Myron isn’t likely to forget for a long time the week that followed. Every afternoon at four o’clock appeared Andrew, armed for the fray, and for two hours of a hundred and twenty minutes each Myron wrestled with Latin. Andrew was merciless. From the stroke of four to the stroke of six was the inexorable rule. Myron’s pleas weren’t even heard. After two days he got fairly used to it, though, and then the labour began to bear fruit. Mr. Addicks shot a keen and questioning glance at Myron on Wednesday and followed it with one of mild approval on Thursday. Saturday morning Myron was again out of the woods, although, as Andrew reminded him more than once, whether he stayed so depended on whether he was willing to study hard and long and resolutely. Myron reached the conclusion that he was.

But being out of the woods did not necessarily place him in the full sunlight of faculty favour, and so it was from the grandstand that he saw Parkinson play Chancellor School at Mt. Wansett, and not from the players’ bench. Myron had doubts as to his right to make the trip, and put the matter up to Joe. Joe did not observe, as he might have, that, having got as far away as Philadelphia without leave, going to a not distant town under like conditions shouldn’t worry Myron! Instead, he advised him to put the question up to Mr. Hoyt. The secretary referred to a mysterious book and shook his head. “I can’t find that you have gone on probation, Foster,” he said. “Nothing here indicates it. You say Doctor Lane forbade you to play football? Was anything said about probation?”

“No, sir. I only thought—was afraid——”

“Well, I should say there was no intention, then. If I were you I’d assume that I was not on probation. However, if you still have doubts I’ll take the matter up with the Principal as soon as he’s at leisure, and if you’ll drop in again about twelve——”

“But the train goes at eleven, sir!” Mr. Hoyt smiled faintly. “In that case, Foster, I don’t see how you can be here at twelve.”

“You think, then, that——”

“I think so.”

Myron hurried out before the secretary had time to change his mind and think differently!

It rained that day, and the game was played in a sea of water on a soft and slippery turf. Many boys who had meant to accompany the team backed out when they viewed the weather, and only a handful huddled in raincoats behind the Parkinson bench and aided the Brown with damp enthusiasm. Not that a great deal of cheering was needed, however, for the first period settled the outcome of the contest, and after that it was merely a question of whether Chancellor would score. Parkinson started with the line-up that, so rumour had it, would face Kenwood two weeks later: Stearns and Norris, ends; Mellen and Keith, tackles; Cummins and Dobbins, guards; Cantrell, centre; Cater, quarter; Meldrum and Brown, halves; Kearns, full. But that arrangement did not outlast the second period. The third began with the score 19 to 0 and five substitutes on the field. And during the subsequent thirty minutes of playing time additional changes were frequent. Parkinson ended with many third substitutes in the line-up, to which may be fairly attributed the fact that Chancellor saved her face at the last and scored seven points.

With a slippery field and a wet ball, both teams had stuck pretty closely to line plays, but some five or six minutes from the end, Grove, playing quarter, took a chance and shot the ball to Houghton, at full, for a wide run around left end. Houghton muffed, not a difficult thing to do when the ball is as slippery as a pat of butter and it reaches you off at one side, and the fat was in the fire. A defeated team is a dangerous team, and Chancellor proved it then and there by piling through the Parkinson first and second defences, upsetting the distressed Houghton and salvaging the pigskin some thirty yards from the Brown’s goal-line. For the first time in many long, wet minutes the spectators had something to thrill over. A long-limbed, shock-headed Chancellor forward in mud-reeking pants and torn jersey, wearied and winded, went plunging and stumbling and slipping toward a touchdown with the field strewed out behind him. Interference was hasty but effective. Parkinson and Chancellor youths went down like nine-pins, splashing into puddles, gouging into mud. For a moment it seemed that the incident would end with twenty-two players flat on the wet ground and only the officials erect! But, although many fell by the way, others managed to keep their feet and run it out, and among these was the youth with the ball. Twice he went to his knees, but each time he recovered before the enemy reached him, and in the end he slid over the line close to the left goal-post, and Chancellor shouted and leaped with delight.

After the goal was prettily kicked the teams went at it again, but to all purposes the game was over and the score didn’t change again. Twenty-nine to seven were the figures that, later in the day, brought uneasiness to the Kenwood camp. Yet, returning to Warne, it was noticed that Coach Driscoll’s countenance did not reflect the satisfaction shown on other faces. After supper that evening he told Jud Mellen why. “You chaps played a rattling game today,” he said almost regretfully. “I haven’t a criticism to make that’s worth the breath it would cost. Even the second and third subs were good, almost without exception. But I sort of wish you hadn’t done so well, and that’s the truth.”

“Afraid of a slump,” said Jud, nodding thoughtfully.

“Well, not exactly that. When a team reaches its best two weeks before the big game it doesn’t take a slump to queer it. It only needs a return to ordinary playing, if you see what I mean. All you fellows need do to get beaten two weeks from today is to play the sort of football you played last week against Day and Robins. There’s just that much difference between fine football and good football, Cap. If it had been Kenwood today instead of Chancellor, we’d have the championship tucked away in our belt this evening. I guess I’ve made a mistake somewhere: let you fellows come too fast the last week or so. But I didn’t have any warning that you were on the last lap. It hasn’t shown once. Well, it’s up to us now to stay where we are, Cap.”

“Or go ahead,” said Jud.

But Mr. Driscoll shook his head. “I’d like to think so, but I’m afraid we reached top-notch today. I’m always scared for a team that hasn’t had a slump some time during the season. And we haven’t. Not a real, sure-enough slump. There was a tendency after the Phillipsburg game, but it didn’t really amount to anything.”

“Well, I don’t feel like slumping,” laughed Jud. “And I haven’t noticed any signs of it in the others. Every one’s as cocky as you please tonight, and barring a few bruises—and Flay’s knee—they’re all in fine shape.”

“Yes, we came out of it mighty well,” agreed the coach. “I hate a wet field, Cap. I hope to goodness this rain doesn’t keep on for two or three days. Rainy weather can play hob with a team that’s the least bit over-trained.”

“You’re a regular pessimist tonight, Coach,” Jud laughed. “Cheer up! By the way, Dobbins told me this evening that Foster’s expecting to get off pro. Kearns wasn’t half bad today, but it would certainly make me feel easier in what I call my mind to have Foster ready to take his place.”

“Yes. See if you can get him out Monday. There isn’t a whole lot of time left. Still, he’s learned the position fairly well and might give a good account of himself as he is. With another ten days of training he ought to make a good second for Kearns.”

The rain continued during Sunday and Myron was restless and inclined to be as much of a pessimist as the head coach. He was difficult to live with, too, and Joe dragged him over to Mill Street after dinner in the hope that Andrew would be good for his soul. Andrew did, in truth, perk him up not a little, predicting that he would get his release from Doctor Lane the next day.

“I dare say he’s forgotten all about me,” said Myron dismally. “Suppose Addicks doesn’t tell him I’ve made good?”

“Well, it’s up to Addicks, and that’s a fact,” responded Andrew. “If nothing happens by noon, I’d advise you to go to him and tell him the facts. Tell him you want to get back on the team and can’t until he speaks a good word for you to Jud. Addicks is a good sport and will do it. I think he will, anyhow, though. You see if you don’t hear from Jud in the morning.”

So Myron decided to hope for the best and forgot his worries watching the amusing antics of the puppies, by now sturdy little rascals who made their mother’s life a burden and a boredom.

Andrew’s prediction came true, for the next morning Myron was again summoned to the Office and conducted into the presence of Doctor Lane.

“Mr. Addicks tells me that you’re doing very much better, Foster,” announced the Doctor. “In fact, he recommends that we lift the restrictions in your case. Do you think that you will be able to stay in good standing now?”

“Yes, sir. I’m going to try hard, anyway,” said Myron earnestly.

Doctor Lane smiled. “In that case I believe that you will succeed, my boy. It’s wonderful what really trying will accomplish. Very well, Foster. You have permission to go back and grind your face in the sod again. Like football do you?”

“Very much, sir.”

“So do I. I used to play it once, a good many years ago. Do you consider that we have a good chance to beat Kenwood this fall?”

“Yes, sir, I think we will. We’ve got a bully team!”

“So I understand. Well, we’ll hope so. Good morning, Foster.”

Once outside the door of the outer office, Myron broke into song. As a musical effort it was not remarkably successful, but as an expression of his feelings it met all requirements. Turning into the entrance corridor, he almost ran into Paul Eldredge. He and Paul had never spoken since the encounter on the walk that evening. Paul’s attitude toward him had been one of armed neutrality expressed in sullen silence and sarcastic glances. Now, acting on impulse, Myron stopped and spoke.

“Say, Eldredge,” he blurted, “let’s call it off! What do you say? I’m sorry for whatever it was that—that offended you.”

Eldredge, surprised, at a loss, stared at Myron’s smiling countenance for an instant, trying to think of something sarcastic. Failing, he grunted, and then, as Myron kept silence and waited, he said: “All right,” none too graciously; adding: “I’m satisfied if you are. You started it, anyway.”

Myron couldn’t remember whether he had or hadn’t just then, so he yielded the point. “Did I? I’m sorry then. Let’s forget it, eh?”

Eldredge nodded more amiably. “Sure! I’m willing.”

Then Myron nodded, laughed for no reason that the other could fathom, and hurried on. The laugh had nothing to do with Eldredge or with the making of peace, but was just an advertisement of the fact that life looked very good to him at the moment.

Mr. Addicks, a half-hour later, positively beamed on him, to the quiet amusement of those of the class who knew of Myron’s recent status, and Myron decided that the Latin instructor was “a corking old chap.” Reinstatement amongst the first team substitutes proved a most casual affair that afternoon. He reported to Farnsworth and the manager said, rather decently, “Glad you’re back, Foster. All right, get into it. That’s your squad down the field.”