The team left for North Lebron at eleven o’clock the next forenoon. The town that had the honour of containing Musket Hill Academy was not so far away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service had not consulted the Parkinson School Football Team, and as a result of this oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junction that boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith’s shop, a general store and eight assorted dwellings. Myron knew that there were eight dwellings because he counted them twice. There wasn’t much of anything else to do.

He was not journeying to North Lebron in any official capacity, for his name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by Manager Farnsworth. He was going along, with some sixty other “fans,” mostly because Chas Cummins had insisted on his doing so. Privately, he had entertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not having been invited to attend the contest as a member of the team, it would be the part of dignity to remain away. But Chas wasn’t greatly concerned with dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result was that at a little before nine o’clock Myron was in possession of the knowledge that he was going to North Lebron at eleven-four.

At twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction, juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what it would be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with the blue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seat serving as a porch settle. The day was positively hot for October and few of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. Some of the school fellows were adorning the platform, like Myron, others were strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures, and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and down the planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking station agent. Coming over, Myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad of fourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation on various subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one else appeared to care about taking his place. Joe and Chas were with the football crowd in the forward car, and Myron had seen neither of them to speak to since leaving Warne. Andrew Merriman had not been able to come. In consequence, Myron had no one to talk to and was fast reaching the decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained at home. Even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suit of cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt and patriotic brown tie and stockings didn’t mitigate his boredom. Of late he had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire. Somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trousers were smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. Several times of late he had forgotten his scarf-pin!

His discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him of a youth of perhaps nineteen. Myron had glimpsed him once on the train and been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire. He wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut to perfection. And there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf with its modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in the shape of the soft collar. Myron felt a kindred interest in the tall, good-looking youth, and determined to speak to him. But the stranger forestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on the platform edge, he turned, glancing at Myron and remarked: “Hot, isn’t it?”

The stranger’s tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality and restraint. Myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youth had singled him out. The weather, as a subject of conversation, soon failed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the end of ten minutes the two were getting on famously. The stranger managed to inform Myron without appearing to do so that he was interested in a sporting goods house in New Haven, that he had been in Hartford on business and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decided to run over to North Lebron and see the game between Musket Hill and Parkinson. “I fancy you’re a Parkinson fellow?” he said questioningly. And when Myron acknowledged the fact: “A fine school, I’ve heard. I’ve never been there. Warne’s off my territory. I’ve been thinking, though, that some day I’d run over and see if I could do any business there. I suppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in New York.”

“I think so. There’s one store in Warne that carries a pretty fair line of goods, though.”

“I think I’ll have to try your town. Parkinson’s rather a big place, isn’t it?”

“We have over five hundred fellows this year.”

“Is that so? Why, there ought to be some business there for my house. I suppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey, tennis? How about track athletics?”

“There’s a track team,” answered Myron, “but this is my first year and I don’t know much about it yet.”

“I see.” The other looked appraisingly and, Myron thought, even admiringly over his new acquaintance. “I say, you look as if you ought to be playing football yourself, old man. Or is baseball your game?”

“Football, but I’m not on the first. It’s hard work breaking in at Parkinson.”

“Good guess of mine, wasn’t it?” laughed the other. “Thought you had the build for a good football man. I meet a good many of them, you see. How’s this team you’ve got ahead there? Going to lick Musket Hill this afternoon?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. I have an idea that our coach rather expects a hard game, though. I’ve heard that Musket Hill is further along than we are.”

“Those fellows play good football,” said the stranger. “I’ve seen them in action once or twice. I hope you chaps get away with the game, but my opinion is that you’ll have to go some to do it. Got some good men on your team?”

Myron was quite willing to sing the praises of Parkinson, and during the ensuing half-hour the stranger was treated to quite a fund of information regarding the school, the football team and Myron Warrenton Foster. Football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most of all, and several times Myron was turned back to that subject by polite questions. When the train from the south pulled in the two were still conversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat for the remainder of the journey. The stranger could talk interestingly himself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing and even startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. More than once Myron’s credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at the narrator’s frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions of mendacity. Myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that he rather hoped they might witness the game together, but when North Lebron was reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands to attend to before going up to the field.

“Maybe I’ll run across you there—er—What’s the name, by the way?”

“Foster.”

“Mine’s Millard. I haven’t a card with me. Wish I had. But, I say, Foster, if you don’t mind I’d like to look you up if I get to Warne. Those little towns are dull holes if you don’t know any one in them.”

“I wish you would!” said Myron. “You’ll find me in 17 Sohmer Hall. Can you remember that?”

“Sohmer, you said? Number 17? I’ll remember, Foster. Awfully glad to have met you. It’s jolly nice to run across a chap who’s—well, a chap who has your own views on things, if you get me.” He shook hands cordially, evidently regretfully. “I’ll try to find you at the game, old man. If I don’t, look for me in your burg before long. I’m going to have a go at that dealer you spoke of.”

“I’ll try and save a seat for you if you think you’re likely to find me,” offered Myron.

But the other waved a hand. “Don’t bother. I can squeeze in. And I may be rather late in getting there. Good-bye and good luck. Hope you beat ’em!”

That encounter restored both Myron’s self-esteem and good humour, and he enjoyed the sandwich and pie and milk which he ate in company with half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the way uptown. Later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streets about the school campus, he came across Joe and Paxton Cantrell, the latter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth who was playing his second—and last—season at centre. Cantrell left them a minute or two later to speak to an acquaintance and Myron and Joe walked on to the school gymnasium together.

“They fed us at a hotel down there by the station,” said Joe sadly, “and I want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. Everything came to us in bird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. Norris lost his roast beef and didn’t find it until he was through dinner, and where do you suppose it was?”

“In his lap, I guess.”

“No, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!”

Myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quite full of his subject, but Joe didn’t seem to find it interesting and soon interrupted to point out a building. “What do you suppose that is?” he asked. “Looks like a factory of some sort, don’t it? Only it ain’t—hasn’t got any chimneys, as far as I can see.”

“Maybe it’s a hospital or something,” replied Myron. “He says he’s coming to Warne pretty soon and will look me up. I’d like to have you meet him, Joe.”

“Who’s this?”

“Why, Millard, the chap I was speaking of,” answered Myron disgustedly.

“Oh! Glad to know him. Which street do we take now?”

They parted at the gymnasium and Myron joined the throng pressing toward the field, a short block away. He looked for Millard, but didn’t see him. Later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of him in the throng behind the Musket Hill bench, but others intervened and he was not able to make certain.

The game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat had been somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval field and fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that held the Musket Hill rooters. Parkinson’s sixty odd supporters, grouped together on the other side of the field, did valiant service with their voices, but to Myron it seemed that their contribution to the din that prevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. He was wedged in between a stout youth named Hollis, whom he instinctively disliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boy in spectacles whose name he didn’t know. Hollis had vindicated Myron’s verdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himself to be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths of which every school is possessed. His neighbour at his left elbow proved inoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that Myron could hear. Then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, “Oh, bully indeed!”

Myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about his arm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip of paper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthful as it was unlovely. The card declared that “Mullen” would play left tackle for Parkinson, that “Sawtrell” was her centre and that “Wildram” was the name of her left half-back. Myron corrected these misstatements when Captain Mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and some others besides, for Coach Driscoll had sent five substitutes to the fray, four linemen and a back. When Myron had got through making over his score-card it looked like one of his corrected English compositions and read as follows: Stearns, l.e.; Mellen, l.t.; Brodhead, l.g.; Cantrell, c.; Dobbins, r.g.; Flay, r.t.; Grove, r.e.; Cater, q.b.; Brounker, l.h.; Brown, r.h.; Kearns, f.b.

Myron was glad that Joe was to have his chance in a real game, and for the first period watched his room-mate so closely that the general aspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a start when the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely Joe had played—and he had played well: there was no question about that—the eleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football. While neither team had found its gait, Musket Hill had already threatened the visitors’ goal and only a sad fumble had held her away from it. And now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ball was again in the Maroon’s possession on Parkinson’s thirty-three yards. Myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let Joe play his game unaided by telepathic waves from the grandstand!

Musket Hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight from height rather than breadth. They were, almost without exception, tall, rangey youths with an extremely knowing manner of handling themselves. Myron’s brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle. Musket Hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a full pace further distant than usual. From this formation, with the quarter frequently joining the line of backs at left or right, Musket Hill worked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passes sliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks to a steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. The Maroon played a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking the same place twice no matter what gains might result. Toward the end the latter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observed it rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters. Before that second period was three minutes old she had settled down into her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours of fortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than a match for her opponent.

The Maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from the start of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and Myron and his companions on the west stand had scarcely recovered from their surprise by the time the goal was kicked! The ball had been on Parkinson’s forty-two yards, after Musket Hill had punted, caught again and carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. The Maroon’s trick of punting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had got the enemy worried. The latter was never quite certain when an unexpected kick would go over a back’s head, for Musket Hill punted without rule or reason, it seemed. To keep two men up the field at all times was impossible, and so Parkinson compromised and put Brown midway between the line and Cater. As Musket Hill had netted but four yards in two downs, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on the third down as to rush, and Brown edged further back at Cater’s call. But Musket Hill did the unexpected. There was a quick, dazzling movement behind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. Somehow an end was under it when it came down and, although Stearns almost foiled him, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriously challenged by Brodhead. He had kept close to the side-line, and Brown, playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard line was reached. But Brown never had a chance, for a Musket Hill youth brought him low, while a second effectively disposed of Cater a moment after. Brodhead alone stood for an instant between the Brown and disaster—none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the five yards—and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. But Brodhead’s tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent him across the final white line like a top in its last gyrations.

A well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams went back to the centre of the field once more. To Myron it seemed then that Parkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes and movements of the players that had not been there before. It was not dejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. And yet for the remainder of the period Parkinson took and held the upper hand and the half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards.

Myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth with spectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebra on the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his other side, he had heard enough of his conversation already. Just now he was knowingly informing his companion that the trouble with Parkinson was that she needed a decent coach. His brief glimpse of Millard—if it really was Millard—distracted him for a moment or two, and after that he listened to the joyful sounds from the Musket Hill side and felt rather disappointed and lonesome.