Kendall returned to his room a half hour before supper time in a condition of mental amazement. He had practically agreed to “go out” for the Scholiast after Christmas recess and had made the startling discovery that an editorship on the school weekly was just what he wanted! Whitehall had kindly and almost apologetically explained that at first, “just for a while, you know,” Kendall would have to do reporting so as to learn the ropes. But none of the group on the island had seemed to doubt for a moment that Kendall would ultimately succeed to the position of editor-in-chief! When he had spoken modestly of his lack of experience the fellows had waved the thing aside as of no consequence.

“That will be all right,” Davis had declared. “It won’t take you any time to get the hang of it.” And there had been a most flattering emphasis on the “you.”

Only Jim Hough had seemed unenthusiastic. Jim had expressed doubt that a fellow could be on the Scholiast and give the proper amount of time and attention to football. Whereupon had ensued an argument between Jim and Whitehall as to the comparative importance of football and journalism, the latter making the absolutely absurd claim that journalism was the greater pursuit of the two! In the end they had appealed to Kendall for his opinion and he had put an end to the dispute by smilingly suggesting that they allow him to defer judgment until he knew more about journalism, a suggestion that seemed to impress everyone with its marvelous wisdom. Or everyone save The Duke. The Duke had grinned like the Cheshire cat all the time and had more than once favored Kendall with a surreptitious and knowing wink, thereby adding to Kendall’s embarrassment.

For it was embarrassing. To discover suddenly that instead of the nonentity one supposes oneself to be one is in reality a public character, a person of prominence, in short a quasi-hero, is bound to be both embarrassing and disturbing. But once having had his eyes opened, Kendall could not doubt that The Duke had spoken truly. He had only to observe how attentively the others listened to what he said, how eager they seemed to have him express opinions, how stoutly they believed in his ability to make the Scholiast and succeed at the work. But it was pleasant, almost intoxicatingly pleasant, and Kendall went back to Clarke Hall in a mood far different from that in which he had left. The world no longer seemed dull or empty. It was, indeed, a very wonderful world, filled with many likable people and teeming with possibilities! Kendall’s feelings were reflected so plainly in his countenance when he entered Number 28 that Gerald, who had unexpectedly returned for supper and was entertaining George Kirk, viewed him in surprise.

“Hello,” he exclaimed, “what’s happened to you, Kendall? Anybody left you a fortune?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Kendall after greeting Kirk. “I—I’ve been on the river with The Duke. We had a bully time.”

“With The Duke? What the dickens did you do?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just paddled up to the island and sat there. Some fellows came along and we talked.”

“And that’s your idea of a bully time!” marveled Gerald. “George, observe our young friend and take a lesson from him. Forget that Broadwood beat you yesterday. Paddle on the river and cheer up!”

“Did they really beat us?” asked Kendall.

Kirk nodded gloomily. “They simply slaughtered us.”

“Don’t get him on the subject again, Kendall,” begged Gerald. “I found him moping on the steps and brought him along to brighten him up. He’s wailed and bewailed for half an hour and I can stand no more of it. Let’s find a cheerful subject of conversation, such as supper.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Kendall sympathetically.

“Let it go at that, then,” said Gerald. “You’ll start him off again if you aren’t careful. What lovely weather we’re having, George!”

Kirk laughed. “Well, we’ll get back at them in the Spring,” he said hopefully. “I wish you’d try for the team, Burtis.”

“I don’t think I’d ever make a golfer,” replied Kendall. “You know I tried last year, Kirk.”

“I know you did. And did mighty well, too. All you need is practice. I wish you’d think it over. It’s so hard to get good fellows for the team!”

“Maybe I will, if you want me to,” said Kendall. “I like golf very much, only I don’t believe I’d ever become much of a player.”

“I think you would,” replied Kirk earnestly. “Any fellow who can do as well in football as you’re doing, and has such a dandy sense of directions and distance as you must have to kick those goals, ought to make a good golfer.”

Kendall smiled, and, seeing the inquiring look on Kirk’s face, explained. “I was thinking of something Ned Tooker said last year. Ned said that a good football player couldn’t be a good golf player; that the one spoiled him for the other; I forget just why.”

Kirk laughed. “Well, Ned was the best golfer we’ve ever had here, but he didn’t know everything. And, besides, Ned was fond of saying things just for the sound of them!”

“A common failing,” grieved Gerald as he splashed and gurgled at the stand. “Alas, how”—gurgle—“few of us”—sniff! splash!—“consider the sense”—sniff! sniff!—“of our utterances! Where’s that towel?”

“Then it’s a promise, is it, Burtis?” asked the golf captain eagerly.

“Why—er—yes, if you like. At least, I’ll give it a fair try, Kirk.”

“Good stuff! We’ll have some games together after the Broadwood game’s over. Well, I’ll run along. ’Bye, Gerald.”

“’Bye,” answered Gerald from behind a towel. “Call again, Georgie.”

“Perhaps I will some day. By the way!” Kirk stopped at the door. “What sort of a chap is that Cotton? I mean the fellow who rooms with The Duke. All right, is he?”

“All right?” echoed Gerald. “I’d say he was pretty much all wrong. There’s no harm in him, though, I guess. Ask Kendall. He’s a great chum of Kendall’s. Thick as thieves, they are!”

“Oh, well, I guess he’s all right, then,” said Kirk. “I asked because——” He stopped, looked thoughtfully puzzled a moment and then, nodding, went out.

“Wonder what Cotton’s done to him,” said Gerald cheerfully. “If I were a punster I’d say it was evident Kirk doesn’t cotton to him. But I’m not, and so I won’t. Did I hear you murmur your thanks?”

“Eh?” asked Kendall blankly.

“Well, where have you been? Still thinking of what a wonderful time you had on the river?” Gerald seemed a little disgruntled over that.

“No, I was just—just thinking.”

What he had been thinking was that if he succeeded in making the Scholiast and the Golf Team, he would be a pretty busy chap the rest of the year!

Just how the trick played on Gibson of Broadwood got out is not known. Neither Gerald nor Kendall divulged it, and The Duke refused to own to having spoken of the matter. But get out it did, for by Monday the whole school knew about it and was laughing delightedly. Even the Scholiast, most dignified of school publications, could not forebear a fling and the next issue contained at the bottom of a page this brief note:

“The Broadwood Academy Press announces for early publication ‘Personal Recollections of Booth’; by Gibson.”

Football practice on Monday was hard and long. Several second string players were temporarily promoted to the First Team, for a number of the regulars were still showing the effects of Saturday’s game. Kendall played two periods and then yielded his position to Fayette and was sent off. On Tuesday, however, strains and bruises were healed and the First Team lined up as on Saturday, with the exception that Adler was in place of Metz at right end. Oliver Colton, a former Yardley captain, arrived on Tuesday and stayed until the end of the week, putting in three days of hard coaching. Under his tuition the guards and tackles improved perceptibly. The first serious accident of the season happened Wednesday, when Lin Johnson, center of the Second Team, broke a shoulder blade and did it in such a messy way that there was no question of any more football for him that season. Ireland, who had been playing full-back on Hough’s team, took Johnson’s place, but he didn’t make much of a center and the First, when it wanted a gain through the middle of the opposing line, spoke of taking “a short trip through Ireland.” But the Second struggled on gamely and, if it was no longer able to score touchdowns on the First, sometimes got a field-goal over.

The mass-meetings began Thursday night. Everyone piled into Assembly Hall on the top floor of Oxford and listened to speeches by Mr. Payson and Captain Merriwell and Mr. Bendix, Physical Director, and sang the old songs and experimented with new ones, and cheered themselves hoarse. The Banjo and Mandolin Club provided the music, assisted by Perky Davis at the piano, and its efforts to master some of the tunes offered by enthusiastic amateur composers occasioned much merriment among the audience below the stage. Afterward Kendall, who had promised himself an hour’s tussle with algebra that evening, went back alone to Number 28, Gerald and Harry wandering off with Pete Girard to the latter’s room in Dudley. To Kendall’s disgust, when he reached Number 28 he found the door ajar and Charles Cotton seated at the table apparently deeply immersed in calculations with pencil and paper. Kendall disguised his surprise and disappointment and greeted the visitor politely if without overmuch enthusiasm. Cotton, however, seemed to notice no lack of warmth.

“Just the fellow I wanted to see,” he announced, without rising from Kendall’s chair. “Saw you at the meeting, but lost you outside. I want you to see what you think of this scheme, Burtis.”

“What is it?” asked Kendall, tossing aside his cap and leaning over the other’s shoulder. On the table lay a square of paper rudely scrawled with circles and figures. “I’m not much good at puzzles, Cotton.”

“Oh, this isn’t a puzzle. It’s something new in football signals.”

“You don’t say? What’s the idea?”

“Well, look here. Have you got another chair? Bring it up, like a good fellow. I’m awfully interested in this and I want you tell me what you think of it. Now then,” he continued when Kendall had drawn a chair to the table and seated himself, “here’s the idea. You know the signals they use now are dreadfully complicated.”

“Are they?”

“Well, aren’t they? Take the Yardley system, for instance. We have two sets of signals, like this.” Cotton indicated his diagram. “Here are the holes numbered from 1 to 8. Then the two ends, the two tackles and the four backs are numbered from 1 to 8. Now that’s confusing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why,” Kendall objected, getting interested now. “We use three numbers, the first a fake, the second indicating the runner, and the third the hole. That’s not hard.”

“Then we have special plays numbered, too.”

“Yes, a special play is called by tacking its number on to 500 and when Simms calls that he calls it right after the fake. You can’t get mixed up there, can you?”

“N-no,” replied Cotton doubtfully. “I suppose not. Still—now suppose left half was to take the ball through guard-tackle hole on the right. How would you call that?”

“We haven’t any such play. If we had, though, Simms would give us, say, 22, 76, 36.”

Cotton studied his diagram. “That sounds harder than need be. Your 22 is your fake, your 76 is your runner, the second numeral of the number indicating left half-back, and the 36 is the hole, the 6 meaning between right guard and tackle. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Have I got the positions numbered right?”

“Not quite. You’ve got quarter numbered 7; should be 5.”

“That so? Well, you draw a diagram for me, will you? I’m a lobster at it. Got another piece of paper?”

Kendall drew a pad toward him and quickly made a row of circles for the forwards and added four more beneath for the backs. Then he numbered the holes and the players. Cotton nodded approvingly.

“That’s fine and neat,” he commended. “Now suppose you were to punt, Burtis; what would be the signal for that?”

“‘Burtis back; 24, 49, 16.’”

“Nine means kick, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, and the 16 means nothing. When you get to the 9 you know it is to be a kick and pay no attention to anything afterwards. Same way with special plays, Cotton. For instance, ‘75, 506, 102’ means that the play is to Play Number 6. The 102 means nothing; it’s just tagged on to fill out.”

“Well, that isn’t as complicated as it seemed at first,” owned Cotton. “As long as I was on the team we used only hole numbers, you know, and the quarter indicated the runner with his fingers on his hip.”

“Yes, the Second does that still, I think. It’s not a bad way if all the backs can see the quarter’s fingers. What is this scheme of yours, though?”

Cotton frowned a minute. Then he shook his head. “It doesn’t seem so good now,” he confessed. “My plan was to use numbers for the holes and letters for the players. It seemed to me it would be easier to remember.”

“That’s not new,” smiled Kendall. “They used to use letters altogether sometimes, I’ve heard. Used to take a word with ten or eleven letters, no two the same, of course, and let a letter stand for the hole and the player, too. I guess the number codes are better, though.”

“I suppose so, or they wouldn’t use them,” replied Cotton thoughtfully folding up the paper. “Still, I think a fellow might figure out a simpler scheme than the one we use.”

“Try it,” laughed Kendall. “If you hit on anything good I guess Payson will be glad to use it.”

“I suppose the best thing about the number signals is that they can be changed easily. Now I suppose these signals won’t be used in Saturday’s game.”

“Yes, they will. But they’ll be changed for Broadwood.”

“I see.” Cotton absently dropped the sheet of paper in his pocket as he stood up. “Well, I’m going to have another go at it, anyway. I’ll bet I can beat this scheme. I hope I haven’t been in the way. Were you going to do anything?”

“Only grind a little,” replied Kendall. “There’s plenty of time yet. So long, Cotton. Let me know how you get on with that.” He nodded toward the pocket in which lay the paper.

“I will.” Cotton patted his jacket as though he wasn’t at all sure where he had placed the sheet, and nodded. “Good-night.”

Kendall, hunting his books, reflected that Cotton wasn’t so bad, after all. Why, to-night he had been quite human! Of course, he shouldn’t have taken possession of the room in the absence of the occupants. There was an unwritten law at Yardley that if a fellow was not in, you went no further than the threshold unless you happened to be a particular friend and had permission to make yourself at home. However, Cotton had behaved so amiably that Kendall was ready to forgive the breach of manners. He had almost liked the fellow to-night!