Two mornings later Toby again played tennis with Horace Ramsey. This time Horace captured the first set, mainly on his serve, and made Toby work hard to keep ahead in the second. Horace had followed Toby’s advice and had sought and found an opponent the day before, and he was fast reviving his enthusiasm for the game. Although it was perhaps only imagination, Toby thought that the younger boy already showed evidences of benefit from the exercise. To-day he made Horace promise to have Mr. Bendix, the physical director, give him a thorough examination, and on Saturday Horace reported the result of it.

“I suppose he knows,” said Horace dubiously, “but it’s funny he didn’t say anything about my heart until I asked him.”

“What did he say then?” inquired Toby.

“Well, he said there was nothing the matter with it.” Horace was evidently thoroughly puzzled. “He said it was just as good as his. Maybe he didn’t want to frighten me, though. Do you think that’s it, Tucker?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Toby bluntly. “I think he told the truth. If there ever was anything wrong with your heart you’ve outgrown it, Ramsey. Don’t worry about his trying to let you down easy. He wouldn’t. I know that he’s mighty careful about weak hearts. He’s kept lots of fellows out of track work and baseball just because of that trouble. No, sir, Ramsey, if ‘Muscles’ says your heart is all right, you may depend upon it that it is all right. How about your weight? Dropped any yet?”

Horace’s brow cleared magically. “Haven’t I?” he exclaimed. “Two and a quarter pounds since I weighed Tuesday! How’s that?”

“Fine—for a start,” answered Toby. “Keep it up. You’ve only begun!”

Meanwhile, Tubb had kept on at football, although under constant protest. He had bought himself togs, and very good ones they were; a fact which led Toby to hope and believe that, in spite of his growls, Tubb really meant to keep on. Whenever they met, however, Tubb wearied Toby sadly with his grouches. He insisted on holding Toby responsible for every bruise and every tired muscle. While he didn’t say it in so many words, he made Toby understand that he had remained in the Second Team squad merely to oblige the other. A martyr is bad enough to have to listen to, but when the martyr has a grouch he is even more irritating. There were times when Toby would have given much for the privilege of kicking Tubb. But he didn’t. He didn’t even tell him to dry up and blow away. He kept his temper and listened to the boy’s growls without a murmur. Naturally, he didn’t seek Tubb’s society. In fact, whenever he could do so without having it seem too apparent, he avoided the pale-faced youth as he would have avoided any other pest.

By that Saturday, however, the word pale-faced no longer applied to Tubb as it had a week before. Four very warm days such as frequently visit Connecticut around the first of October had brushed Tubb’s cheeks with red and set his nose to peeling. Perhaps the change hadn’t benefited the lad’s appearance much, but Toby noted it hopefully. Toby himself had added another shade of brown to a complexion already well sunburned by a summer spent largely on the water, and his blue eyes looked lighter than ever in comparison with the surrounding territory of mahogany hue.

Something quite unlooked for and, to Toby, extremely disconcerting had happened the middle of that week. On Wednesday there had been a summons to quarter-back candidates to the lower end of the field for punting practice. Toby had remained serenely unaffected on the bench, whither he had retired after a strenuous bout with the tackling dummy, until he had been awakened by the challenge of Coach Burtis.

“Where are you, Tucker? Didn’t you hear the call?” Mr. Burtis was a trifle incisive as to voice, for prompt obedience was something he insisted on. Toby, alarmed, jumped to his feet and looked wildly about him.

“N-no, sir! What—where——”

“Well, hurry up.” The coach waved a hand toward the north goal. “Quarter-backs down there for punting.”

Toby stared, opened his mouth, closed it, stood irresolute until Mr. Burtis asked sharply: “Well, what’s wrong? You’re trying for quarter, aren’t you?”

“N-n——” Toby gulped hard. “Yes, sir!”

“Well, get busy then! Want me to lead you by the hand?”

Toby found his feet and hurried away, pursued by the laughter of the others along the bench.

“So I’m a quarter-back, am I?” he asked himself bewilderedly as he ran. “Gee, that’s a new one on me! Well, it’s fine to know what you are, even if you know you aren’t! I guess he will change his mind after he’s seen me try it!”

There were four other fellows there when he reached the scene: Frick, Stair, Rawson, and Bird. Stillwell was coaching. Toby knew very little about punting as a science, although he could kick a football for varying distances from five yards to thirty—if he didn’t miss it altogether! There was very little actual punting that day, for Stillwell had a lot to say on the theory of it, and for the most part the pupils practiced holding the ball and dropping it, standing and stepping forward and swinging the leg. At the end Stillwell let them try a few punts, and Toby, for his part, hoped that Coach Burtis wasn’t watching! That evening he had a brand-new lot of aches situate in the right hip and down the right leg. “Stillwell,” he confided ruefully to Arnold, “thought he was coaching a bunch of ballet dancers. He was never happy unless we were standing on the left foot and pointing the right toe straight at the zenith, whatever the zenith is! I don’t feel happy on both feet, Arn. Mind if I tuck one over the transom?”

“You’re mighty lucky to get a chance at quarter,” answered his chum severely. “Don’t you know that?”

“Oh, yes,” said Toby, “I’m painfully aware of it!”

By Saturday he had forgotten his aches and the lameness was gone and he could toe the pigskin in a fairly creditable manner and for decent distances, so long as direction was not important. But when he was told to place a punt near the right side line about thirty yards distant, either he sent it toward the left side line or down the middle of the field. Or if by any possible chance he got the direction right, then the ball went fifteen yards instead of thirty. There was, he allowed, a lot more to punting than he had suspected. Of course, life wasn’t all swinging a scuffed shoe against a stained and battered football those days. There was signal work, too. And some experimenting in forward passing. And other things. And Toby frequently regretted the fact that he had not dared to tell Coach Burtis the truth when he had been accused of quarter-back aspirations. Still, when things weren’t at their worst, he enjoyed it. No one took him seriously as a quarter, not even Grover Beech; and when scrimmaging began Frick and Rawson and Stair had the call over him. Only once that week had Toby worked at quarter, and then for only a matter of five minutes or so on B Squad. For many days he disliked to recall the event, for he had dared a quarter-back run and Farquhar, an opposing tackle, had chased him back and back until, in sheer fear of being forced over his own goal line, he had toppled to earth, snuggling the ball, a good fifteen yards back of where he had started from! It was a very sheepish Toby who scrambled to his feet again, for there was a ripple of laughter from the bench and many amused faces about him. For the few remaining moments of play he was too wretched to be of much use. Fortunately for him, perhaps, A Squad had the ball and Toby was able to retire up-field and nurse his wounded feelings in solitude. Afterwards he reached the pleasing conclusion that he was not necessarily dishonored for life, but it was some time before he cared to recall the incident.

On Saturday practice was over early in order that the Second might profit by watching the First Team play Greenburg High School. High School wasn’t a formidable opponent even for a first game of the season. Yardley had started her schedule with High School for many years, generally winning by a comfortable margin of points. The contest served to try out a large number of players, and it was usually on the Monday following the Greenburg game that the first cut in the squad was made. In consequence to-day’s battle meant a good deal to some candidates who felt their positions to be none too secure, and there were many anxious faces amongst the substitutes who graced the bench after the game had started.

Toby and the rest of the Second Team fellows didn’t reach the scene until the second period had begun. Then they perched themselves, still wrapped in their blankets like so many Indians, in the nearer corner of the old stand and proceeded to be extremely critical. Sid Creel squeezed into a place beside Toby with a huge sigh of enjoyment. “Nothing to do but watch a lot of poor boobs work themselves deaf, dumb, and blind,” he said with relish. “Who’s at center for them, Toby?”

“Simpson.”

“Well, he’s the best they’ve got, to my thinking. He’s light, though.”

“Oh, well, his weight’s where it ought to be, Sid.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s got brains. So many centers haven’t, you know.”

“Huh? ’S at so? Well, let me inform you—Oh, good work, Phil! How’s that for a neat little canter, Toby? More than twenty yards! What’s eating that referee? Oh, my word! Offside—no, holding! I didn’t see any holding, did you? That referee’s crazy!”

“No, I didn’t see any holding unless you call it holding to nearly pull a fellow’s arm off him!”

“Who did that?”

“Ted Halliday.”

“Idiot! Look what it’s cost them! Say, is Deering playing?”

“No, that’s Bates at right half. And Roover at left. Arn will get in, of course. Maybe he’s been in. Mr. Lyle will use about every fellow he’s got to-day, I suppose.”

“Yes, he’ll use a lot to-day and lose a lot to-morrow or Monday. Look at that line of victims over there. A good third of them will be missing next week.”

“Yes, and some of them will be playing on the Second, Sid. I wouldn’t wonder if we got a good center pretty soon.”

“Soon! we’ve got one right now. I don’t want to seem boastful, but—Gee, what a rotten punt! Who was that? Snowden, eh? Well, Larry wants to do better than that or he will lose his job! Gee, I could kick a ball farther than that myself!”

Followed a Greenburg fumble, a quick recovery for a loss and a weird attempt at an end run almost under High School’s goal. Then a kick on second down and the ball floated into the waiting arms of Will Curran, the Yardley quarter, just past the center of the field. Curran was still the old Curran, it seemed, for he was off like a shot, side-stepped an adversary, broke through the nearer field of mingled friend and foe, and was off on a long, straight dash for the Greenburg goal. Toby and Sid cheered prodigiously as Curran fooled the anxious quarter and romped over the last white line between the posts. Snowden missed the goal and the figures on the score-board stood 11 to 0. The half ended a moment later and the big squad of blue-legged players trailed off to the gymnasium. Sid ambled off to find some fellow who had borrowed a dollar from him last spring, his round face set in determined lines, and a moment later George Tubb took the vacant place at Toby’s side.

“Pretty punk game, isn’t it?” he said.

Toby concealed his displeasure as best he could. “Well, it’s the first one, you know. Can’t expect much of a first game. How did you get on to-day?”

“Pretty good.” Toby was actually startled. Never before had he heard Tubb approach so close to enthusiasm! Even the rest of his response couldn’t altogether spoil the first part. “I’m through to-day, though. I only agreed to keep on for the week, you know. Well, here’s your fat friend coming back, and I’ll beat it. So long, Tucker.”

“So long,” answered Toby. To himself he added viciously, “I’d like to punch your silly head!”