Arnold was interested and amused, but he didn’t approve, and he said so. “You’ll have those freaks hanging around your neck for the rest of the year, T. Tucker,” he remonstrated. “You can’t make over a poor thing like this Tubb, or the other chap, from what you say of him. What do you expect to do? Play tennis with Rumsey——”

“Ramsey,” Toby corrected meekly.

“Rum is more like it, I guess,” accepted Arnold grimly. “Anyhow, do you mean to take him on at tennis every day until he loses his fat and—and finds a soul? Besides, you can’t play tennis for beans!”

“N-no, but I dare say I’m good enough for Ramsey. Oh, I guess I have made a faux pas, as we say in French, but, hang it, Arn, you can’t see a couple of idiots making fools of themselves——”

“Idiots generally are fools, aren’t they? Look here, Toby, something’s gone wrong with your alleged intellect. You didn’t used to hunt trouble like this. You were beautifully—er—what’s the word?—beautifully aloof. Used to mind your own business better than any chap I ever knew. Now look at you! Going out of your way to get mixed up with all sorts of queer fellows like this Tubb and this other freak. Isn’t young Lingard enough of a warning to you?”

“Tommy doesn’t love me any more,” answered Toby pathetically. “And I just must have affection, Arn!”

“Affection!” grunted his chum. “What you need is a swift kick, my son! All right, all right, go on with your missionary work, but don’t ask me to help you out. And, for the love of lemons, Toby, don’t have these weird friends of yours in here!”

“Well, I shan’t encourage them to call, but, of course, Arn, if they should——” Toby smiled innocently.

“Well, if they do I’ll beat it. Now shut up and let me study this beastly math.”

But although Toby pretended to be undisturbed by Arnold’s predictions, secretly he was regretful. Why, he wondered, as he tried to fix his mind on the subject of French nouns, had he insisted on assuming the part of guide and mentor to those two unpromising chaps in Number 31? Of course, neither of them would keep the engagements he had made for them. Things wouldn’t happen as easy as that. Well, in that case he would have a good excuse to drop them, he reflected. After all, it wasn’t his business to look after their welfare. Besides, he was going to be far too busy, what with lessons and football, to fuss with them. Busy? Gee, he’d say he was! He meant to go after another scholarship this term, and that meant real work. He ought never to have taken on football. It wasn’t worth risking a scholarship for. No, sir, it just wasn’t! And he’d drop it the end of the week surely—if it didn’t drop him first!

To his surprise, Ramsey was awaiting him at the tennis courts when he reached them, a minute or two late, the next forenoon. Ramsey was appropriately attired in white flannels and looked less objectionable this morning, even though his nose was still somewhat larger than normal. He greeted Toby rather sheepishly, as if ashamed of having kept the appointment. But Toby pretended that there was nothing unusual in the situation, and greeted Ramsey cheerily. Perhaps he was a little bit disappointed at finding the other there, though. If he was we can scarcely blame him.

Ramsey proved to be a better player than Toby had anticipated. He had a puzzling service and a good back-hand stroke, and was rather crafty at placing. In short, if Ramsey had had half as much speed as science he would have run away with the first set. As it was, Toby finally captured it, 7 to 5. Ramsey wasn’t enthusiastic about a second set, but Toby refused to heed his reluctance and they went at it again. Now, however, Ramsey’s skill was more than offset by weariness, and Toby did pretty much as he liked with his opponent. He might have secured the victory very easily, but he purposely allowed Ramsey to take the fourth and sixth games, determined that the latter’s first dose should be a strong one. The morning was sufficiently warm to put even Toby in a perspiration, and Ramsey literally oozed moisture. The second set went as far as 4 to 2 and then recitations called them back to Oxford. There had been little conversation during the playing, but returning up the hill Ramsey became rather communicative.

“I guess I could beat you, Tucker,” he said, mopping his flushed face with a sodden handkerchief, “if I wasn’t so out of practice. I haven’t played much for a couple of years. My heart isn’t very strong, you see, and my mother doesn’t like me to do much of it. In fact, one set at a time is my usual limit.”

“Yes, you’d beat me easily if you weighed fifteen pounds less,” agreed Toby. “Who told you your heart isn’t strong?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied the other vaguely. “It’s always been that way, ever since I was a kid. Mother says I had scarlet fever or something when I was five or six, and that sort of weakened it. I dare say it isn’t really dangerous, you know, but you can’t help thinking about it sometimes. I get tired very easily. It was about all I could do to keep on my feet toward the last, back there. My breath gives out and my heart gets to pounding horribly. I’m strong enough other ways, though.”

Toby surveyed him gravely. “You would be if you took care of yourself,” he said. “If you didn’t eat too much and took plenty of exercise you’d do, I guess. You’re as soft as a lump of dough now, though,” he added unfeelingly. “How much do you weigh?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been weighed for a long time.” Ramsey’s tone was aggrieved.

“Run into the gym the first chance you get and find out. And make a note of it, Ramsey. Well, see you again. I enjoyed playing. Maybe we can have another game some day.” He was purposely careless and vague, and found his reward in the flicker of disappointment in Ramsey’s eyes.

“I’d like it, too,” murmured the boy. “I suppose you’re pretty busy, though.”

“Fairly, yes. I tell you what, I’ll drop around some evening and we’ll compare schedules. Maybe we can get in an hour now and then in the mornings. If I were you, though, Ramsey, I’d try to find some fellow to play with meanwhile. Take your racket down to the court in the afternoon and hang around. You can generally run across some one looking for a game. So long!”

They parted in the corridor and Toby, hurrying along the west hall, told himself that perhaps, after all, Horace Ramsey was worth troubling about. Anyway, no harm had been done, and if Ramsey did take up tennis again positive good would result. All the boy needed was to get rid of a lot of fat by healthful exercise and wise eating. “Got to get that bum heart notion out of his head, though,” Toby added. “Probably got as good a heart as I have, or any other chap. Fine scheme to bring a boy up with the idea that he can’t play tennis or take exercise because his heart is weak! Swell way to strengthen it, loafing around and eating everything that’s rich and soggy! Of course, he may have something wrong with it; it’s possible; but I don’t believe it. I’ll get him to go to Mr. Bendix and see what he says.”

At three o’clock Toby rapped on the portal of Number 31 according to agreement. Tubb bade him enter. Tubb was not, as Toby observed, ready for football. In fact, Tubb didn’t look to be ready for anything but to make himself disagreeable. Ramsey was not there.

“Thought you were going to be all ready,” announced Toby as he closed the door behind him. “Get a move on, Tubb, it’s three now. Where are your togs?”

“I didn’t get any,” answered the other defiantly.

“Why not? Didn’t they have them? Did you try——”

“Oh, what’s the use? I’m not going out for football. What chance would I have? I don’t know any one and I haven’t any pull. And I ain’t much good at it, anyway.”

“You can learn, can’t you? There isn’t time to argue about it, Tubb. You can get your togs to-morrow. I’ll get you fixed out all right for to-day. I’ve got an old pair of pants in my locker, and we can borrow shoes. You’ve got an old sweater, haven’t you?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” growled Tubb stubbornly.

“I haven’t,” replied Toby pleasantly. “Come on now! We’ve got to hustle! I told them I was going to bring you, and they’ll be disappointed if I don’t.”

Tubb inelegantly expressed unbelief. “Told who?” he demanded.

“Never mind who,” said Toby, “you come on and see.” To be very truthful, Toby had quite casually mentioned to Grover Beech at noon that he was bringing another Second Team candidate out with him in the afternoon, and Beech had nodded approvingly, but that Beech would be disappointed was somewhat problematical.

“Well,” said Tubb, “I can’t go to-day. Maybe to-morrow——”

Toby stepped forward and to Tubb’s vast surprise pulled the latter swiftly to his feet. “Where’s that sweater?” he demanded. Tubb blinked, his mouth open for words that didn’t come. “Which is your closet?” continued Toby quickly. Tubb’s eyes shifted to the left and Toby pulled open a door, fumbled through the few garments hanging beyond it and pulled out a faded brown coat-sweater. “This isn’t the kind you want, but it’ll have to do,” he said briskly. He tossed it over his arm and threw back the door into the corridor. “All right! Beat it!”

Tubb’s face expressed a queer mingling of resentment and relief. But even yet he managed to find objections. “Oh, what’s the good?” he growled. “I don’t want to play football, anyway. I don’t want——”

What he didn’t want was quickly changed to what he did want, for he found himself suddenly outside in the corridor, the door closed behind him and Toby’s firm, impelling clutch on his neck. “Wait! I want my hat!” he begged.

“You don’t need a hat,” was the inexorable answer. “Go on! I tell you it’s getting late, and we’ve got to change yet. Hustle, G. W. Tubb!”

Somewhat to Toby’s surprise, Tubb hustled. He tried to make a pretense of hanging back, but he nevertheless covered the ground between dormitory and gymnasium in very good time. The locker-room in the basement was fairly packed with First and Second Team candidates, and Toby was aware of an occasional curious glance, but for the most part the occupants of the room were too busy to pay attention to him or his charge. He found the old football trousers, borrowed a pair of shoes from one neighbor and stockings from a second, and presently Tubb, presenting a rather dilapidated appearance, was attired for business. He nevertheless looked, Toby thought, a bit more presentable in the battle-scarred togs than in the shapeless and wrinkled clothes he had removed. During the operation of dressing Tubb grumbled and sneered continuously, but he was no longer fooling Toby. It was plain to be seen that Tubb was really quite as anxious to get to the field as Toby was to have him!

Several other newcomers reported that afternoon, and so Tubb was not alone as a tyro. Toby haled him at once to Sam Wansworth, the manager, and Tubb replied grumpily to the few stereotyped questions asked. Then practice was started and the two parted, Toby joining his usual squad and Tubb the bunch of latest recruits. It was an afternoon of good football weather, bright and crisp, with a straight breeze blowing down the field from the marshes across the glistening river. Beyond, on the First Team gridiron, a half-dozen punters and drop-kickers were busy in front of the north goal, and the pigskins arose and fell against the blue distance. Just above the boathouse the single occupant of a bright yellow canoe was struggling gamely against wind and tide, the sunlight flashing on the dripping paddle.

Twenty minutes of passing and starting, and then Toby’s squad was trotted over to the tackling dummies and he had his first clutch at the moving, swaying canvas effigy. That his first clutch wasn’t a firm one is easily understood by those who have been through his experience. “Gyp” Harris was in charge, and Gyp wasn’t one to be easily satisfied. Working the rope that sent the dummy rattling along the cable between the posts with one hand, he used the other to point and gesticulate. Toby thought he had never seen any one more eloquent with one hand than the trainer! Not, however, that Gyp was dumb, or even tongue-tied. On the contrary, he had a strong voice and an effective vocabulary, and he kept both busy in a sort of sing-song fashion.

“Next man! Feet together! Let ’er go! Off on the left! Get him! Hold him! Pull him down! Rotten, perfectly rotten! You tackled too high again! Next man!...”

Occasionally there was pause while Gyp left the pulley and strode over to the head of the line and gave an illustration or criticized with ample detail some glaringly unfortunate attempt. “What have I told you about getting your body in front of the dummy, Bowen? Can’t you understand that when you tackle a runner from behind he’s going to drag you a way before you can stop him? Get in front of him so that your body blocks him. A man can’t push with his legs below the knees when he’s on his feet. Of course, you’re supposed to get to him hard enough to put him off his feet. But if he has slowed up to meet you your game is to lift him and throw him back toward his own goal. You can’t do that if you’re behind him because he will throw his weight forward. Get your body in front, lock his knees and lift. And don’t land on your stomach when you dive, Bowen. Land on your hip. See if you can’t get it right the next time.”

Toby came to the conclusion that he was more than ordinarily stupid, but it is probable that he did as well as any of the others that first day. Presently they were dismissed, though not with the trainer’s blessing, and another squad took their place. Coach Burtis and Captain Beech had formed a tentative team of the more experienced or more likely candidates, and these were trotting around the field in signal work with Frick at quarter-back. Toby and three other fellows were sent across to the further side of the gridiron to catch punts, or, failing the catch, to recover them as best they could. At that game Toby found himself rather clever. He seemed able to judge the wobbling, descending balls with more certainty than his companions and to hold them better when they reached him. Having got a ball, he trotted back part way across and threw it the rest of the distance. He would have liked to punt it, but this was forbidden.

Still later, he was set to taking snap-backs and passes from Watson, one of the candidates for center. He gathered that Watson had shown himself deficient in that branch of his play. It wasn’t very interesting work, for Watson was earnest and determined and erratic, and Toby spent half of his time chasing around after the pigskin. Once, taking passes from a distance of five yards and at an angle, or trying to, he became aware that some one was looking on and turned to discover Coach Burtis behind him. The coach nodded encouragingly. “Not bad, Tucker. Try to be a little more shifty on your feet, though. Keep on your toes, ready to go in any direction. In play it’s rather disastrous to let the ball get past you, you know.”

He went on, leaving Toby surprised and gratified that he had remembered his name.

There was no scrimmage to-day, and practice ended with a two-lap trot around the gridiron and then up to the gymnasium, where most of them arrived very much out of breath. During practice Toby had caught an occasional glimpse of Tubb looking harassed and mutinous, but it wasn’t until they met in the locker-room that Toby had an opportunity to speak to him. Tubb sank onto the bench with a grunt of weariness and disgust and savagely attacked the laces of his borrowed shoes. Toby, hiding a grin, asked pleasantly:

“Well, how did it go, Tubb?”

“Rotten! There’s no sense to that sort of stuff. I thought I was going to play football, not bean-bag!”

“It is rather tiresome at first,” said Toby, “but you’ll soon be through with that. To-morrow——”

“Yes, I’m through with it right now,” growled Tubb. “I’ve had all I want, thanks, Tucker.”

“Oh, piffle, Tubb! You’re not going to quit like that!”

“Ain’t I? You watch me!” replied the other grimly.

“Better give it a fair trial. After all, there’s a certain amount of drudgery to be gone through with, no matter what you take up. Learning to handle the ball is quite necessary, Tubb.”

“A whole afternoon of it isn’t necessary, I guess. Anyway, I’m through.” Tubb kicked the shoes aside scowlingly. “I knew how it would be. A few fellows get all the pickings and the others play the goat. All you’ll get out of it, Tucker, is a lot of hard work, and then they’ll give you the bounce.”

“What of it if I have a good time before they do?” asked Toby cheerfully.

“A good time!” sneered the other.

“Sure. Come on and have a shower and you’ll feel better, Tubb.”

“I don’t want any shower,” muttered Tubb.

“Well, I do. As a favor to me, I wish you’d keep on for the rest of this week, Tubb.” Toby spoke earnestly and smiled. Tubb caught the smile. After a moment he growled hesitantly:

“Oh, well—I’ll see.”

“Thanks. That’s a promise!”

“’Tain’t either! I didn’t say——”

But Toby was off and Tubb’s protest went unfinished.