Although Toby was back in Whitson before nine that evening, it is needless to say that the note he had promised himself to write to George Tubb did not get written. In fact Toby forgot all about it until the next morning, when Arnold found Tubb’s letter on the floor and asked Toby if it was anything he wanted to keep.

“No, throw it in the basket,” answered Toby. “Hold on, though! Guess I’ll keep it. I’ve got to answer it to-day. Stick it on the table, Arn.”

Later it got buried under a book and so during the course of a busy day or two Toby again forgot it. He might have remembered it on Sunday, which, as at every preparatory school in the land, was the recognized letter-writing day of the week at Yardley, but he didn’t. He wrote to his folks in the afternoon until Arn, who never spent much time on his correspondence, dragged him away to the river and a certain shining blue canoe. Then he finished the epistle in the evening just before bedtime, and retired with a fine feeling of duty performed. Monday witnessed a change in temperature. There was a light frost on the ground when Toby and Arnold hurried over to chapel, and, although the middle of the day was bright and warm, by the time practice began on the gridirons there was enough nip in the air to make work with the pigskin more agreeable.

Toby found himself on a squad of fellows of much his own age and football experience—or lack of it. It didn’t seem to him that he showed much promise of ever being better than a dub at the game, and while he did rather enjoy the work, he was not vastly concerned over the prospect of being dropped. He had been dropped very promptly last fall, and he expected a similar fate this season. Of course, he was heavier now than then, but he guessed football required something more than weight of a fellow. Sid Creel was playing center on another squad in signal drill that Monday afternoon, so far as Toby could discern, conducting himself in a highly meritorious fashion. Sid had weight and, apparently, ability, and Toby decided that this year his good-natured perseverance was to be rewarded.

After three quarters of an hour of “baby-play” the Second Team candidates were summoned to the bench and Coach Burtis announced the first scrimmage. “Who have we for center on B Team, Harris?” he asked the trainer.

“Center? Well, there’s Galvin and that tow-headed chap over there, Coach. And Creel. Creel’s got the build, all right. Want to try him?”

“Yes. And Burnett and Hodgson for guards. And—what’s your name, you chap?”

“Thorson, sir.”

“Well, Thorson, you take left tackle on B. I want another tackle now. Who wants to play tackle? All right, I’ll take you: the fellow in the green sweater. Now, a couple of ends, Harris. Yes, they’ll do. Burns at quarter. Come on, Burns! And Folwell and——”

“Nelson’s played half, Mr. Burtis,” suggested Grover Beech.

“I want him on A Team. Who else is there? Fosdick? All right. And that fellow down there, whatever his name is, for full-back. All right, get out there, fellows! You referee, Harris, please. I’ll be ump. I want all the rest of you chaps to follow the play closely and learn all you can. We’ll play two ten-minute periods, Harris. Team A takes the ball and north goal. Now then, let’s see what you fellows know about the game!”

At first it didn’t seem that they knew very much, for signals went wrong, fumble followed fumble and the players became occasionally so inextricably mixed up that scrimmage had to be halted while they were disentangled. But Coach Burtis, alternately umpire and critic, was possessed of a vast patience, and toward the last of the first ten minutes things went better. Team A worked down to the opponent’s twelve yards and would have scored if the line had held. But a B Team tackle trickled through and laid White on his back before he was well started on a wide run, and after that Frick, quarter-back on the attacking side, missed a try-at-goal by many yards.

A five-minute rest followed, during which the coach and the trainer and Grover Beech lectured and criticized, and then, with many changes in each line-up, the scrimmage began again. Toby still decorated a bench, looking rather colorful with his red thatch obtruding from a blue blanket. Toby had dutifully watched the efforts of the players, but it cannot be truthfully said that he learned much. Perhaps he was too attentive to the performance and fortunes of Sid Creel at center on Team B. Sid appeared to be playing his position rather well, Toby thought, although he didn’t pretend to be anything of a judge. At least, Sid lasted longer than most fellows of his team, returning breathless to the bench only when the last period was more than half over. He squirmed into a place beside Toby, pulling a blanket about his broad shoulders.

“I guess he didn’t have much on me,” Sid panted, “if he is ten pounds heavier!”

“Who?” asked Toby.

“Watson. He didn’t get past me once, and I turned him twice. Did you notice?”

“Who’s Watson? Their center?”

“Yes. If they’d given us a couple of decent guards we’d have put it all over that bunch. Burnett isn’t so bad, but Hodgson laid down every time any one looked at him! You didn’t get in, did you? What are you trying for?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering, Sid.”

“I mean what position.”

“How do I know? End, I suppose. Or half. Search me!”

“Well, you’d better make up your mind. When Coach yells for an end the next time, sing out and race on there. That’s the only way you’ll get a chance. Beat the other fellow to it, Toby.”

“I’d be afraid he’d take me,” answered Toby dryly. “I don’t know any more about playing end than—than you do center!”

Sid grinned. “You watch me, Toby. I’m going to fade Watson before this season’s much older, my child. Honest, I really believe I’ve got a chance to stick this year. Of course, it’s a bit early yet, but——”

“What’s he yelling?” interrupted Toby. Play had paused, a youth was limping to the side-line and Coach Burtis was shouting toward the bench.

“Quarter,” said Sid. He looked left and right along the benches. Here and there a player squirmed indecisively but none appeared to have enough courage to offer his services. “Guess all the quarters are used up,” mused Sid.

Trainer Harris added his voice to the coach’s. “Aren’t there any quarter-backs over there? Get a move on, somebody! Any of you!”

“Coming!” shouted Toby, throwing aside his blanket and jumping to his feet.

“He said quarter, you idiot!” hissed Sid. “You aren’t a quarter!”

“How do you know?” laughed Toby. “I don’t!”

“All right, this way,” greeted the Coach, as Toby raced on. “What’s the name?”

“Tucker, sir.”

“Ever played quarter, Tucker?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then what the mischief——”

“Trainer said any of us, sir.”

Mr. Burtis frowned, smiled and nodded shortly. “Go ahead then. Let’s see what you can do. Know the signals?”

“Yes, sir.” Toby was pretty certain that he had forgotten them, but it wouldn’t do to say so! Turning, he caught the amused smile of Captain Beech. Toby dropped the lid of his left eye gravely and stepped to position behind center.

“Look what you’re doing, Tucker,” warned the coach. “Third down and four to go.” There was amusement in his tone and Toby flushed. Third down and four, he thought hurriedly. That meant that a line play wasn’t the thing. What was, then? He hesitated and glanced doubtfully at the backs. The trainer blew his whistle. Something had to be done and done quickly. If B Team hadn’t been having luck with A’s line there was no use trying to get four yards between tackles, even on a third down. The teams were near the middle of the field, and A had three men back, evidently expecting an open play. Then why not——

“14—23—8——” Toby’s voice sounded very weak and small to Toby. “14—23——”

“Signals! Signals!” The whole back-field was remonstrating, it seemed! His heart sank. He had got his signals wrong! But how? No, he was right. It was the others who were wrong!

“Signals!” he cried, scowling at the nearer of the three backs behind him. “14—27—8—196——”

The team awoke to action. Full-back dashed headlong upon him, took the pass and went, twisting and boring, into the mÊlÉe. Toby threw himself behind, triumphant. His signals had been right, just as he had known! (It wasn’t until after practice was over that he learned that he had changed them the second time!) The play went through for well over three yards, the unfeasible for once proving feasible, and B Team exulted and looked approval at Toby. Toby tried to be modest about it, which, considering that he had called for the play in sheer desperation, not remembering at the moment anything else to call for, wasn’t hard! Some one, too, had walked on his face, and that helped him toward humility.

Realizing that he had established a reputation for generalship, Toby tried hard to live up to it, but although B did not get the necessary eighteen inches or so on the next down, the succeeding play failed dismally and B lost nearly all she had gained. Toby tried to assure himself that the fault was the right half-back’s, but something told him that an end run from balanced formation was predestined to fail and that another time he would remember that there was such thing as a shift! Perhaps he would have vindicated the reputation gained from his first lucky play if the scrimmage hadn’t ended then and there; or perhaps he would have become exposed for the impostor he knew himself to be. At all events, Toby welcomed the whistle heartily.

Afterwards, in the gymnasium, Grover Beech detained him on his way from the shower. “Snappy work, Tucker,” he said, smilingly. “Glad to see you with us.”

Toby reflected the other’s smile in somewhat sickly fashion. “Thanks,” he answered lamely. “Of course, I didn’t know anything about playing quarter, Beech——”

“Well, you got away with it, anyway! That’s the main thing. And that plunge at guard when we were looking for a pass was clever strategy.” There was a twinkle in his eye, however. Toby’s smile broadened.

“Have a heart!” he begged. “I didn’t know whether that play was going to right or left, Beech!”

“Well, I’m glad it went to the right,” laughed the Second Team captain, “for if it had come my way I’d have been just as unready for it as Weld was! Going to try for quarter, Tucker?”

“Gee, no! I’ve had all I want of it, thanks. I just did it as a sort of joke. I’m no football player, Beech, and you’ll miss my shining countenance in a day or two.”

“Oh, I hope not,” answered the other. “Better stick it out.”

“And you will, if I have my say,” he added to himself as Toby went off.