The preliminary season came to an end the next day with the St. Luke’s Academy game. Football affairs had become fairly hectic now and the school marched to the field behind a strident brass band, cheering and singing. Mass-meetings had been held twice weekly ever since the Warne High School contest, and songs had been practised and cheers rehearsed, and today Parkinson was in fine voice and filled with enthusiasm. St. Luke’s was not a formidable opponent, and for that reason had been chosen to fill in the last date before the Kenwood game. A wise coach selects the semi-final adversary with care and deliberation, and a wrong selection may work much harm to his charges. St. Luke’s was warranted by past experience to give Parkinson a good battle without requiring any extraordinary exertions on the latter’s part. Usually the score was one or two touchdowns to none, although not so long ago the generally docile St. Luke’s had kicked over the traces in the annual event and thrown a healthy scare into Parkinson. On that historic occasion the final score had been 17 to 10 in the home team’s favour.

The Brown line-up was exactly as at the start of the Chancellor game, with a single exception. The name of Foster appeared as full-back instead of Kearns. Whether he had been put in to save Kearns for the Kenwood game or whether he was there on his merits, Myron couldn’t decide. But he played a good game while he remained in the line-up. The cheering was fine and put heart into them all, and Myron felt that afternoon as though he could “lick his weight in wild-cats,” as Joe might have put it. He wasn’t called on for many punts, which was perhaps fortunate, for his punting still lacked control. If he got distance he was likely to send the pigskin to the wrong place, while if he obtained direction he was liable to kick short. But in the other departments he showed up strongly. He was a big addition to the backfield on defence, using his weight very knowingly, and more than one St. Luke’s gain was nipped in the bud by him. Speed aided him at line plunges, and his runs, of which he got off three during the time he played, together netted nineteen yards against clever ends. Altogether, he was a success, and coach and school recognised the fact, and when, five minutes after the beginning of the second half, he got rather the worst of a mix-up with the St. Luke’s left half and was taken out in favour of Kearns, he got a hearty cheer as he walked none too steadily to the bench.

Myron was not the only player who deserved praise that afternoon, for every fellow on the team was good. If the perfection exhibited in the Chancellor game was not quite duplicated it was possibly because the incentive was lacking. St. Luke’s was outweighed by several pounds and was slower than she should have been. And she seemed, too, to lack plays adapted to her style of football. Parkinson failed to score in the first quarter, ran up eleven points in the second, seven more in the third and, in the last period, with a line consisting almost entirely of substitutes, and with second-string backs behind it, added a field goal by way of good measure. Every one, even Coach Driscoll, appeared perfectly satisfied with the afternoon’s performance, and Parkinson’s stock soared high that evening. It looked very much as if the season was to glide smoothly and uneventfully to a satisfactory close. But a week still intervened, and in a week much may happen.

On Monday, Norris, right end, started the programme of events by breaking a bone in his right ankle. He did it by falling over a pail on the stairs in Williams Hall. It wasn’t a serious disaster, but it might easily impair his playing ability five days later. Tuesday, Grafton, first-choice substitute for Captain Mellen, came down with laryngitis, and Snow, who was due to take Cantrell’s place at centre in the event of that player’s retirement, was called home to Illinois because of serious illness in the family. Coach Driscoll smiled grimly and wondered what further misfortunes could happen in the remaining three days. Coach Driscoll, it may be said, was never designed for the peaceful life. He was more contented when he was facing difficulties. Jud Mellen, himself worried by the ill-luck, remarked almost resentfully Tuesday evening: “Gee, Coach, any one would think you’d got news that the whole Kenwood team was down with the sleeping sickness, you look so bright and merry. I’m sick!”

“No use pulling a long face, Cap,” replied Mr. Driscoll. “After all, we’ve come through the season remarkably. Something was bound to go wrong, and I felt it. I guess I’m rather relieved to find out what it is. And it might have been worse.”

“Yes, we might have lost the whole team,” responded Jud sarcastically. “Oh, I suppose we can pull through if nothing worse happens, but I’m expecting Katie to fall off a roof or Brown to get kicked by a mule tomorrow. This has got me going for fair!”

“You look after Number One,” advised the coach. “The best way to kill a trouble is to laugh it to death!”

Jud expressed incredulous surprise when Wednesday passed without further misfortunes. There was a monster meeting that night and a march through town and a speech by the Principal from the porch of his residence and much enthusiasm and noise. Myron did not take part in the observances, for the players were now required to remain in their rooms evenings as far as possible and to be in bed promptly at ten o’clock. So far, Myron had felt no nervousness, nothing approaching stage-fright, but when Thursday arrived and the field was well surrounded with cheering youths and townsfolk and the band that was to play on Saturday was adding to the din and there was only light signal work, followed by punting and catching for the backs, instead of the relief of a good, hard scrimmage, why, then he felt a trifle fluttery about the heart. It meant so much to all those eager-eyed, laughing but secretly earnest boys about him, that hoped-for victory, and he was chosen to aid in the securing of it! The realisation of responsibility sobered him and then left him a trifle panic-stricken. Suppose he failed them, the coach and Captain Mellen and the school! For the moment it seemed that in such an event he would not have the courage to stay on and face them all. He almost wished that Coach Driscoll would let Kearns play instead! But that wish didn’t last long, and the panic was short-lived, too. There was still a vague uneasiness disturbing him, however, and that uneasiness was due to remain with him during his waking hours until the whistle blew on Saturday.

The second team, its usefulness at an end, cheered and was cheered and performed a dignified ceremony behind the east goal, to which, since the first team players had trotted back to the gymnasium, the audience flocked. Gravely, reverently, torn jerseys, worn-out pants, shoes beyond aid and various other disreputable articles of football attire and use were piled on the jumping pit. Then a football rules book was laid on top of all, a gallon of kerosene applied and around the blazing pyre the members of the second team slowly circled with joined hands, chanting a strange jumble of atrocious Latin and scarcely more acceptable English. Gradually the pace grew faster and the pÆan brisker until, presently, the scene was a ludicrous whirl of bodies amidst a wild shriek of song and a cloud of smoke. In such manner the second team disbanded, at the end, spent with laughter and breathless from their exertions, giving three feeble groans for Kenwood and “nine long Parkinsons”!

Friday was a long and gloomy day. There was little use trying to do anything at recitations if you were on the team, and not much more if you weren’t. You just bluffed, if you could, or threw yourself on the mercy of the instructors, trusting that they would prove human enough to be lenient. They usually were, for long experience had proved to the Parkinson faculty that for a week before the big game and for several days after it normal members of the student body were incapable of interest in studies. To make matters more dismal on Friday, it rained. It didn’t rain in a cheerful, whole-souled way, but drizzled and stopped and sulked and drizzled again, and you wanted to be outdoors if you were in and wanted to be back again as soon as you were out. There was blackboard work for the players in the afternoon and signal drill in the evening. Afterwards Myron and Joe and Andrew chatted in Number 17 until bedtime, while from over in front of Parkinson Hall the cheers of some five hundred youths arose to the cloudy sky. Then came ten o’clock, and Andy went, and the room-mates got thoughtfully out of their clothes and crept beneath the covers, each a trifle more silent than usual. To Myron’s surprise, sleep came after a very short time, and when he awoke the sun was bright in a crisp November world and there were roystering sounds from the bath-rooms down the corridor.

The first Kenwood invaders appeared well before noon, and every hour after that brought more until by two o’clock the streets of the town, already fairly impartially arrayed as to shop windows with the blue and the brown, wore a decidedly cerulean hue. For the team, dinner was served at twelve instead of one, and after that there remained a long hour and a half before they could find relief from inaction. They were at liberty to do as they liked within reasonable limits, and Myron and Joe and Chas wandered across the campus and down School Street in search of diversion. Chas was, in his own language, “too old a bird to have nerves,” and he didn’t intend that either of the others should either. He was bubbling over with good spirits and kept Myron and Joe laughing from the time the three of them left the campus. Perhaps his cheerfulness was largely due to the fact that, at the eleventh hour, Coach Driscoll had chosen him over Brodhead for left guard. And perhaps the coach had never intended to do anything else. Chas never knew as to that. But he did know that had things turned out differently for him his plans for next season would have been of as much interest as a last year’s bird’s nest!

Their progress through the unusually thronged streets was frequently interrupted while Chas greeted an acquaintance, generally one of the enemy. In front of the hotel quite a crowd had collected to peer through doors and windows at the Kenwood heroes, who, having eaten dinner, were herded in the lobby about coach and trainer and rubbers. The three pushed into the throng until they could glimpse their adversaries, and Chas pointed out several of the notables to the others: Leeds, captain and right tackle; the much-respected McAfee, left half-back; Odell, full-back and goal kicker extraordinary; Garrity, the Blue’s clever quarter. “And the others I don’t know the names of,” said Chas, “although that whaling big, pop-eyed monster must be Todd, their centre. He’s a new one this year. Wonder which of the bunch is Lampley, the chap I’m up against.”

“And I wonder which is my man,” said Joe. “I hope he’s like his name!”

“Frost, isn’t it?” asked Chas. “They say he’s good, but you’ll know more about him along toward four-thirty.”

“Who are the fellows over there by the desk?” asked Myron.

“The tall one’s their coach, and I guess the others are the Board of Strategy, which is a fancy name for a bunch of fellows who travel around with the team and get their expenses paid out of the travelling fund. I think the short fellow is Whitely, their manager, but I’m not certain. Come on, we’ll see enough of them before the afternoon’s over!”

In the act of turning, Myron’s gaze encountered a rather tall youth in the lobby whose face became for the first time visible to him at that moment. Surely it was Maurice Millard, he thought. And yet it couldn’t be, since Millard would never be hob-nobbing with the Kenwood coach. Resisting Chas’ tug at his sleeve, he gazed at the object of his speculations while a vague uneasiness took possession of him. It was Millard! He knew him now. It was Millard in a long fuzzy brown ulster and a derby hat, Millard looking far less carefree and cordial than he remembered him. Myron seized the departing Chas and literally dragged him back through the crowd.

“Who’s the tall, good-looking fellow in the brown coat?” he demanded anxiously.

“Where is he? I don’t see any good, tall-looking fellow in—Oh, yes! That’s What’s-his-name, the Kenwood third baseman. He’s a pill. He’s played with them two years. Know him?”

“I think so,” answered Myron, “a—a little. His name’s Millard, isn’t it?”

“Mill-ah? No, it isn’t Mill-ah; it’s Cooke, Arthur Cooke. Come along home and stop annoying the animals.”

Myron looked again, but there was no chance for doubt. He turned and made his way through the group of loiterers in the wake of Chas and Joe. When he had overtaken the former he asked earnestly: “Are you quite certain his name is Cooke, Cummins?”

“Sure I am! Why not? He’s the blow-hard that was going to do all sorts of things to Liddell last spring, if you believe the papers. He is a pretty fair batter, and that’s no joke, but Liddell had him swinging like a gate and as mad as a hornet. He got a scratch single, and that’s all he did get, the big boob!”

“And—and he’s—he’s one of the Kenwood Board of Strategy, as you call it?” asked Myron faintly.

“Yes, sort of. He scouts for them, I guess. Anyway, I heard they caught him snooping around the grounds of Chancellor last year and mighty near tore his shirt off. Kenwood has a fine old spy system, Foster, but it never gets her anywhere except back home!”

Myron set the pace for the rest on the way back, his thoughts appearing to affect his feet. It was still only a little after a quarter past one and they were not due at the gymnasium until two. In that scant three-quarters of an hour, reflected Myron sickeningly, he must find Coach Driscoll and make his humiliating confession. Whether he had given Millard, or Cooke, enough information to affect the game, Myron didn’t know, but he did know that the manly and honest thing to do was to tell the coach all about it and let him decide that question. That Mr. Driscoll would let him play on the team after his confession had been made was highly improbable, but there was no help for that. In front of Parkinson Hall he made some sort of confused excuse to the others and hurried away.