Hope was delighted.

“I just know you’re going to be a real football hero, Jim,” she declared earnestly. “And I shall be too proud of you for words! And to-morrow I shall go and see you play.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” responded Jim shortly. “If I’ve got to make a fool of myself I don’t intend to have the whole family watching me.”

Hope’s face fell. “But I may see you some day, mayn’t I? And I shall bring some of the girls from school with me. There’s one, Grace Andrews, whose brother plays on the High School team and she’s too sticky about it for anything. We play the High School Saturday, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I do hope they’ll let you play then, Jim! I’d love to have Grace Andrews see you.”

“Well, she won’t,” replied Jim grimly. “I’ll be on the awkward squad for weeks, I suppose, and it’s a fair bet I never leave it. Besides, it seems to me your sympathy ought to be with your own school, sis.”

Hope considered that a moment. Then, “Well,” she sighed, “it’s a very difficult position I’m in. Of course I’m very fond of High School, Jim, but—but I think I’d rather have Crofton win; especially if you play. Wouldn’t that be just perfectly jimmy?”

“Fine! And maybe Duncan Sargent will retire and make me captain in his place,” added Jim ironically as he started upstairs to get ready for supper. “But, somehow, I don’t look for him to do it!”

After supper study was delayed in Sunnywood while Gil and Poke went over the football rules with Jim and did their best to elucidate them. Jeffrey was on hand too, and if it had not been for him I think Jim would have known less after the lesson than before, for Gil and Poke proved quite at variance as to the interpretation of half the rules and Jim was getting more and more confused when Jeffrey came to the rescue. Gil and Poke were hotly contradicting each other as to what invalidated a forward pass.

“I’ll leave it to Jeff if I’m not right,” declared Poke.

“Whereupon Jeffrey very quietly and understandingly explained Rule XIX in all its phases, while the others listened in respectful and admiring silence.

“I say,” exclaimed Poke when Jeffrey had finished, “you certainly know the rules, Senator. I’ll bet you you wrote them yourself!”

Jeffrey smilingly denied this but acknowledged that he always studied them very carefully each year, adding, “You see, I like to watch football mighty well, even if I can’t play it, and unless you know the rules of the game well enough to know just what’s being done all the time, and why, you don’t thoroughly enjoy it.”

“Well,” said Gil, “I guess you know them better than most of the fellows who play. I believe I’ll get a rule book and study up a little myself.”

“You wouldn’t understand them,” said Poke. “It takes a chap with a whole lot of brains to make head or tails of that stuff. Why, bless you, fellows, I was looking through a book of rules before I left home. Give you my word I tried the hardest I knew how to make out what it was all about, and could I? I could—not! So I pitched the silly book in the waste-basket. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised to hear that the ashman found it and has gone crazy.”

“Well, that’s about all you need to know at first, Jim,” said Gil. “You’ll pick it up quick enough. The main thing is to know how to hold a ball so it won’t bite you, to kick a little, throw a little—”

“Won’t need to know that if he plays in the line,” said Poke. “If he can block and break through and help the runner—”

“Well, I guess I’ve had enough for to-night,” said Jim. “I guess I’d better pay a little attention to my lessons. Looked at your Latin yet, Jeff?”

“Yes, I’ve been over it once; it looks pretty easy.”

“For you perhaps,” replied Jim. “It won’t be for me, though.”

“Speaking of Latin,” said Gil, “something’s due to happen to Nancy Hanks pretty soon if he doesn’t brace up. They say J. G. is getting very much peeved at him. There was a peach of a rough house in history this morning, wasn’t there, Poke?”

“Lovely! But I’m sorry for Nancy, just the same. Bull Gary makes me tired. He’s got half a dozen of the fellows trained now so that every time he starts something they all drop into line and poor Nancy’s life is a positive burden to him.”

“He shows it, too,” observed Jeffrey. “He’s getting to look as worried and nervous as—as a wet hen.”

“That’s so,” said Jim. “We’ve sort of let up on him in our classes. The fun wore off after awhile.”

“Because you haven’t any one in your bunch with the inventive genius of Mr. Gary,” said Poke. “Bull lies awake nights, I guess, thinking up new mischief. Somebody will just have to sit on him, Gil, and sit hard.”

“Yes, maybe. Still, perhaps, after all, Crofton isn’t just the place for Nancy. And if it isn’t he might as well make the discovery now as later. I guess he knows an awful lot, but I don’t believe he can teach it. And as for discipline, why, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Oh, he knows what it means all right,” corrected Poke, “but he doesn’t know how to go to work to enforce it. I’ll bet you he never taught before in his life.”

“Then what’s he been doing all these years?” asked Jim.

“I think,” replied Jeffrey, “that he writes.”

“Writes? Writes what?” asked Poke.

“Books. The other day I passed his room when he happened to have left the door open—which doesn’t very often happen, as you know—and I saw a whole pile of paper on his desk and he was writing away like sixty with those tortoise-shell spectacles of his on.”

“Pshaw! Correcting papers, likely,” said Poke.

“They weren’t papers; they were sheets all written on just alike. I could see that easily.”

“Wonder what sort of books he writes,” murmured Jim.

“Oh, about Latin and history, probably,” said Poke. “Maybe they’re text-books. He doesn’t look quite such a criminal as that, either.”

“Well, whatever he writes,” remarked Gil, “it’s a safe bet he won’t be doing it here much longer.”

“Couldn’t we do something?” asked Jeffrey. “You see, after all, even if he is a member of the faculty, he—he’s one of us, you know, a Sunnywooder.”

“That’s so,” agreed Poke, “and we ought to stick together. I guess we’ll just have to read the riot act to Bull, Gil.”

Gil half-heartedly replied that he guessed something like that would have to be done and the conclave broke up, Jeffrey and Jim retiring across the hall to the former’s room in which Jim had formed the custom of studying.

The next afternoon he accompanied Gil and Poke to the gymnasium, rented a locker and struggled into his football togs which had grown strangely tight in the last year. Then, in the wake of half a hundred other fellows, they trotted down to the field and Jim sought Duncan Sargent. He found him conferring with Johnny and waited a few steps away until they finished talking. As it happened captain and coach were not telling secrets and so made no effort to talk quietly, and before Jim realized it he heard Sargent say:

“By the way, Johnny, I’ve got a new lineman coming out this afternoon; fellow named Hazard; big and rangy and looks good. Poke Endicott knows him and says he’s an all right player. I’ll hand him over to you and you give him a try with the second squad in scrimmage, will you? Let me know how he shapes up.”

“That’s good,” replied Johnny with enthusiasm. “We surely need better line material than we’ve got. There isn’t a promising substitute tackle in sight. Send him along to me and I’ll see what he can do.”

They strolled slowly away, still talking, leaving Jim a prey to varied emotions. He wanted to punch Poke for getting him into such a scrape. How could he go to Sargent now and say that it was all a mistake, that he really knew very little about the game and had only played as a sort of third or fourth substitute on his grammar school eleven? Why, it couldn’t be done! Rather than do that he would sneak back to the gymnasium, get his togs off and go home. He thought hard for a minute, while he followed the captain and trainer across the field. After all, he reflected presently, perhaps he could play fairly well if he had a chance. Why not accept the reputation that had been imposed upon him without his connivance and carry things off as best he could? After all, it wasn’t his fault, and if he disappointed them, why, he could get out. The situation required nerve and Jim had plenty of it when necessary. He smiled and made up his mind. They thought him an experienced player. Well, he would do his best to keep up the delusion. Let them find out for themselves that he was little more than a tyro, a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound bluff in a suit that threatened to rip at the seams every time he stretched his muscles!

He quickened his gait and overtook Duncan Sargent.

“What shall I do, Captain?” he asked quietly.

“Eh? Hello, Hazard.” Sargent was so pleased that he shook hands and Jim’s conscience smote him for an instant. Sargent was such a dandy chap that it seemed a shame to impose on him. “Hi, Johnny! Here a minute, please.” And as the trainer came swinging up, Sargent continued: “This is Hazard. You know I spoke to you about him. Take him in hand, will you, Johnny?”

Johnny said he was glad to meet Mr. Hazard and shook hands with a grip that made Jim wince.

“Play in the line, don’t you?” he asked. “That’s good; we need linemen. This is your first practice?”

Jim agreed that it was.

“Then I guess we’ll go easy with you. Suppose you go over there and report to Gary; tell him I sent you. Pass the ball awhile and warm up.” He took out a little tattered memorandum book and entered Jim, name, age and address. “Come to me after practice, Hazard, and I’ll put you on the scales. About a hundred and thirty, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t weighed very recently,” replied Jim, “but I guess that’s pretty near it.”

“All right. By the way, ever play tackle?”

“Yes, for awhile; and guard. And I was at full-back once or twice.”

“You don’t look very quick on your feet,” commented Johnny, “but we’ll get you gingered up after awhile. Don’t be afraid of sweating a little; it will do you good.”

Jim obediently made his way down the field to the squad indicated, and Johnny and Sargent looked after him critically.

“He’s well set-up,” mused Johnny, “but somehow he doesn’t handle himself like a player. Looks slow to me, eh?”

“Y-yes,” agreed Sargent, “but I have Endicott’s word for it that he’s a good man, and you know Endicott’s a good judge, Johnny.”

Jim didn’t exactly relish putting himself under Brandon Gary’s charge, but there was evidently no help for it. Gary, looking very well in his football togs, was looking after, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, some twelve or fourteen members of the third squad who stood about in a circle and passed the ball to each other. Jim observed that they threw the ball by clasping it with the fingers at one end and sending it away with a round-arm sweep that caused the pigskin to revolve on its shorter axis; also that in catching it the fellows received it between elbow and thigh, pulling up the right leg slightly to cradle it. When they missed the catch they fell on the ball, snuggling it under them. He made his way to Gary just as that youth, with an impatient glance toward Sargent, was receiving the ball.

“The captain told me to report to you,” said Jim.

Gary turned and viewed him carelessly. “All right, find a place somewhere,” he answered. Then recognition dawned and he accorded Jim a scowl. “Here, stand over there,” he said curtly. And then, before Jim was well in place, Gary launched the ball at him swiftly. As the pigskin had only some eight feet to travel before it reached Jim, the latter was quite unready for it, and although he made a desperate attempt to capture it the ball struck his chest and bounded crazily away across the grass. Jim trotted after it and was in the act of picking it up when Gary bellowed:

“Fall on it, you idiot! None of that here!”

Jim fell. Unfortunately, confusion made him miss the ball entirely and he had to scramble on elbows and knees for a full yard before he could seize the exasperating oval and snuggle it under him. From behind him came audible, if good-natured, laughter from the others. Gary alone seemed unamused.

“Ever see a football before?” he asked as Jim went back to his place. Jim made no reply and the pigskin went on around the circle, thump thump, with an occasional break in the monotony of the proceedings when some one missed and had to launch himself to the turf. As the ball went around, Jim looked over his companions. He saw none that he recognized. All were apparently of Jim’s age or younger, and it was plain to be seen that they constituted the awkward squad. Whenever the ball reached Gary he tried his best to make Jim fumble it again, now throwing it high and now low, but always as hard as he could. But Jim, watching the others closely, emulated their way of catching and only once dropped the ball. Then he fell on it from where he stood and captured it very nicely. But Gary declined to let the incident pass without a reprimand.

“Keep your eyes open, you fellow! You’re not running a boarding-house now; this is football!”

The allusion to the boarding-house caused other members of the squad to observe Jim curiously, but Jim kept his temper and his tongue. A minute afterwards the coach called them and the squad broke up. Jim walked over to the bench and picked up a blanket, but before he had wrapped it around his shoulders Johnny was after them.

“Over to the dummy now! And hurry up!”

About thirty panting youths gathered at the side of the newly spaded pit and one by one launched themselves at the swinging canvas dummy. Johnny himself operated the pully that sent the headless imitation of a man swinging across the soft loam.

“Pretty good, but tackle lower next time.”

“Perfectly rotten, Curtis. Try it again and get off your feet. That’s better but not good enough.”

“All right! Next man! Wrong side. Get in front of the runner always.”

“Too low, Page! Aim higher.”

“Pretty fair, Hazard, but put some jump into it. Remember you’re not patting him on the back; you’re trying to stop him—and stop him short. Try again now.”

Jim had never hurled himself at a tackling dummy before but he had tackled players in a game and he strove to create the illusion that the canvas-covered figure was real. The pully creaked, the dummy slid across the pit, wobbling and turning, and Jim ran and dived with outstretched arms. Thump! Rattle! His nose was buried in the cold loam and his arms were tightly wrapped about the stuffed canvas legs. He scrambled to his feet and cast an inquiring look at the coach. Johnny nodded noncommittally and Jim took up his place at the end of the line again. And so it went on for twenty minutes longer. Jim’s next try brought slight commendation with the criticism and the third attempt went off handsomely.

“That’s the stuff, Hazard! Just as though you meant it. Some of you fellows go at that dummy as though you were afraid you’d hurt it. That’ll do for to-day. Back to the bench! On the trot!”

By now Jim was tuckered and aching, with one side of his face smeared with dirt and his right elbow sticking forth from the faded blue jersey he wore. But football was in his blood now and so he was highly disappointed when Johnny called to him and ordered him once around the field at a jog and back to the gym.

“But I’m not tired, sir,” he ventured. Johnny scowled.

“I didn’t ask you if you were tired,” he said shortly. “Do as I tell you. Get on the scales after your shower and let me know your weight. Maybe you’d better come back here after you’re dressed and watch scrimmage. I may want to use you to-morrow.”

So Jim jogged around the field, his eyes on the others as he went, and wished heartily that he had come out for the team at the beginning of the term. Had he done that, he reflected, he might now be one of the fortunate number running through signals. Well, he reflected, he hadn’t done so badly for the first time. He doubted if Johnny even suspected what a green candidate he was. And he meant to learn. They thought he could play good football and he meant to prove them right!

Half way down the backstretch of the running track he passed near Poke who was going through signals with the first squad. Poke waved to him and grinned.

“How’d you get on?” he called.

“Pretty fair,” replied Jim. “And I hope you choke!”

But he really didn’t. He had quite forgiven Poke by now, for without Poke’s conspiracy he would probably not be where he was. Completing the circuit of the field, he trotted off to the gymnasium, had his shower, found that he tipped the scales at one hundred and thirty-one and a half, dressed and hurried back to the gridiron just in time to see Sargent kick off the ball for the scrimmage with the second team. Afterwards he waited for Gil and Poke and walked home with them through the early dusk, rather lame and tired but supremely happy.

At the supper table football was the one subject and Mrs. Hazard alone failed to show enthusiasm over Jim’s conversion. She was very glad, she said, that they were going to let Jim play if he really wanted to, but she did wish that football wasn’t quite so dangerous. Whereupon Poke deluged her with a mass of impromptu statistics proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that, with the possible exception of croquet, football was the safest amusement extant. Mrs. Hazard smiled and sighed, but remained unconvinced. Mr. Hanks did not appear at the beginning of the meal, nor had he come down when the cake and preserves began to circulate, and Hope was despatched to his room to summon him. She returned alone to report that the instructor wished no supper.

“No supper!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazard. “But he must have something, Hope. You shall take some toast and tea up to him. I’ll set a tray when we’ve finished. I do wish he would eat more, Jim; I’m getting real worried about him.”

After supper the boys returned to the porch, still talking football, while Mrs. Hazard fixed up a tray for Mr. Hanks and Hope bore it upstairs. Poke was narrating humorously the tale of what he called Jim’s deception against Duncan Sargent and Johnny when Hope appeared at the hall door, breathless and dismayed.

“Oh, boys!” she cried. “What do you think has happened?”

Four pairs of startled eyes questioned her.

“Mr. Hanks is going to leave!”