“Talk about Falstaff’s army!” exclaimed Malcolm to Evan the next afternoon. “Did you ever see such an assortment?”

And Evan, rubbing his injured ankle reflectively and wondering whether it would stand an afternoon’s work, had to acknowledge, as he looked about him, that he never had. Practically every fellow who had joined the Independent Foot-ball Association had reported for practice. About half owned football togs and had donned them; the rest appeared in their old clothes and sweaters. There were old boys and young boys, big boys and little boys, tall boys and short boys, fat boys and slim boys. But, big or little, fat or slim, each was dominated by a splendid enthusiasm. Preparatory class youngsters shouldered their way about looking mighty important in immaculately new togs, while on the farthest edge of the group stood a thin, diffident senior who had at last gathered courage to do what he had longed to do for three years—try to be a football hero.

“Who’s the fat kid over there?” asked Malcolm. “It isn’t Jelly, is it? I thought he was on the Second.”

“He is—or was,” Evan replied. “That’s Jelly, though. O Jelly!” And when Mr. George Washington Jell had ambled across, grinning radiantly; “What are you doing here with the insurgents?” Evan demanded. “You’re a traitor or a spy, Jelly; which is it?”

“I’m a brand from the burning,” answered Jelly dramatically.

“Have you left the Second?” Malcolm asked.

“Sure! Think I’m going to stay there and work for Hopkins? Not much! I handed in my resignation this morning to Gus.”

“What did he say?” asked Evan with a smile. Jelly’s round face reflected the smile.

“I’d rather not tell you,” he said. “He tried to make out that I was deserting him, but that’s nonsense, isn’t it? When you’re on the Second you’re working for Hop and Prentiss. That’s why I quit.”

“The Second will never be the same without you,” said Evan, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“Oh, you fade away,” answered Jelly. “Where’s Rob?”

“Somewhere about. There he is. I guess he’s looking for you, Mal.”

“Every one this way, please!” called Rob. “Get into line and give your names to Warne. Got your book, Mal?”

Malcolm, with Rob at his elbow, passed down the lines, taking the candidates’ names and entering them with particulars as to age, class and experience in his red memorandum book. After each name was entered Rob whispered “One,” “Two,” or “Three” into Malcolm’s ear and the manager set down the fateful number opposite the entry. As fast as a fellow gave his name he was sent into the field to make one of a ring of candidates whose duty it was for the present to pass the ball around. Afterwards the candidates were divided into three squads and for the rest of the afternoon they practised the rudiments of the game. Rob took the first squad himself, the second fell to Evan and the third to a middle class fellow named Brimmer. Enthusiasm began to wane among the inexperienced long before the hour was up. This was to be expected, since passing and falling on the ball and sprinting soon grow monotonous and tiresome. But every one stuck it out until, at shortly after five, Rob let them go.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Rob when, later, the three friends were skirting the School gridiron on their way back to Holden.

“I don’t know,” said Evan doubtfully. “I don’t think there were many stars in my squad, while as for Brimmer, I thought he was going to throw up the sponge once or twice.”

“Well, it’s too early to tell much yet,” said Rob. “There’s some good material in my squad, though.”

“I don’t think it will be hard to get eleven fellows out of the lot,” said Malcolm. “Of course, I don’t know much about football, but I saw a good many chaps who seemed to know what to do and how to do it.”

“That’s right. I could pick a dozen to-morrow quite as good as the Second Team men. You wait until we’ve had a week’s practice, Evan, and you’ll feel more cheerful.”

“Oh, I’m cheerful enough. After all, we’re doing it for the fun of the thing.”

“H’m, yes, I suppose so,” answered Rob. “But—well, I’ve got more in view than just fun. I’m going to teach Hopkins and Prentiss a lesson; the whole school, too, for that matter. I’m going to show folks that if you want a good football team or a good base-ball team you’ve got to give every fellow a chance and not run the show for the benefit of a few of your particular chums.”

“How about that coach?” asked Evan.

“Coming. I got him on the telephone this afternoon. He isn’t going to cost us a cent, either. He says he’s just bought an automobile—a runabout—and he will come over every afternoon. Says it will only take him about thirty minutes and he’d rather do that than live over here. I told him all about it, just what we were trying to do, and he thought it was a great joke and says he will fix us so we can knock spots out of the School Team! I’m afraid he won’t be so cheerful when he sees the material, but—well, never mind. I have hopes, fellows, that before long we’ll get some of the Second Team chaps.”

“Gee, that would leave the First in a bit of a hole, wouldn’t it?” murmured Evan.

“Serves them right,” said Malcolm.

“Of course before that we’ve got to show the making of a pretty good team,” went on Rob thoughtfully. “And the question is, can we do it? We’re going to be pretty light, I guess, and so we’ll have to make up for that in speed. Walt Duffield is the chap to show us how, though, I can tell you that!”

“We’ve already got one Second Team fellow,” laughed Malcolm as they climbed the stairs. “You saw that Jelly had joined our forces, I suppose?”

“Yes. He was in your squad, wasn’t he, Evan? How does he show up?”

“He’s frightfully willing, he knows some football and he’s got weight,” answered Evan. “But he’s as slow as an ice-wagon. If we can knock some speed into him I dare say he’d make a fair guard.”

“My idea exactly,” said Rob. “And that chap Brimmer is another good one. He ought to fit in at end. Then you’ll play quarter and I’ll have a try for half. There’s four positions filled. For center there’s Morse—or maybe Shaler. They both look fairly good. And we’ve got another good end in Powers. However, we’ll leave it all to Duffield. If we’re going to make this thing go we’ve got to give him full swing and do just as he says.”

“When is he coming over?” asked Malcolm.

“Monday. Come on in and let’s look over your list, Mal; there’s half an hour to supper yet. By the way, Evan, remind me to get Pierce up here this evening, will you? We’ve got to get the fellows to pay their money into the exchequer before we begin cutting down the candidates. There’s going to be a howl from some of them when they find they’re not going to get on the team, and they might want to keep their half-dollars. And that wouldn’t do, for we need the money, my friends. We’ll have to have that scrub gridiron marked out, Mal; we can’t play without the lines. We’ll talk about that later. By the way, have you written for any games yet?”

“I’m going to do that to-night,” answered Malcolm, “and I wanted to ask you where I’d better write.”

“We’ll go over that, then, after study. Now let’s see those names. Pull up a chair. Evan, turn on the juice like a good chap. It certainly is getting late early these days!”

On Saturday the School Team journeyed to Providence to play Bannard and the Independents used their gridiron while Malcolm and a dozen helpers marked off the scrub field with whitewash brushes and pails of lime. There was a little signal work that day for the more advanced candidates, Evan handling the first squad and a middle class youth named Rogers playing quarter for the second. The work was decidedly encouraging, although somewhat ragged. The Second Team, with nothing to do, watched from the side-lines and had their fun, but it was all good-natured. Gus Devens told Rob that he was doing wonders and declared that he wouldn’t have thought it possible to find eleven players as good as those in the first squad.

“Oh, we haven’t started yet,” answered Rob quietly. “Our coach comes Monday and after that things will take a brace. One thing we need, Gus, is a good guard. You’d better think it over.”

Devens stared.

“Meaning me? I’d look nice, wouldn’t I, throwing up my place and leaving the Second in the lurch in the middle of the season? You must be dippy, Rob.”

“N—no, I don’t think so. I guess they’d find some one else to take your place. You’ve been trying for the First for three years and you’ve got as far as captain of the Second. Maybe, if you stay where you are, they’ll take you on the First next year as a sub. Depends who falls heir to the captaincy, I suppose. You come over here and you can have a guard position and next year—”

“What about next year?” asked Gus curiously.

“You won’t tell?”

“No.”

“Next year, then, you’ll find yourself on the First.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that this will be the First next year, of course.”

“Oh, you’re crazy, Rob. How do you figure that out?”

“Never mind how I figure it out, Gus. I’m right. You wait and see. The school’s back of this team, my friend, and the school’s bigger than Frank Hopkins and Ed Prentiss. Think it over.”

“Even so,” answered Gus, “I’m not the sort to quit my job now when having a good Second Team may mean winning the big game, and you know it, Rob.”

“Yes, but let me tell you right now that two Second Teams can’t make Hop’s outfit win from Adams; and you know that!”

“Well, it’s my duty to stay where I am.”

“All right. As long as you think that, Gus, you stay. When you change your mind, though, you mosey over to the other gridiron and we’ll look after you.”

The School Team came home that evening with its third victory, having managed to win from Bannard with a score of 6 to 0. But the victory had cost something, for Tom Reid, left tackle and one of the strongest units of the line, had broken his collar-bone and would be out of the game for two weeks at least.

On Monday, which fell very close to the middle of October, Walter Duffield made his appearance at Riverport. Those who had expected a large, stern-visaged individual were disappointed, for the former Brown tackle was not over five feet nine inches in height and weighed under a hundred and sixty. He was twenty-three years old, but didn’t look it. He had a smiling, alert face, curly brown hair, a pair of quiet brown eyes and a somewhat thin voice. He began proceedings by giving the candidates a talk on the grandstand, away from any possible eavesdropping on the part of the Regulars, as the Independents had grown to call the members of the First and Second Teams.

“Now then, you fellows,” said Duffield, “I’m here to show you what I know about foot-ball and you’re here to learn. That means that I say and you do. Any one who doesn’t like that wants to run along right now. I’m going to be It around here for the next month or so. You all understand that? All right. Now then, find your squads and let me see you handle the ball. Here, you fat boy, whatever your name is—What is it, by the way?”

“Jell.”

“Well, Jell, you want to move faster than that or you’ll go to sleep. Let’s see you run. That’s it! We’ll make a sprinter of you yet. Where’s your manager, Langton? How are you, Warne? Glad to know you. You stick with me this afternoon, please. I’ll want to ask a lot of questions probably. Is that your Varsity Team over there?”

“Yes, School Team we call it, sir.”

“What’s the matter with them? Are they walking in their sleep? My, but I’d like to be that quarter for a minute! All right. Now let’s have a look at our own collection of wonders.”