that is
why I make this offer. It is entirely selfish, and you need not go
searching for any philanthropy in it. I'm only looking a bit ahead and
buttering my toast while it's hot, March. What do you say? Or, no, you
needn't say anything to-night. Think it over for a while, and let me
know later."

"But I don't want to think it over," answered Joel eagerly. "I'm ready
to sign such a partnership agreement now. If you really believe that I
would--could be of use to you, I'd like it mightily. And I know all
about your 'selfishness,' and I'm very grateful to you for--for
buttering your toast."

Later, when they arose and went on, Remsen consented to accompany Joel
to his room, bribed thereto with a promise of hot chocolate. They found
Outfield diligently poring over a Greek history. But he immediately
discarded it in favor of a new book on the Royal Game which lay in his
lap hidden under a note book.

"You see," he explained, "old Pratt has taken a shine to me, and I
expected him to call this evening. And I thought at first that you were
he--or him--which is it? And of course I didn't want to disappoint the
old gentleman; he has such a fine opinion of me, you know."

While Outfield boiled the water and laid bare the contents of the
larder, Joel told him of Remsen's offer. A box of biscuits went down
with a crash, and Outfield turned indignantly.

"That's all very fine," he exclaimed. "But where do I come in? How about
Mr. West? Where does he get his show in this arrangement? You promised
that if I studied law, too, Joel, you'd go into partnership with _me_.
Now, didn't you?"

"But it was all in fun," protested Joel, distressedly. "I didn't
suppose you meant it, you know."

"Meant it!" answered Outfield indignantly. "Of course I meant it. Don't
you expect I appreciate level-headedness and sharp-wittedness and
applicationousness just as much as Remsen? Why, I had it all fixed. We
were to have an office fitted with cherry railings and revolving
bookcases near--near--"

"A good links?" suggested Remsen smilingly.

"Well, yes," admitted Outfield, "that wouldn't be a half bad idea. But
now you two have gone and spoiled it all."

"Well, I tell you, West," suggested Remsen, "you come in with us and
supply the picturesque element of the business. You might look after the
golf cases, you know; injuries to bald-headed gentlemen by gutties;
trespassing by players; forfeiting of leases, and so forth. What do
you say?"

"All right," answered Outfield cheerfully. "But it must be understood
that the afternoons belong to the links and not to the law."

So Stephen Remsen and Joel March sealed their agreement by shaking
hands, and Outfield grinned approval.

One afternoon a few days later Outfield pranced into the room just as
dusk was falling brandishing aloft a silver-plated mug, and uttering a
series of loud cheers for "Me." Joel, who had returned but a moment
before from a hard afternoon's practice, and was now studying in the
window seat by the waning light, looked languidly curious.

"A trophy, Joel, a trophy from the links!" cried West. "Won by the great
Me by two holes from Jenkins, Jenkins the Previously Great, Jenkins the
Defeated and Devastated!" He tossed the mug into Joel's lap.

"I'm very glad, Out," said the latter. "Won't it help you with the
team?"

"It will, my discerning friend. It will send me to New York next month
to represent Harwell. And Lapham says I must go to Lakewood for the open
tournament. Oh, little Outie is some pumpkins, my lad! It was quite the
most wonderful young match to-day. Jenkins led all the way to the
fifteenth hole. Then he foozled like a schoolboy, and I holed out in one
and went on to the Cheese Box in two."

"I'm awfully glad," repeated Joel, smiling up into the flushed and
triumphant face of his chum. "If you go to New York it will be after the
big game, and, if you like, I'll go with you and shout." Outfield West
executed a war-dance and whooped ecstatically.

"Will you, Joel? Honest Injun? Cross your heart and hope to die? Then
shake hands, my lad; it's a bargain! Now, where's my chemistry?"

The days flew by and the date of the Yates game rapidly approached. The
practice was secret every afternoon, and the coaches lost weight eluding
the newspaper reporters. Prince disappointed Joel by returning to the
Varsity with his ankle apparently as well as ever, although he was
generally "played easy," and Joel often took his place in the second
half of the practice games.

And at last the Thursday preceding the big game arrived, and the team
and substitutes, together with the trainer and the manager and the head
coach and two canine mascots, assembled in the early morning in the
square and were hustled into coaches and driven into town to their
train. And half the college heroically arose phenomenally early and
stood in the first snow storm of the year and cheered and cheered for
the team individually and collectively, for the head coach and the
trainer, for the rubbers and the mascots, and, between times, for
the college.

The players went to a little country town a few miles distant from the
seat of Yates University, and spent the afternoon in practicing signals
on the hotel grounds. The next day, Friday, was a day of rest, save for
running through a few formations and trick plays after lunch and taking
a long walk at dusk. The Yates Glee Club journeyed over in the evening
and gave an impromptu entertainment in the parlor, a courtesy well
appreciated by the Harwell team, whose nerves were now beginning to make
themselves felt. And the next morning the journey was continued and the
college town was reached at half past eleven.

The men were welcomed at the station by a crowd of Harwell fellows who
had already arrived, and the Harwell band did its best until the team
was driven off to the hotel. There for the first time the men were
allowed to see the line-up for the game. It was a long list, containing
the names, ages, heights, and weights of thirty-six players and
substitutes, and was immediately the center of interest to all.

"Thunder!" growled Joel ruefully, as he finished reading the list over
Blair's shoulder, "it's a thumpin' long ways down to _me!_"




CHAPTER XXII.


BEFORE THE BATTLE.

"Harwell, Harwell, Harwell! Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah,
Harwell!"

The lobby grew empty on the instant, and outside on the steps and on the
sidewalk the crowd spread itself. The procession had just turned the
corner, the college band leading.

"The freshmen won!" cried a voice on the edge of the throng, and the
news was passed along from man to man until it swept up the steps,
through the lobby and to the dining room upstairs where the football men
of the Varsity team were impatiently awaiting lunch. "A good omen," said
the head coach.

Below in the street admonitory thumps upon the great drum, with its
college coat-of-arms on the head, were heard, and a moment later the
shouts of the exuberant freshmen and their allies were drowned in the
first strains of the college song. Off came the silk hats of the
frock-coated graduates and the plaided golf caps of the students, and
side by side there in the sun-swept street they lifted their voices in
the sweet, measured strains of the dear familiar hymn. And stout,
placid-faced men of fifty, with comfortable bank accounts and incipient
twinges of gout, felt the unaccustomed dimming of the sight that
presages tears, and boyish, carefree students, to whom the song was as
much an everyday affair as D marks and unpaid bills, felt strange
stirrings in their breasts, and with voices that stumbled strangely over
the top notes sang louder and louder. And upstairs in the dining room
many a throat grew hard and "lumpy" as the refrain came in at the
open windows.

But, as the trainer muttered presently, it was only the freshmen who had
won, and the real battle of the day was yet to come. And soon the band
and the shouting parade wheeled away from beneath the windows and swung
off up the street to make known far and wide the greatness of Harwell,
her freshmen, and the grandeur of their victory over the youngsters of
Yates. And, as the last cheer floated up from the procession as it
disappeared around a far corner, lunch was served, and player and coach,
trainer and rubber, substitute and mascot, drew up to the last meal
before--what? Victory or defeat?

It was not a merry repast, that lunch before the fray. Some men could
not bring themselves to eat at all until the coaches commanded with dire
threats. Others, as though nothing out of the ordinary was about to take
place, ate heartily, hungrily, of everything set before them. At the far
end of the room Joel March played with his steak and tried to delude
himself into thinking he was eating. He felt rather upset, and weak in
the joints, and as for the lad's stomach it had revolted at sight of the
very first egg. But luckily the last meal before a game has little
effect one way or the other upon the partaker, since he is already keyed
up, mentally and physically, to a certain pitch, and nothing short of
cold poison can alter it.

In the streets below, for blocks in all directions, the crowds surged up
and down, and shouts for Harwell and yells for Yates arose like
challenges in the afternoon air. Friends met who had not done so for
years, enemies accorded enemies bows of recognition ere they remembered
their enmity. The deep blue and the deeper crimson passed and
counterpassed, brushed and fluttered side by side, and lighted up the
little college city till it looked like a garden of roses and violets.

And everywhere, over all, was the tensity that ever reigns before a
battle.

The voices of the ticket speculator and of the merchant of "Offish'l
Score Cards" were heard upon every side. The street cars poked their
blunt noses through the crowd which closed in again behind them like
water about the stern of a ship. Violets blossomed or crimson
chrysanthemums bloomed upon every coat and wrap, or hung pendant from
the handle of cane and umbrella. The flags of Harwell and Yates, the
white H and white Y, were everywhere. Shop windows were partisan to the
blue, but held dashes of crimson as a sop to the demands of hospitality
and welcome.

At one o'clock the exodus from town began. Along the road that leads to
the football field hurried the sellers of rush cushions and badges, of
score cards and pencils, of blue and crimson flags and cheap canes, of
peanuts and sandwiches, of soda water and sarsaparilla, bent upon
securing advantageous stands about the entrance. A quarter of an hour
later the spectators were on the way. The cars, filled in and out with
shouting humanity, crept slowly along, a bare half block separating
them. Roystering students swung arm in arm in eccentric dance from side
to side across the street. Ladies with their escorts hurried along the
sidewalks. Carriages, bright with fluttering flags, rolled by. Bicycles
darted in and out, their riders throwing words of salutation over their
shoulders to friends by the way. In the windows along the route was
displayed the bravery of blue banners. A window in a college hall was
piled high with great comfortable-looking pillows, each bearing a great
challenging Y in white ribbon or embroidery. And overhead the sky arched
a broad blue expanse from horizon to horizon.

In this manner on some fair morning, centuries ago, did all Greece wend
its way to the Stadium and the Games of Olympia.

In the hotel the lunch was over and that terrible age between it and the
arrival of the coaches was dragging its weary length along. Joel and
Blair were standing by the window talking in voices that tried to be
calm, cool and indifferent, but which were neither.

"They're offering bets of ten to nine downstairs that Yates wins,"
remarked Blair with elaborate composure.

"Are they?" responded Joel absent-mindedly, thinking the while of the
signal for the second sequence. "I thought the odds were even."

"They were until the news about Chesney's shoulder got about."

"But there isn't really anything the matter with his shoulder, is
there?"

"No. No one knows how the story got out. Whipple was taking all he could
get a while ago."

"Some one wants to see you at the door, March," called the trainer, and
Joel found Outfield West, smiling and happy, waiting there.

"How are you?" he whispered. "All right? How are the rest? Great Gobble,
Joel, but these Yates Johnnies are so sure of winning that they can't
keep still! There's a rumor here in the lobby that Yates's center is
sick. Know anything about it?" Joel shook his head. "Well, I'll see you
out at the field. We're going out now; Cooke, and Caldwell, and some of
the others. So long, my valiant lad. Keep a stiff upper lip and never
say die, and all that, you know. Adios!"

There was a cheer below, and Blair, at the window, announced the
arrival of the conveyances. Instantly the lethargy of a minute before
was turned to excited bustle and confusion. Pads and nose-guards,
jerseys and coats, balls and satchels were seized and laid aside and
grabbed up again. Cries for missing apparel and paraphernalia were heard
on every side, and only a loud, peremptory command to "Shut up!" from
the head coach restored order and quietude. Then the door was thrown
open and down the narrow stairs they trooped, through the crowded lobby
where friends hemmed them about, patting the broad backs, shouting words
of cheer into their ears, and delaying them in their passage.

Into the coaches they hurried, and as the crowd about the hotel burst
into loud, ringing cheers, the whips were cracked and the journey to the
field began. The route lay along quiet, unfrequented streets where only
an occasional cheer from a college window met their advent. Restraint
had worn off now, and the fellows were chatting fast and furiously. Joel
looked out at the handsome homes and sunny street, and was aware only of
a longing to be in the fray, an impatient desire to be doing. Briscom,
the substitute centre, a youth of twenty-one summers and one hundred and
ninety-eight pounds, sat beside him.

"I was here two years ago with the freshman team," he was saying. "We
didn't do a thing to them, we youngsters, although the Varsity was
licked badly. And all during the afternoon game we sat together and
cheered, until at five o'clock I couldn't speak above a whisper. That
was a great game, that freshman contest! It took three hours and a half
to settle it. At the beginning of the second half there were only three
men on our team who had played in the first. I was one of them. I was
playing left guard. Story there was another. He gave up before the game
was through, though. I held out and when the whistle sounded, down I
went on the grass and didn't stir for ten minutes. We had two referees
that day. The first chap got hurt in a rush, and it took us half an hour
to find a fellow brave enough to take his place. That _was_ a game.
Football's tame nowadays."

Across the coach Rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of
one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with "Judge" Chase,
right end, on an obscure point of ruling.

"If you're making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs
against you intentionally or otherwise, you're interfered with, and the
rules give your side fifteen yards," declared Rutland.

"Not if the interference is accidental and doesn't hurt your catch,"
replied Chase. "If the other fellow is running and can't stop in time--"

"Shut up, you fellows," growled Captain Button. "You play the game, and
the referee will look after the rules for you."

"If you go on," said Briscom, "you must be careful about holding. De
Farge (the referee) is awfully down on holding and off-side plays. Last
year he penalized us eight times during the game. But he's all right,
just the same. He's the finest little ref that ever tossed a coin."

"I fear I won't get a show," mourned Joel.

"You can't tell," answered Briscom knowingly. "Last year there were two
fellows ahead of me and I got on for twenty minutes of the last half.
Trueland bent his ankle, Chesney hurt his knee, and Condon got whacked
on the head. Watch the game every minute of the time, March, and learn
how the Yates halves play the game. Then if you do go on you won't be in
the dark."

The coaches rolled up to the players' entrance to the field, and the
fellows hopped out and disappeared into the quarters.

The time was two o'clock. The gates were still thronged, although to the
people already on the stands it was a puzzle where the newcomers were
going to find seats. On the east side of the field Yates held open
house. From end to end, and overflowing half way around both north and
south stands, the blue of Yates fluttered in the little afternoon breeze
till that portion of the field looked like a bank of violets.

On the west stand tier after tier of crimson arose until it waved
against the limitless blue of the sky. Countless flags dipped and
circled, crimson bonnets gleamed everywhere, and great bunches of
swaying chrysanthemums nodded and becked to each other. All collegedom
with its friends and relations was here; all collegedom, that is, within
traveling distance; beyond that, eager eyes were watching the bulletin
boards from Maine to Mojave.

The cheering had begun. Starting at one end of the west stand the slogan
sped, section by section, growing in volume as it went, and causing the
crimson flags and banners to dance and leap in the sunlight. Across the
field answering cheers thundered out and the bank of violets trembled as
though a wind ruffled it. In front of the north stand the Yates college
band added the martial strains of The Stars and Stripes Forever to the
general pandemonium of enthusiasm.

Then along the west stand a ripple of laughter which grew into a loud
cheer traveled, as a bent and decrepit figure attired in a long black
frock coat and high silk hat, the latter banded with crimson ribbon,
came into sight down the field. It was the old fruit seller of Harwell,
whose years are beyond reckoning, and who is remembered by the oldest
graduates. On he came, his old, wrinkled face grimacing in toothless
smiles, his ribboned cane waving in his trembling hand, and his
well-nigh bald head bowing a welcome to the watchers. For it was not he
who was the guest, for from time almost immemorial the old fruit seller
has presided at the contests of Harwell, rejoicing in her victories,
lamenting over her defeats. Down the line he limped, while gray-haired
graduates and downy-lipped undergrads cheered him loyally, calling his
name over and over, and so back to a seat in the middle of the stand,
from where all through the battle his crimson-bedecked cane waved
unceasingly.

He was not the only one welcomed by the throng. A great jurist,
chrysanthemumed from collar to waist, bowed jovial acknowledgment of the
applause his appearance summoned. The governor of a State came too to
see once more the crimson of his alma mater clashing with the blue of
her old enemy. Professors, who had put aside their books, beamed
benevolently through their glasses as they walked somewhat embarrassedly
past the grinning faces of their pupils. Old football players, former
captains, bygone masters of rowing, commanders of olden baseball teams,
all these and many more were there and were welcomed heartily,
tumultuously, by the wearers of the red. And through it all the cheers
went on, the college songs were sung, and the hearts of youth and age
were happy and glad together.

Then the cry of "Here they come!" traveled along the field, and the
blue-clad warriors leaped into the arena at the far end, and the east
stand went delirious, and flags waved, and a tempest shook the bank
of violets.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Yates!"

And almost simultaneously the west stand arose and its voice arose to
the sky in wild, frenzied shouts of:

"Har-well, Har-well, Har-well, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah,
Har-well! Har-well! Har-well!"

For over the fence came the head coach, and big Chesney, and Captain
Dutton, Story, the little quarter-back, and all the others, a long line
of crimson-stockinged warriors, with Joel March, Briscom, Bedford, and
the other substitutes flocking along in the tag end of the procession.
Over the field the two Elevens spread, while cheer after cheer met in
mid-field, clashed, and rolled upward to the blue. Then came a bare five
minutes of punting, dropping, passing, snapping, ere the officials
appeared from somewhere and gathered the opposing captains to them. A
coin flashed in the sunlight, spun aloft, descended, and was caught in
the referee's palm. "Heads!" cried Ferguson, the Yates captain. "Heads
it is!" announced the referee.

The substitutes retreated unwillingly to the side lines, the Harwell men
spread themselves over the north end of the gridiron, Elton, the Yates
full-back, ground his heel into the turf and pointed the ball, the
cheering ceased, the whistle piped merrily, the bright new ball soared
aloft on its arching flight, and the game of the year was on.




CHAPTER XXIII.


HARWELL _VS_. YATES--THE FIRST HALF.

That game will live in history.

It was a battle royal between giant foes. On one hand was the confidence
begat of fifteen years of almost continuous victory over the crimson; on
the other the desperation that such defeat brings. Yates had a proud
record to sustain, Harwell a decade of worsting to atone for. And
twenty-five thousand persons watched and hoped and feared as the
battle raged.

Down settled the soaring ball into the arms of Kingdon, who tucked it
under his arm and started with it toward the distant goal. But eight
yards was all he found ere a Yates forward crashed down upon him. Then
came a quick line-up on Harwell's forty yards, and first Prince, then
Kingdon, then Blair was put through the line, each for a small gain, and
the Harwell benches shouted their triumph. Again the pigskin was given
to Prince for a try through the hole between tackle and guard, but this
time he was hurled back for a loss. The next try was Kingdon's, and he
made a yard around the Yates left end. It was the third down and five
yards were lacking. Back went the ball for a kick, and a moment later
it was Yates's on her thirty-five yards, and again the teams were lining
up. It was now the turn of the east stand to cheer, and mightily the
shout rolled across the field.

Through came the Yates full, the ball safely stowed in the crook of his
elbow, the whole force of the backs shoving him on. Three yards was his.
Another line-up. Again the Yates full-back was given the ball, and again
he gained. And it was the first down on Yates's forty-five-yard line.
Then began a rout in which Harwell retreated and Yates pursued until the
leather had crossed the middle of the field. The gains were made
anywhere, everywhere, it seemed. Allardyce yielded time and again, and
Selkirk beside him, lacking the other's support, was thrust aside almost
at will. The Yates shouters were wild with joy, and the cheers of
Harwell were drowned beneath the greater outbursts from the supporters
of the blue.

Harwell appeared to be outclassed, so far as her rush line was
concerned. Past the fifty-yard line went the ball, and between it and
the next white streak, Harwell at last made a desperate stand, and
secured the ball. At the first play it was sent speeding away from
Blair's toe to the Yates mid-field, a long, clean, high kick, that led
the forwards down under it in time to throw the waiting back ere he had
taken a step, and that brought shouts of almost tearful delight from the
Harwell sympathizers. Back to her line-bucking returned Yates, and
slowly, but very surely, the contest moved over the lost ground, back
toward the Harwell goal. The fifty-five-yard line was passed again, the
fifty, the forty-five, and here or there holes were being torn in the
Harwell line, and the crimson was going down before the blue. At her
forty-yard line Harwell stayed again for a while the onslaught of the
enemy, and tried thrice to make ground through the Yates line. Then back
to the hands of Wilkes went the oval and again the heart-breaking
rout began.

                                  YATES.

                                Full-back
                               ELTON, 184

               Right                               Left
             Half-Back                          Half-Back
           THOMPSON, 153                       CUSHING, 157

                              BIRCH, 140
                             Quarter-back

   Right       Right    Right             Left     Left      Left
    End       Tackle    Guard   Center   Guard    Tackle      End
O'CALLAGHAN, FERGUSON, MORRIS,  WILKES, ALLISON,   GALT,    FRASER,
    163         203      197      204     194       189       150


   Left      Left      Left     Center   Right    Right      Right
    End     Tackle     Guard             Guard    Tackle      End
  DUTTON,  SELKIRK, ALLARDYCE, CHESNEY, RUTLAND, BURBRIDGE,  CHASE,
    150      186       189        229     196       179       156

                             Quarter-back
                              STORY, 144
           PRINCE, 157                          KINGDON, 182
              Left                                 Right
           Half-Back                             Half-Back

                              BLAIR, 179
                               Full-Back


                                HARWELL.

Harwell made her last desperate rally on her twenty-five yards. The ball
was thrown to Blair, who kicked, but not soon enough to get it out of
the way of the opposing forwards, who broke through as the ball rose. It
struck against the upstretched hand of the Yates right guard and bounded
toward the crimson's goal. The Yates left half fell upon it. From there,
without forfeiting the ball, Yates crashed down to the goal line, and
hurled Elton, her crack full-back, through at last for a touch-down.

For five minutes chaos reigned upon the east stand. All previous efforts
paled into nothingness beside the outbursts of cheers that followed each
other like claps of thunder up and down the long bank of fluttering
color. Upon the other side of the field no rival shouts were heard. It
was useless to try and drown that Niagara of sound. But here and there
crimson flags waved defiantly at the triumphant blue.

The goal was an easy one, though it is probable that it would have been
made had it been five times more difficult; for Elton was the
acknowledged goal kicker par excellence of the year. Then back trotted
the teams, and as the Harwell Eleven lined up for the kick-off Allardyce
at left guard gave place to Murdoch. The big fellow had given out and
had limped white-faced and choking from the field.

The whistle sounded and the ball rose into air, corkscrewing toward the
Yates goal. Down the field under it went the Harwell runners like bolts
from a bow, and the Yates half who secured the pigskin was downed where
he caught. The two teams lined up quickly. Then back, foot by foot, yard
by yard, went the struggling Harwell men. Yet the retreat was less like
a rout than before, and Yates was having harder work. Her players were
twice piled up against the Harwell center, and she was at last forced to
send a blue-clad youth around the left end, an experiment which netted
her twelve yards and which brought the east stand to its feet,
yelling like mad.

But here the crimson line at length braced and the ball went to its
center on three downs, and the tide turned for a while. The backs and
the right end were hurled, one after another, at the opposing line, and
shouts of joy arose from the crimson seats as gain after gain resulted.
Thrice in quick succession Captain Dutton shot through the left end of
the blue's line, the second time for a gain of five yards.

The cheering along the west side of the great field was now continuous,
and the leaders, their crimson badges fluttering agitatedly, were waving
their arms like tireless semaphores and exciting the supporters of
Harwell to greater and greater efforts. Nearer and nearer to the coveted
touch-down crept the crimson line. With clock-work precision the ball
was snapped, the quarter passed, the half leaped forward, the rush line
plunged and strove, and then from somewhere a faint "Down!" was cried;
and the panting players staggered to their feet, leaving the ball yet
nearer to the threatened goal line. On the blue's twenty-three yards the
whistle shrilled, and a murmur of dismay crept over the Yates seats as
it was seen that Captain Ferguson lay motionless on the ground. But a
moment's rubbing brought him to his feet again.

"He's not much hurt," explained the knowing ones. "He wants to rest a
bit."

A minute later, while the ball still hovered about the twenty-yard line,
Yates secured it on a fumbled pass, and the tide ebbed away from the
beleagured posts. Back as before were borne the crimson warriors, while
the Yates forwards opened holes in the opposing line and the Yates
halves dashed and wormed through for small gains. Then Fate again aided
the crimson, and on the blue's forty-seven-yard line a fake kick went
sadly aglee and the runner was borne struggling back toward his own goal
before he could cry "Down!" And big Chesney grinned gleefully as he
received the leather and bent his broad back above it.

Canes, crysanthemums, umbrellas, flags, carnations, hats, all these and
many other things waved frantically above the great bank of crimson as
the little knot of gallant knights in moleskin crept back over their
recent path of retreat and took the war again into the enemy's country.
Every inch of the way was stubbornly contested by the defenders, but
slowly they were pushed back, staggering under the shocks of the
crimson's attack. Chesney, Rutland, and Murdoch worked together, side by
side, like one man--or forty!--and when time was called for an instant
on the Yates twenty-five yards it was to bring Galt, the blue's left
tackle, back to consciousness and send him limping off the gridiron. His
place in the line was taken by an old Hilltonian, one Dunsmore, and the
game went on.

And now it was the blue that was in full retreat and the crimson that
pursued. Nearer and nearer to the Yates goal line went the resisting
besieged and the conquering besiegers, and the great black score-board
announced but eight more minutes of the first half remaining. But even
eight were three more than were needed. For Harwell crossed the twenty
yards by tandem on tackle, gained the fifteen in two downs by wedges
between tackle and guard, and from there on until the much-desired goal
line was reached never paused in her breathless, resistless onslaught.
It was Wesley Blair who at last put the ball over for a touch-down,
going through between center and left guard with all the weight of the
Harwell Eleven behind him. His smothered "Down!" was never heard, for
the west stand was a swaying, tumultuous unit of thunderous acclaim.

Up went the flags and banners of crimson hues, loud sounded the paean
of praise and thanksgiving from thousands of straining throats, while
below on the side lines the coaches leaped for joy and strained each
other to their breasts in unspeakable delight.

And while the shouting went on as though never would the frenzied
shouters cease, the grim, panting Yates players lined up back of their
goal line, on tiptoe, ready at the first touch of the ball to the earth
to spring forward and, leaping upward, strive to arrest the speeding
oval. Prone upon the ground, the ball in his hands, lay Story. A yard or
two distant Blair directed the pointing of it. The goal was a most
difficult one, from an angle, and long the full-back studied and
directed, until faint groans of derision arose from the impatient east
stand and the men behind the goal line moved restively.

"Lacing to you," said Blair quietly. Story shifted the ball
imperceptibly.

"More." The quarter-back obeyed.

"Cock it." Higher went the end toward the goal.

"Not so much." It was lowered carefully, slowly.

"Steady." Blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and
stepped forward again.

"Down!" Story's left hand touched the grass, the Yates men surged
forward, there was a thud, and--

Upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then
slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent. But the nearly
silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon
the face of the Scoreboard appeared the momentous word, "GOAL!"

Again the ball was put in play, but the half was soon over and the
players, snatching their blankets, trotted to the dressing rooms. And
the score-board announced:

"Opponents, 6. Yates, 6."

As the little swinging door closed behind him Joel found himself in a
seething mass of players, rubbers, and coaches, while a babel of voices,
greetings, commands, laughter, and lament, confused him. It was a busy
scene. The trainer and his assistants were working like mad. The doctor
and the head coach were talking twenty to the second. Everybody was
explaining everything, and the indefatigable coaches were hurrying from
man to man, instructing, reminding, and scolding.

Joel had only to look on, save when he lent a hand at removing some torn
and stubborn jersey, or at finding lost shin-guards and nose masks, and
so he found a seat out of the way, and, searching the room with his
gaze, at length found Prince. That gentleman was having a nice, new pink
elastic bandage put about his ankle. He was grinning sturdily, but at
every clutch of the web his lips twitched and his brow puckered. Joel
watching him wondered how much more he would stand, and whether his
(Joel's) chance would come ere the fatal whistle piped the end of
the match.

"Time's up!" cried the head coach suddenly, and the confusion redoubled
until he mounted to a bench and clapped his hands loudly above the din.
Comparative silence ensued. "Fellows," he began, "here's the list for
the next half. Answer to your names, please. And go over to the door.
Fellows, you'll have to make less noise. Dutton, Selkirk,
Murdoch--Murdoch?"

"Right!" The voice emerged from the folds of a woolen sweater which had
stubbornly refused to go on or off. With a smile the head coach
continued the list, each man responding as his name was announced and
crowding to the doorway.

"Chesney, Rutland, Burbridge, Barton--"

A murmur arose from the listening throng, and Chase, a tall, pale-faced
youth, his cheek exhibiting the marks of a contact with some one's shoe
cleats, groaned loudly and flung himself on to a bench, where he sat
looking blindly before him until the list was finished.

"Story, Prince--"

"Here!" called the latter, jumping from his seat. Then a sharp, agonized
cry followed, and Prince toppled over, clutching vainly at the air. The
head coach paused. The doctor and the trainer pushed toward the fallen
man, and a moment later the former announced quietly:

"He's fainted, sir."

"Can he go on?" asked the head coach.

"He is out of the question. Ankle's too painful. I couldn't allow it."

"Very well," answered the other as he amended the list. "Kingdon, Blair,
March."

Joel's heart leaped as he heard his name pronounced, and he tried to
answer.

"March?" demanded the head coach impatiently; and

"Here, sir!" gulped Joel, rushing to the door.

"All right," continued the head coach. "There isn't time for any fine
phrases, fellows, and if there was I couldn't say them so that they'd do
any good. You know what you've got to do. Go ahead and do it. You have
the chance of wiping out a good many defeats, more than it's pleasant to
think about. The college expects a great deal from you. Don't disappoint
it. Play hard and play together. Don't give an inch; die first. Tackle
low, run high, _and keep your eyes on the ball!_ And now, fellows,
_three times three for Harwell!_"

And what a cheer that was! The little building shook, the men stood on
their toes; the head coach cheered himself off the bench; and Joel
yelled so desperately that his breath gave out at the last "Rah!" and
didn't come back until the little door was burst open and he found
himself leaping the fence into the gridiron.

And what a burst of sound greeted their reappearance! The west stand
shook from end to end. Crimson banners broke out on the breeze, every
one was on his feet, hats waved, umbrellas clashed, canes swirled. A
youth in a plaid ulster went purple in the face at the small end of a
five-foot horn; and for all the sound it seemed to make it might as well
have been a penny whistle. The ushers waved their arms, but to no
purpose, since the seats heeded them not at all, but shouted as their
hearts dictated and as their throats and lungs allowed.

Joel, gazing about him from the field, felt a shiver of emotion pass
through him. They were cheering _him_! He was one of the little band in
honor of which the flags waved, the voices shouted, and the songs were
sung! He felt a lump growing in his throat, and to keep down the tears
that for some reason were creeping into his eyes, he let drive at a ball
that came bumping toward him and kicked it so hard that Selkirk had to
chase it half down the field.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell! Harwell! Harwell!
Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell!"

The leaders of the cheering had again gotten control of their sections,
and the long, deliberate cheer, majestic in its intensity of sound,
crashed across the space, rebounded from the opposite stand, and went
echoing upward into the clear afternoon air.

"Harwell!" muttered Joel. "_You Bet_!" Then he gathered with the others
about Dutton to listen to that leader's last instructions. And at the
same moment the east stand broke into cheers as the gallant sons of
Yates bounded on to the grass. Back and forth rolled the mighty torrents
of sound, meeting in midair, breaking and crashing back in fainter
reverberations. They were singing the college songs now, and the merits
and virtues of both colleges were being chanted defiantly to the tunes
of popular airs. Thousands of feet "tramp-tramped," keeping time against
the stands. The Yates band and the Harwell band were striving, from
opposite ends of the field, to drown each other's strains. And the blue
and crimson fluttered and waved, the sun sank lower toward the western
horizon, and the shadows crept along the ground.

"There will be just one more score," predicted the knowing ones as they
buttoned their ulsters and overcoats up at the throat and crouched along
the side lines, like so many toads. "But who will make it I'm blessed
if I know!"

Then Harwell lined up along the fifty-five-yard line, with the ball in
their possession, and the south goal behind them. And Yates scattered
down the field in front. And the linesmen placed their canes in the
turf, the referee and the umpire walked into the field, and the stands
grew silent save for the shrill voice of a little freshman on the west
stand who had fallen two bars behind in "This is Harwell's Day," and
needs must finish out while his breath lasted.

"Are you all ready?" asked the referee. There was no reply. Only here
and there a foot moved uneasily as weights were thrown forward, and
there was a general, almost imperceptible, tightening of nerves
and muscles.

And then the whistle blew.




CHAPTER XXIV.


HARWELL _VS_. YATES--A FAULT AND A REQUITAL.

The kick-off came into Blair's ready arms, the interference formed
quickly, and the full-back sped down the field. One white line passed
under foot--another; Joel felt Blair's hand laid lightly upon his
shoulder, and ran as though life itself depended upon getting that
precious ball past the third mark. But the Yates ends were upon them.
Joel gave the shoulder to one, but the second dived through Kingdon, and
the runner came to earth on the twenty-three-yard line, with Joel
tugging at him in the hope of advancing the pigskin another foot.

"Line up quickly, fellows!" called Story. The players jumped to their
places. "_1--9--9!_" Joel crept back a bare yard. "_1--9--9!_"

Kingdon leaped forward, snugged the ball under his arm, and followed by
Joel tried to find a hole inside left end. But the hole was not there,
and the ball was instantly in the center of a pushing, grinding mass.
"Down!" No gain.

Story, worming his way through the jumble, clapped his hands. Chesney
was already stooping over the ball. Joel ran to his position, and the
quarter threw a rapid glance behind him.

"_2--8--9_!" He placed his hand on the center's broad back.

"_2--8_--!" The ball was snapped. Joel darted toward the center, took
the leather at a hand pass, crushed it against the pit of his stomach,
and followed the left end through a breach in the living wall. Strong
hands pushed him on. Then he came bang! against a huge shoulder, was
seized by the Yates right half, and thrown. He hugged the ball as the
players crashed down upon him.

"Third down," called the referee. "Three yards to gain."

"Line up, fellows, line up!" called the impatient Story, and Joel jumped
to his feet, upsetting the last man in the pile-up, and scurried back.

"_2--9--9_!"

"_2--9_--!" Back sped Blair. Up ran Joel and Kingdon. The line blocked
desperately. A streak of brown flew by, and a moment later Joel heard
the thud as the full-back's shoe struck the ball. Then down the field he
sped, through the great gap made by the Yates forwards. The Harwell ends
were well under the kick and stood waiting grimly beside the Yates
full-back as the ball settled to earth. As it thudded against his canvas
jacket and as he started to run three pairs of arms closed about him,
and he went down in his tracks. The ball lay on Yates's
fifty-three-yard line.

The field streamed up. The big Yates center took the ball. Joel crept
up behind the line, his hands on the broad canvas-covered forms in
front, dodging back and forth behind Murdoch and Selkirk.
"_26--57--38--19--_!" The, opposing left half started across, took the
ball, and then--why, then Joel was at the very bottom of some seven
hundred pounds of writhing humanity, trying his best to get his breath,
and wondering where the ball was!

"Second down. Three and a half yards to gain."

Again the lines faced. Joel was crouched close to quarter, obeying that
player's gesture. They were going to try Murdoch again. Joel heard the
breathless tones of the Yates quarter as he stooped behind the
opposing line.

"A tandem on guard," whispered Joel to himself. The next moment there
was a crash, the man in front of him gave; then Joel and Story, gripping
the turf with their toes, braced hard; there was a moment of heaving,
panting suspense; then a smothered voice cried "Down!"

"Third down," cried the referee. "Three and a half yards to gain."

"Look out for a fake kick," muttered Story, as Joel fell back. The
opposing line was quickly formed, and again the signal was given. The
rush line heaved, Joel sprang into the air, settling with a crash
against the shoulders of Chesney and Murdoch, who went forward, carrying
the defense before them. But the ball was passed, and even as the Yates
line broke the thud of leather against leather was heard. Joel
scrambled to his feet, assisted by Chesney, and streaked up the field.
The ball was overhead, describing a high, short arch. Blair was awaiting
it, and Kingdon was behind and to the right of him. Down it came, out
shot Blair's hands, and catching it like a baseball he was off at a
jump, Kingdon beside him. Joel swung about, gave a shoulder to an
oncoming blue-clad rusher, ran slowly until the two backs were hard
behind him, and then dashed on.

Surely there was no way through that crowded field. Yet even as he
studied his path a pair of blue stockings went into the air, and a
threatening obstacle was out of the way, bowled over by a Harwell
forward. The ends were now scouting ahead of the runners, engaging the
enemy. The fifty-five-yard line was traversed at an angle near the east
side of the field, and Joel saw the touch line growing instantly more
imminent. But a waiting Yates man, crouchingly running up the line, was
successfully passed, and the trio bore farther infield, putting ten more
precious yards behind them.

The west stand was wild with exultant excitement, and Joel found himself
speeding onward in time with the rhythmic sway of the deep
"Rah-rah-rah!" that boomed across from the farther side. But the enemy
was fast closing in about them. The Yates right half was plunging down
from the long side, a pertinacious forward was almost at their heels.
And now the Yates full was charging obliquely at them with his eyes
staring, his jaw set, and determination in every feature and line. The
hand on Joel's shoulder dropped, Blair eased his pace by ever so little,
and Joel shot forward in the track of the full, his head down, and the
next moment was sprawling on the turf with the enemy above him. But he
saw and heard Blair and Kingdon hurdling over, felt a sharp pain that
was instantly forgotten, and knew that the ball was safely by.

But the run was over at the next line. Kingdon made a heroic effort to
down the half, and would have succeeded had it not been for the
persevering forward, who reached him with his long arms and pulled him
to earth. And Blair, the ball safe beneath him, lay at the Yates
thirty-five yards, the half-back holding his head to earth.

Joel arose, and as he trotted to his position he looked curiously at the
first finger of his left hand. It bore the imprint of a shoe-cleat, and
pained dully. He tried to stretch it, but could not. Then he shook his
hand. The finger wobbled crazily. Joel grinned.

"Bust!" he whispered laconically.

His first impulse was to ask for time to have it bound. Then he
recollected that some one had said the doctor was very strict about
injuries. Perhaps the latter would consider the break sufficient cause
for Joel's leaving the field. That wouldn't do; better to play with a
broken arm than not to play at all. So he tried to stick the offending
hand in his pocket, found there was no pocket there, and put the finger
in his mouth instead. Then he forgot all about it, for Harwell was
hammering the blue's line desperately and Joel had all he could do to
remember the signals and play his position.

For the next quarter of an hour the ball hovered about Yates's danger
territory. Twice, by the hardest kind of line bucking, it was placed
within the ten-yard line, and twice, by the grimmest, most desperate
resistance, it was lost on downs and sent hurtling back to near
mid-field. But Yates was on the defensive, even when the oval was in her
possession, and Harwell experienced the pleasurable--and, in truth,
unaccustomed--exultation that comes with the assurance of superiority.
Harwell's greatest ground-gaining plays now were the two sequences from
ordinary formation and full-back forward. These were used over and over,
ever securing territory, and ever puzzling the opponents.

Joel was hard worked. He was used not only to wriggle around the line
inside of ends and to squirm through difficult outlets, but to charge
the line as well, a feat of which his height and strong legs rendered
him well capable. He proved a consistant ground-gainer, and with Blair,
who worked like a hero, and Kingdon, who won laurels for himself that
remained fresh many years, gained the distance time and again. But
although the spectacular performances belonged here to the backs, the
line it was that made such work possible. Chesney, with his six feet
four and a half inches of muscle, and his two hundred and twenty-nine
pounds of weight, stood like a veritable Gibraltar of strength. Beside
him Rutland was scarcely less invulnerable, and Murdoch, on the other
side, played like a veteran, which he was not, being only a
nineteen-year-old sophomore, with but one hundred and sixty-seven pounds
to keep him from blowing away.

Selkirk gave way to Lee when the half was two thirds over, but Burbridge
played it out, and then owned up to a broken shoulder bone, and was
severely lectured by the trainer, the head coach, and the doctor in
turn; and worshiped by the whole college. Captain Dutton played a
dashing, brilliant game at left end, and secured for himself a
re-election that held no dissenting vote. And Barton, at the other end
of the red line, tried his best to fill the place of the deposed Chase,
and if he did not fully succeed, at least failed not from want of
trying. But it was little Story, the quarter-back, who won unfading
glory. A mass of nerves, from his head down, his brain was as clear and
cool as the farthest goal post, and he ran the team in a manner that
made the coaches, hopping and scrambling along on the side lines, hug
themselves and each other in glee. So much for the Harwell men.

As for Yates, what words are eloquent enough to do justice to the
heroic, determined defense she made there under the shadow of her own
goal, when defeat seemed every moment waiting to overwhelm her? Every
man in that blue-clad line and back of it was a hero, the kind that
history loves to tell of. The right guard, Morris, was a pitiable sight
as, with white, drawn face, he stood up under the terrific assault,
staggering, with half-closed eyes, to hold the line. Joel was heartily
glad when, presently, he fell up against the big Yates center after a
fierce attack at his position, and was supported, half fainting, from
the field. The substitute was a lighter man, as the next try at his
position showed, and the gains through the guard-tackle hole still went
on. Yates's team now held four substitutes, although with the exception
of Douglas, the substitute right-guard, none of them was perceptibly
inferior to the men whose places they took.

The cheering from the Harwell seats was now continuous, and the refrain
of "Glory, glory for the Crimson!" was repeated over and over. On the
east stand the Yates supporters were neither hopeless nor silent. Their
cheers were given with a will and encouraged their gallant warriors to
renewed and ever more desperate defense. The score-board proclaimed the
game almost done. With six minutes left it only remained, as it seemed,
for Yates to hold the plunging crimson once more at the last ditch to
keep the game a tie, and so win what would, under the circumstances,
have been as good as a victory.

Down came the Harwell line once more to the twenty yards, but here they
stopped. For on a pass from quarter to left half, the latter, one Joel
March of our acquaintance, fumbled the ball, dived quickly after it, and
landed on the Yates left guard, who had plunged through and now lay with
the pigskin safe beneath him!

It is difficult to either describe or appreciate the full depth of
Joel's agony as he picked himself up and limped back to his place. It
was a heart-tearing, blinding sensation that left him weak and limp. But
there was nothing for it save to go on and try to retrieve his fatal
error. The white face of Story turned toward him, and Joel read in the
brief glance no anger, only an almost tearful grief. He swung upon his
heel with a muttered word that sounded ill from his lips. But he was
only a boy and the provocation was great; let us not remember it
against him.

The Yates center threw back the ball for a kick, and Joel went down the
field after it. As he ran he wondered if Story would try him again. It
seemed doubtful, but if he did--Joel ground his teeth--he would take it
through the line! They would see! Just give him one chance to retrieve
that fumble! A year later and he had learned that a misplay, even though
it lose the game for your side, may in time be lived down. But now that
knowledge was not his, and a heart-rending picture of disgrace before
the whole college presented itself to him.

Then Blair had the ball, was off, was tackled near the side line under
the Yates stand, and the two teams were quickly lined up again. The
cheers from the friends of the blue were so loud that the quarter's
voice giving the signal was scarcely to be heard. Joel crept nearer.
Then his heart leaped up into his throat and stood still.

"_7--1--2!_"

There was no mistake! It was left half's ball on a double pass for a
run around right end! The line-up was within eight yards of the east
side line. The play was the third of the second sequence, in which Joel
with the other backs had been well instructed, and its chance of success
lay in the fact that it had the appearance of a full-back punt or a run
around the long side of the field. Joel leaned forward, facing the left
end. Blair crept a few feet in.

"_7--1--!_" began the quarter.

The ball was snapped, Blair ran three strides nearer, the quarter
turned, and the pigskin flew back. Joel started like a shot, seized the
ball from the full-back's outstretched hands, and sped toward the right
end of the line. The right half crossed in front of him, the right end
and tackle thrust back their opponents, the left tackle and guard
blocked hard and long. Blair helped the right half in his diversion at
the left end, and Joel, with Dutton interfering and Blair a stride
behind, swept around the end.

The only danger was in being forced over the touch line, but the play
worked well, and the opposing tackle seemed anchored. The Yates end,
from his place back of the line, leaped at them, but was upset by
Dutton, and the two went down together. The opposing left half bore down
upon Joel and Blair, the latter speeding along at the runner's side, and
came at them with outstretched arms. Another moment and Joel was alone.
Story and the half were just a mass of waving legs and arms many
yards behind.

Joy was the supreme sensation in Joel's breast. Only the Yates
full-back threatened, the ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his
breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal-posts loomed far
down the field and beckoned him on. This, he thought exultingly, was the
best moment that life could give him.

Behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the
Harwell stand, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. He edged farther
out from the dangerous touch line and sped on. The Yates full-back had
been deceived by the play and had gone far up the field for a kick, and
now down he came, and Joel found a chill creeping over him as he
remembered the player's wide reputation. He was the finest full-back, so
report had it, of the year. And of a sudden Joel found his breath
growing labored, and his long legs began to ache and seemed stiffening
at the thighs and knees. But he only ran the faster and prepared for the
threatened tackle. Harwell hearts sank, for the crimson-clad runner
appeared to waver, to be slowing down. Suddenly, when only his own
length separated him from his prey, the Yates full-back left the ground
and, like a swimmer diving into the sea, dove for the hesitating runner.

There was but one thing that day more beautiful to see than that
fearless attempt to tackle; and that one thing was the leap high into
the air that the Harwell left half made just in the nick of time,
clearing the tackler, barely avoiding a fall, and again running free
with the ball still safe!

The Yates player quickly recovered and took up the chase, and the
momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers
almost to Joel's heels. And now began a contest that will ever live in
the memories of those who witnessed it.

Panting, weary, his legs aching at every bound, his throat parching with
the hot breath, Joel struggled on. Joy had given place to fear and
desperation. Time and again he choked down the over-ready sobs. Behind
him sounded the thud of relentless feet. He dared not look back lest he
stumble. Every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. Every
second he thought that _now_ he must give up. But recollection of that
fumble crushed down each time the inclination to yield, and one after
another the nearly obliterated lines passed under foot. He gave up
trying to breathe; it was too hard. His head was swimming and his lungs
seemed bursting.

Then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he felt a touch,
just the lightest fingering, on his shoulder, and gathering all his
remaining strength he increased his pace for a few steps, and the hand
was gone. And the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly.

"One more," he thought, "one more!"

The great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. The
figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now
relentlessly proclaimed one minute left!

Nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the
pursuing full-back. Then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth
of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the
Harwell runner. Once more Joel called upon his strength and tried to
draw away, but it was no use. And with the goal line but four yards
distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist.

One--two--three strides he made. The goal line writhed before his dizzy
sight. Relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter
about him like steel bands, and settled lower and lower until his legs
were clasped and he could move no farther! Despairingly he thrust the
ball out at arms' length and tried to throw himself forward; the
trampled turf rose to meet him....

       *       *       *       *       *

"The ball is over!" pronounced the referee. It was a nice decision, for
an inch would have made a world of difference; but it has never
been disputed.

Then Dutton leaped into the air, waving his arms, Rutland turned a
somersault, and the west stand arose as one man and went mad with
delight. Hats and cushions soared into air, the great structure shook
and trembled from end to end, and the last few golden rays of the
setting sun glorified the waving, fluttering bank of triumphant crimson!




CHAPTER XXV.


THE RETURN.

"Boom! Boom!" thundered the big drum.

"Tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife.

"Tarum! Taroom!" growled the horns.

The Harwell band marched through the archway and defiled on to the
platform. The college marched after. Well, perhaps not all the college;
I have heard that a senior living in Lanter was too ill to be present.
But the incoming platform was thronged from wall to track, so it was
perhaps as well that he didn't come, because there positively wasn't
room for him.

"What is it?" asked a citizen in a silk hat of a gayly decorated youth
on the outskirts of the crowd. The latter stared for full a minute ere
the words came. Then he cried:

"Here's a fellow who wants to know what we're here for!" And a great
groan of derision went up to the arching roof, and the ignorant person
slunk away, yet not before his silk hat had been pushed gently but
firmly far down over his eyes. Punishment ever awaits the ignorant who
will not learn.

     "Glory, glory for the Crimson,
      Glory, glory for the Crimson,
      Glory, glory for the Crimson,
        For this is Harwell's day,"

sang the throng.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!" thundered the big drum.

"Tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife.

"Now, fellows, three times three, three long Harwells, and three times
three!" shouted the master of ceremonies hoarsely.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell! Harwell! Harwell!
Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell!" shrieked the crowd.

"Louder! Louder!" commanded the remorseless youth on the baggage truck.
"Nine long Harwells! One, two, three!"

"Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well! Har-well!
Har-well! Har-well!" The sound crashed up against the vaulted station
roof and thundered back. And none heard the shriek of the incoming train
as it clattered over the switches at the entrance of the shed, and none
saw it until it was creeping in, the engineer leaning far out of the cab
window and waving a red bandanna handkerchief, a courtesy that won him a
cheer all to himself.

Then out tumbled the returning heroes, bags in hands, followed by the
head coach and all the rest of the attendant train. And then what a
pushing and shouting and struggling there was! There were forty men to
every player, and the result was that some of the latter were nearly
torn limb from limb ere they were safe out of reach on the shoulders of
lucky contestants for the honor of carrying them the first stage of the
journey to college.

There were some who tried to hide, some who tried to run, others who
enjoyed the whole thing hugely and thumped the heads of their bearers
heartily just to show good feeling.

Joel was one of the last to leave the car, and as he set foot on the
platform a hundred voices went up in cheers, and a hundred students
struggled for possession of him. But one there was who from his place of
vantage halfway up the steps repelled all oncomers, and assisted by a
second youth of large proportions seized upon Joel and setting him upon
their shoulders bore him off in triumph.

"Boom! Boom!" said the big drum. And the procession started. Down the
long platform it went, past the waiting room doors where a crowd of
onlookers waved hats and handkerchiefs, and so out into the city street.
Joel turned his head away from the observers, ashamed and happy. There
was no let-up to the cheering. One after another the names of the
players and substitutes, coaches and trainer, were cheered and
cheered again.

"Out of the way there!" cried Joel's bearers, and the marching throng
looked about, moved apart, and as Joel was borne through, cheered him to
the echo, reaching eager hands toward him, crying words of commendation
and praise into his buzzing ears.

"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, March!"

"One!" shrieked a youth near where Joel soon found himself at the head
of the procession, and the slogan was taken up:

"Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten! E-lev-en!"

"Now give me your hand, Joel!" cried the youth upon whose left shoulder
he was swaying. Joel obeyed, smiling affectionately down into the
upraised face. Then he uttered a cry of pain. One of the fingers of his
left hand was bandaged, and Outfield West dropped it gingerly.

"Not--not _broke_?" he asked wonderingly. Joel nodded.

"Aren't you _proud_ of it?" whispered his chum.

"Yes," answered Joel simply and earnestly.

"May I take it, too?" asked the other youth. Joel started and looked
down into the anxious and entreating face of Bartlett Cloud. He grasped
the hesitating hand that was held up.

"Yes," he answered smilingly.

And the big drum boomed, and the shrill fifes tootled, and the crimson
banners waved upon the breeze, and every one cheered himself hoarse, and
thus the conquering heroes came back to the college that loved them.

And Joel, a little tearful when no one was looking, and very happy
always, was borne on the shoulders of West and Cloud, friend and enemy,
at the very head of the procession, honored above all!



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