Kendall sat in a corner of the barge as it rattled its way through clouds of dust back to Wissining. They had pulled his wrist into place again, bandaged it and put it back in a sling. Every bump of the barge’s weak springs made it throb painfully. But it was not his injury that Kendall minded. It was the knowledge that he had failed his fellows and the school. That was what hurt. He had lost the game, he told himself miserably. It had needed only that goal from the field to win, and he had missed it. He still wondered how it had happened. He had dropped the ball as well as he knew how, had kicked at the right instant, his instep had met it squarely, he was convinced that he had made no miscalculation of the distance. And yet, by some unhappy chance, the ball had barely cleared the bar underneath instead of sailing over. Since the whistle had blown he had avoided the glances of his teammates, was avoiding them now. He knew that by to-morrow they would find excuses Here and there some of the fellows were conversing jerkily in tired voices, but there was no joking to-day, no bantering, no laughing, no singing as the team went home. It seemed to them all that the tie had been a defeat. For the moment they had lost sight of the fact that Broadwood had outweighed them and that in playing their rival to a tied score they had perhaps gained some glory after all. Yardley had grown accustomed to victory on the gridiron, and anything less than a victory spelled disgrace to them. They were thankful, each and every one of them, that until the barge reached Yardley they would not have to face their fellows. Now and then a lighter vehicle passed, and the occupants leaned out and shouted and waved their flags as they went by. But the players made no response. Perhaps one or two grinned stoically; perhaps here and there a fellow’s face worked and his throat choked up. To-morrow—even later this same evening—they would begin to see things less pessimistically, but now, thoroughly tired, aching When the barge rolled up the drive to the front of Oxford a crowd had already gathered about the steps, a throng of nearly a hundred, and the returning warriors were met with cheers that were hearty and loyal. A look of dull surprise overspread some of the faces in the barge; some of the fellows smiled a little; others grew frankly tearful. All shouldered their way through the crowd and sought their rooms, avoiding the hands that would have detained them and the questions that met them. Afterward, as other vehicles returned and emptied their loads, the gathering grew and the cheers became louder and louder, and when, finally, some two hundred voices took up the strains of the school song and sang it through proudly and lovingly and even exultantly, you’d never have guessed that Yardley held herself defeated! Number 28 was dark when Kendall reached it. Gerald was not there, and he was very glad. He didn’t light the lights, but crossed to the window-seat, after he had taken off his coat and cap, and threw himself down among the cushions to think it all over again. Thinking, however, made Once it occurred to him that had Fales kicked the goal after the touchdown they would still have won a victory. But he was charitable toward Fales. Fales had been worn out, almost ready to collapse, and it was no wonder he had missed. Besides, Fales was not supposed to excel at goal-kicking. With Kendall it was different. He was first of all a kicker, he had been given his place on the team because they believed he could be depended on to score from the field. And he had failed at the one most important moment of the season! Kendall groaned and The world outside the windows got blacker and blacker. He knew that in the next building they were gathering for the banquet and the election. But he had no intention of going. He didn’t want to face them yet, while as for eating, he didn’t care if he never saw food again! Now and then a voice or a strain of whistling or a bar of song came up to him as fellows passed under the window. Once there was a long burst of cheering from commons. One of the Old Boys, perhaps a former football hero, had entered the dining-hall probably. Well, they’d never cheer him that way; never, unless—yes, there was another year coming, after all. Perhaps they’d give him a chance to retrieve, to make up then! For a moment he felt better. But then the thought that if he failed to win his scholarship this year he wouldn’t be likely to get back again sent his spirits down once more. And so for another hour he lay there in self-abasement and self-accusation and got a little tearful at times and felt pretty miserable. And finally, tired out physically and mentally, he fell asleep and only awoke when someone thumped on the door and called his name loudly. He sat up, with a wince as his injured arm was jolted, and rubbed his eyes. “Burtis! You in there?” demanded the caller imperatively. The knob rattled, but Kendall had turned the key and the door denied admittance. For a brief instant Kendall clung to his desire for seclusion. But then, as there came a kick which threatened to drive a panel in, he answered: “Hello! Who is it, please?” “Simms! Open the door, you silly chump! What time do you think it is?” Kendall crossed the room in the darkness and turned back the key. The door was pushed open, admitting a flood of light from the corridor. Simms stared in at him. “What the dickens are you doing?” he demanded. “Been asleep?” “Yes, a little while,” answered Kendall. “Well, find your cap and come on. We’re half through dinner! We’ve been looking for you for an hour.” “I—I don’t think I want to go over there, thanks,” murmured the other. “I—my arm’s pretty sore, and I’m tired——” “What of it? Don’t you think the rest of us are tired, too? And sore? Gosh, I haven’t a bone in my body that isn’t yelping! Besides, we’ve got to elect a new captain pretty soon.” “You won’t need my vote,” Kendall demurred. “Crandall! Well, say——” Simms paused and chuckled. “Just the same you’d better come, Burtis. They sent me for you, and I can’t go back without you. Get your cap, like a good fellow.” “They sent for me? Who, Simms?” “Why, the lot of them, the whole push, of course,” replied the quarter impatiently. “Do you mean—that they—really want me?” faltered Kendall. “Really want you? Say, what’s the matter with you, old man?” Simms looked curiously into the other boy’s face. Then he whistled softly. “So that’s it, eh?” he asked, as though of himself. He put one hand on Kendall’s shoulder. “Look here, Burtis,” he said affectionately, “you’ve got some fool notion in your head, haven’t you? Feeling sore, I guess, about that goal you didn’t make. Is that it?” “Why—why, of course, I feel pretty rotten about it,” answered the younger boy. “And I thought—perhaps the other fellows——” His voice dwindled away into silence. Simms laughed cheerfully. Then his fingers closed reassuringly on Kendall’s shoulder. “Poppycock, Burtis! Poppycock, my son! No It seemed too good to be true, and as he turned away to dash a sponge across his face his eyes got leaky again, and it took him a long time to get through with the towel and find his cap. Then he was following Simms down the stairs and along the walk and through the entrance to Whitson, alive with students awaiting the result of the election. As the two pushed their way through, the fellows fell back for them, cheering and shouting, laughing and joking. Kendall followed the quarter as in a daze. The big door opened, and he saw the long table spread in the middle of the hall and lined on each side with the fellows. There Kendall faltered at the door, but Simms dragged him on. “Got him, fellows!” he announced, pushing Kendall forward into the flood of light about the table. “Found him sound asleep, and almost had to kick the door in!” “Hello, Burtis, you old top!” shouted Girard. “Everything’s eaten up, Burtis!” cried Marion. Kendall found himself pushed into a chair between Simms and Adler. Everyone was talking at him, laughing at him, it seemed, and, wonder of wonders, every face was kindly! If an expression of doubt crept now and then into Merriwell’s countenance as he glanced at the newcomer, Kendall didn’t see it. Nor did he discern that Coach Payson was viewing him in a half-puzzled way. For a space, in fact, he saw very little. Eager hands passed him things and piled his plate high and Kendall pecked at the viands, too happy to really eat. But after a while he began to hear what was going on about him. They were still talking over the game, but the former despondency was all Then, it must have been a half-hour later, when the last spoon had been laid reluctantly aside, although many diners were still sipping their second or third cups of black coffee, Captain Merriwell arose and hammered the table for attention. One by one the voices died away and the captain made his speech. He thanked them all for the But the rest was lost in the sound of cheers and the tinkling of silver against goblets and the thumping of feet. And now it remained to choose a captain for next year, Merriwell went on. It was customary for the retiring captain to make the first nomination, but he wasn’t going to do that to-night. He was going to let them make their selection without any suggestion from him, knowing that whoever they chose would be the right man! And nominations were in order! More cheering then, and some laughter, and finally a quieter mood, while the fellows glanced curiously around the table and waited. Cousins pushed back his chair and stood up, smiling as the fellows began to clap. “I can’t make a speech, fellows, and I don’t need to. We’ve got plenty of fellows on this team who would make good captains, and for my part I say it’s hard to choose (Applause and cries of “That’s right!”). But in my opinion I think there’s one in especial that deserves the position. He’s played three full years on the team, he’s a fellow we all like—I might say love—and—well, I Lots of cheering then, and lots of kindly looks toward the blushing Crandall. Simms and Fales, who sat on his other side, had their heads together. Then Simms started up, but Stark was ahead of him. Stark was saying nice things about Pete Girard, and Pete was struggling to throw a napkin at him and repeating, “Sit down, you big chump! I don’t want to be captain!” much to the amusement of the table. But Pete got his meed of applause when Stark finished, and then Simms sprang up. “Fellows, we’ve had good names put before us. Crandall, bless his old hide, would make a good captain! So would Girard, if he could keep awake! (Sit down, Pete!) Either one of them would do to lead us—I mean the rest of you fellows, because some of us will be out of it next year—to lead you to victory. But, fellows, there’s one here who hasn’t been named yet, and I know you’re waiting for it. We’ve got a fellow here who would make the sort of captain we want, the sort we love to follow, the sort that Chase was in the old days before we came here, and that Vinton was, and that Merriwell has been. He hasn’t served his three years, fellows, but that can’t be helped. It isn’t his fault, it’s our |