I should like to tell how Parkinson found herself in the last half of the game and won the contest. But nothing of that sort happened. Coach Driscoll started the third period with all his regulars in the line, and, in consequence, Musket Hill found slower going. Gains in the line were far less frequent, and only outside of tackles was the Maroon likely to win territory. But the home team clearly out-punted the visitors, although, in the final period, Garrison was pulled back from the line to swing his toe for Parkinson. Musket Hill made but one long advance in the last twenty minutes, and, as before, a forward pass was the method chosen. Keene, who had taken Stearns’ place at left end, was caught napping badly, and Meldrum, the left half, who should have seen the signs and been on guard, found himself tied up with the enemy. The result was a fine thirty-seven yard gain that placed the pigskin on Parkinson’s nine yards.

From a Parkinson point of view, the most encouraging feature of the day developed then when the Brown line, forced back to its six yards and then to its four, and finally retired to its two for being off-side, stood firm and took the ball away a foot from her goal-line. It was then that the west stand shouted and cheered and that Myron, silent a moment for want of breath, heard his spectacled neighbour give vent to the enthusiastic remark already recorded. But no team can win who can’t score, and Parkinson couldn’t score. On attack she was decidedly weak. The ability was there, but the team had not yet learned to make use of it. Individually, nearly every fellow in the Brown line played really excellent football, but teamwork was missing. For a brief four or five minutes at the beginning of the last quarter there came a semblance of it, and Parkinson, securing the ball on a punt near her thirty yards, managed to work it down to the enemy’s thirty. Guy Brown was the bright particular star, and, aided by Meldrum, tore off gain after gain through a weakened left side of the enemy’s ranks. But when Musket Hill brought in two substitutes to bolster the point of attack the advance petered out, and when Brown had twice failed to gain and Kearns had lost a yard on a wide end run, Parkinson was forced to punt. That punt marked the end of Parkinson’s defiance. From then on she plugged away doggedly to avert a worse defeat and, aided by the over-zealousness of Musket Hill’s several substitutes and by the sharp-eyed officials, succeeded. When the final whistle blew Parkinson was down on her twelve yards, her back again to the wall, and only that whistle saved her.

Musket Hill appeared more than satisfied with her score of 7 to 0. It was only her second victory over Parkinson in many years of contest, although there had been ties and close scores, and Myron, standing in his place with the other Parkinsonians and cheering bravely, witnessed a hilarious celebration as Musket Hill overflowed the field and began a sinuous snake-dance from side to side and from goal to goal. Then came a hurried scramble for the four-forty-eight train and a tedious and, for his part, dejected journey back to Warne. He hoped that Millard would show up, although that engaging youth hadn’t spoken of returning by that train. He didn’t, however, and Myron had a dull time of it.

The next afternoon, being Sunday, he and Joe visited Andrew Merriman, and later they rescued Zephaniah from his box-stall and, accompanied by that joyous companion, took a long walk into the country. The afternoon was ideal, although too warm for brisk walking. Andrew spied some butternut trees up a lane and they prospected. But the nuts were still green, for no hard frosts had visited them yet. The boys found a sunny spot nearby and stretched themselves out on a bank of ferns and Zephaniah had a monstrous adventure with a cricket and got tangled in a blackberry vine and fell off a stone wall and, in short, spent the most glorious hour of his young life.

Andrew and Joe did most of the talking that afternoon. Myron was in a rather gloomy frame of mind, although he couldn’t have found any explanation for the fact. Andrew rallied him once on the score of his silence, and Myron said he was tired. After that he really thought he was. Joe was in high spirits. He had been pitted against a worthy adversary yesterday and, during the time he had faced him, had had a glorious time. Every one said that he had outplayed his opponent, and Joe knew it. He regretted that Mr. Driscoll had seen fit to put Garrison in his place in the last half, however, earnestly assuring Andrew and Myron that if he had stayed in he would have had “that guy Fraser eating out of my hand in the last quarter!” But a good tussle always cheered Joe up wonderfully, and the effects of that strenuous twenty minutes lasted him for several days: just as a fine big vari-coloured lump under his left eye did!

When Myron returned to Sohmer at dusk he found a scrawled note from Chas Cummins. “No one home!” he read. “Looked for you on the train coming back, but couldn’t find you. What do you know about us? Looks like Fortune favours the brave and all that sort of thing, doesn’t it? Watch for developments tomorrow! Yours, C.C.”

Myron found the note somewhat cryptic. For a minute he thought of going around to see Chas in the evening, but then he decided that if Chas had wanted to see him he would have said so. As a result, he stayed at home and did some much-needed studying.

Monday afternoon found a number of the regulars absent from practice. The game on Saturday had been a strenuous one and several of the players had earned a rest. Chas was on hand, however, although not in togs, and the same was true of Jud Mellen. Cantrell and Garrison and Cater were absent, and one or two others, and the first squad had a sort of shot-to-pieces look. Dummy practice started the proceedings, and, since much poor tackling had been shown in the Musket Hill contest, the drill was a long one. It seemed to Myron that every one had nerves today, from Coach Driscoll down to the last and least important substitute. Manager Farnsworth, pulling the rope that shot the canvas dummy across the trolley, was short of speech and jerky of manner, Jud Mellen, watching grimly from beside the freshly-spaded pit, frowned and twisted his hands about in his uprolled sweater and made biting comments, and even Billy Goode, normally sweet-tempered as a cherub, looked and spoke as if some one had been casting aspersions on Ireland! Only Chas, grinning like a catfish, appeared unaffected by the general epidemic. Chas joked and jollied and got himself thoroughly hated by all.

Back on the gridiron, Coach Driscoll called Myron from the bench and fixed him with a calculating eye. Myron had visions of clearing out his locker and retiring from football affairs. But what the coach said was: “Cummins tells me he had you at full-back the other day. Ever played there?”

“No, sir, not until Friday.”

“You’re a half, aren’t you? Well, we’ve got plenty of those, such as they are. Think you could learn full-back? Ever done any punting?”

“Some, yes, sir.”

“Get a ball and show me.”

Over on the second gridiron, with a substitute back to catch or chase, Myron swung his foot and dropped the ball and saw it go off at a tangent, and heard the coach say: “Take your time, Foster; you’ve got all day.” When the back had relayed the pigskin from the first team gridiron and Myron had it again in his hands he decided to try to forget that the coach was watching. The result was much better, for the ball went straight toward the other goal and into the waiting arms of the back. The punt wasn’t long, but it had been true, and Mr. Driscoll nodded hopefully.

“Try it again,” he ordered, “and hold your leg straighter. Lock your knee and keep it so.”

After the next attempt he called down the field. “Where did you catch that, Morton?” he asked. The back turned and counted the lines.

“About the forty, sir,” he shouted.

“Not bad,” commented the coach. “We’re on the twenty-five here. Try a low one now. And follow through with your foot. Don’t stop when you strike the ball: keep your foot going right on up: there’s plenty of room for it!”

Four more punts, varying in distance from a wretched twenty yards to a glorious forty-five, followed, Myron seeking to profit by the coach’s instructions. Then: “I guess that’s enough, Foster,” said Mr. Driscoll. “You’ll stand a lot of practice, but you’ve got a good swing and I wouldn’t be surprised if you could make a pretty fair punter. I’ll give you a chance to show what you can do at full-back. If you buckle down and try hard you’ll stand a chance of a place, for we need another man there. Wish you had about ten more pounds on you, though. Go around with Warren’s squad over there for a while and watch how Houghton does it. I’ll see you again.”

Blanket-wrapped, for Billy Goode had sharp eyes for his charges and the weather had turned colder overnight, Myron followed the first team substitutes in their signal practice for a good twenty minutes. Now and then he caught Chas Cummins’ eye as the squad trotted by, but that youth’s expression was blank and innocent. Finally the benches filled again, coach and captain and manager compared notes like three gentleman burglars meditating a midnight sortie, the trainer busied himself with blankets and the sparse audience on the stand kicked their feet against the boards to put warmth into them. Then Mr. Driscoll faced the benches.

“First and second squads,” he called. “First will kick off. Second, take this goal. Who’s playing right half for the second? You, Robbins? Well, we want you on the first. Morton, you go to the second. All right now? What’s that, Grove? Left tackle? Oh, all right. Simkins! Go in on the first: left tackle. All right, Hersey! Start it up!”

Myron wondered if the coach had forgotten his promise, for Williams was playing full-back on the first squad and Houghton on the second and he, Myron, was adorning the bench with some twenty-odd other subs. Perhaps Mr. Driscoll had changed his mind, thought Myron. At that moment Chas called to him and led him down the side-line a ways. “Drop your blanket, old chap,” he said. “Coach says I’m to pass you a few, though I’m blessed if I know how he expects me to work in a pair of trousers that are two inches too small for me! Get over there by the end of the stand. If you miss them you won’t have to chase them so far. Now then, perhaps you know that in the modern game of football, the full-back is called on to take the snap-back straight from the centre on numerous occasions. Well, I’m the gentlemanly centre for the nonce. That’s a bully word, ‘nonce.’ Now we will suppose”—Chas’ voice diminished to a murmur as he turned his back and placed the ball he had brought on the sod before him. Myron spread his hands as he had seen Houghton do, Chas cast a backward glance at him and swept the ball toward him. By leaping two feet off the earth Myron was just able to tip it with his fingers. Chas laughed delightedly.

“Gee, that’s just like Cantrell does it!” he exulted. “In fact, I believe I got it two or three inches higher than he ever did. Guess I’ll get Driscoll to let me play centre!”

Myron recovered the ball and tossed it back. “Maybe I’d better get a soap-box or something to stand on,” he suggested.

“None of your lip, my lad! Watch your step, now!”

This time the ball came straight and shoulder high, and Myron caught it, shifted it to the crook of his left arm and dived forward. “Splendidly done, old chap!” applauded Chas. “Quite professional. Any one can play full-back if he has a good centre like me to pass to him, though. Now, then, here we go again!”

Chas kept it up until he was red in the face from stooping and Myron was tired of it, and only stopped, as he said, because he had heard a suspicious ripping sound in the neighbourhood of his waist. “It’s all right,” he explained a trifle breathlessly, “to die for your school, but no one wants to bust his trousers for it!”

On the way back to the bench Myron said: “What did you mean in your note about Fortune, Cummins? I didn’t get that. Sorry I was out, by the way.”

“I meant that things were coming our way, old chap. Didn’t you observe what a mess of things Steve Kearns made Saturday?”

“Not especially. I guess I wasn’t watching Kearns much.”

“And you grooming for his place! What do you know about you? Well, poor old Steve balled up everything he tried. Every time he got the ball he lost a yard. If they’d turned him around he’d have won the game for us! Between you and me and the bucket there, Foster, you’ve got the chance of a life-time to land on all four feet right square behind the first team. All you’ve got to do is show horse-sense, old chap, and be willing to learn. By the way, you got off a couple of nice punts over there.”

“I don’t see, though, why I couldn’t have had a show at half,” said Myron dubiously. “I don’t know enough about playing full-back, Cummins. I may make an awful mess of it.”

“If you do,” was the grim reply, “I’ll knock the feathers off you. But you won’t. You mustn’t. Doggone it, son, this is your big chance! You’ve just got to make good! Remember there’s another year coming!”

“I’ll try, of course, Cummins, but——”

“But me no buts! You keep in mind—There’s Driscoll calling you. Go to it, old chap!”

“Go in on the second there at full-back, Foster. You know the signals, don’t you? All right. Now show something. Warren, give your full-back some work. Come on, first! Get into it! Let’s see some playing!”

The whistle piped before Myron had settled into position, however, and he went back to the bench with the rest and listened to criticism and instruction and moistened his throat with water and half wished that Chas Cummins had let him alone. But, back on the field presently, with the ball arching away overhead, he forgot his stage-fright and gripped his nose-guard with his teeth and piled into the play. Warren, acting on instructions, gave him plenty of work, and he didn’t do it so badly, all things considered. At least, he made three good gains and he got away two punts, one of which surprised him. On defence he showed up decidedly well, and Warren, an earnest little shock-headed youth, gave him praise more than once. He had some bad moments, as when, ball in hand for a toss to O’Curry across the line, he found himself besieged by two rampant first team forwards who had somehow broken through, and, unable to heave, let himself be forced back many yards. Afterwards, he told himself aggrievedly that Warren had no right to call on him for a forward-pass, that he had never had much of it to do and couldn’t be expected to be proficient. Besides, if your line let the whole opposing team through on top of you, what could you do, anyway?

How Coach Driscoll had been impressed, Myron had no means of knowing. The coach made no comments. Myron concluded that he had failed to make good, and he dressed himself and went back to Sohmer in a rather depressed state of mind. But after supper Chas breezed in and relieved him. “Rotten? Nothing of the sort!” declared Chas. “You were positively good, old chap! I’ll bet Driscoll is scratching Houghton this minute and writing ‘Foster’ in his little red book. If you don’t find yourself playing full-back again tomorrow I’ll—I’ll eat my hat. And I need it, too, having none other. You didn’t see our young friend, did you, Dobbins?”

“No,” answered Joe. “I wasn’t out.”

“Well, he’s the coming marvel. There’s no doubt about it. All he’s got to do is learn the position.”

Joe and Myron laughed, the former the more merrily. “That sounds sort of like a real job,” he commented.

“It isn’t, really,” answered Chas earnestly. “You see, Foster knows all the moves but he doesn’t know where to fit them in. After all, playing football is playing football, whether you’re in the line or back of it, Dobbins. I’ll bet that, if I had to, I could step into any position on the team tomorrow and get by with it. I don’t say I’d be a wonder, but I’d do the trick fairly well. That may sound like conceited guff, but it’s a fact, fellows. Foster’s played half, and a full-back’s only a half with another name and a few different things to do. He’ll learn in a week. I’ve got all my money on him to win. I’m tickled, too. When Foster came to me and asked if I thought he could play full-back——”

“When I what?” gasped Myron.

Chas winked and frowned. “When he sprung that on me, Dobbins, I had my doubts. But I said the right thing. I said, ‘Go to it, my boy, and good luck to you!’ I’m glad I did. We surely need more full-backs than we’ve got, and I believe Foster’s going to be a good one. Well, I’m off. By the way, Dobbins, you played a pretty game Saturday. I’ll have to watch my step or you’ll have me on the bench. Good night!”