The boy in the green sweater, if left to his own devices, would have passed Willard some fifteen feet away, but curiosity got the better of the latter and when the other was opposite to him he spoke.

“Hello,” he said.

The fellow stopped, turned his head and viewed the boy on the stone wall, quite without surprise, for a long moment. Then he shifted his gaze to the forked stick that he still held extended before him and shook his head slowly.

“I suppose I haven’t got the power,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“What power?” asked Willard.

“Why, the power, or whatever you like to call it, to make this thing work. Have you ever tried it?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” answered Willard, getting down from the wall. “What’s the branch for?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a water-finder?” Willard shook his head, puzzled. “Well, you take a piece of witch-hazel or willow—some say alder or ash will do—and hold it like this by the top branches and walk over the ground. When you come to a place where there’s water below, the lower end there will tilt downwards. I’ve seen it done twice.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that, but I never saw it tried,” answered Willard interestedly. “I supposed it was just nonsense. Did you ever see it succeed?”

The other nodded soberly. “Both times. Old Man Hildreth, back home, did it twice one time for my father, and when we dug where he told us to we came to water. One time it was a regular spring that we found and the other time it was more like a well. I mean we had to dig pretty far down before we came to the water. Old Man Hildreth used witch-hazel, and that’s what I’ve got here. I had to hunt nearly an hour before I found any.”

“Let’s see.” Willard took the Y-shaped piece and looked at it curiously. There was, however, nothing about its appearance to indicate the power attributed to it by the boy in the green sweater. Willard shrugged. “I guess you’ve got to go where you know there’s water,” he said. “It doesn’t look to me as if there’d be much water on top of this hill.”

“You mostly find springs on hillsides,” replied the other mildly, “and that’s why I’ve been looking around here. Maybe I’m too high up now, though.”

Willard seized the branches as he had seen the other hold them and experimentally walked a few steps forward. Nothing happened. For that matter, he hadn’t expected anything would happen.

“You must hold them tight,” advised the other, “so you’ll feel the influence.”

Willard gripped harder and circled about the green sweater. Once, possibly because his muscles were so tense, he thought he felt a tremor, but, when he turned and went back over the spot, the phenomenon was not repeated. “Look here,” he asked, “what do you want to find water for, anyway? There’s a whole river just full of it down there.”

“I wanted to see if I could do it,” answered the other.

“Oh!” Willard looked at the witch-hazel wand in his hands and down the gently sloping meadow. “Let’s go down there and try it,” he suggested finally.

“Very well.” Side by side, Willard still holding the water-finder, the two went down the hill. Willard’s countenance, although he didn’t know it, wore an expression of concentration and expectancy. At the foot of the hill his companion seated himself on a rock and Willard began a systematic exploration of the surrounding territory. When ten minutes or so had passed it dawned on him that he was extremely warm and that, while there was bound to be water underground, since the river was not far distant and very little lower, the forked stick had absolutely failed to register even a tremor of interest! He joined the youth in the green sweater and handed the stick to him in disgust.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Why, I could find water two feet from here if I had a shovel! That’s just bunk!”

“I suppose you and I haven’t the right powers of divination,” replied the other composedly. “I’ll try again some day with a piece of willow.”

Willard said “Humph!” as he seated himself on the rock, and a minute’s silence ensued. Then: “I’ve seen you at school, haven’t I?” Willard asked.

“I presume so. My name is McNatt, and I’m in Upton. What is your class?”

“Junior,” replied Willard. “This is my first year. I suppose you are in the senior class.”

McNatt nodded. “I’ve been here four years. This is my fifth. I was sick my sophomore year and had to go home twice. Once I was away two months and another time I was gone five weeks. That put me behind and I had to take the year over. I guess I could have made it up, but the doctor wouldn’t allow it. I don’t mind at all, though. I like it here. The only thing is that the fellows I came along with have gone and I don’t know many now. But then I never was much for making acquaintances.”

Willard viewed him curiously. McNatt was perhaps nearly nineteen, he thought. His head was large and his features prominent: a very beak-like nose extended well over a wide mouth, his rather pale eyes, which might have been either green or blue for all Willard could determine, were deepset under heavy brows and his chin jutted out almost aggressively. But in spite of his features McNatt did not impress Willard as being a forceful youth, nor did his expression, voice or manners suggest it. He had a pleasant, deep voice and spoke slowly, almost hesitantly, and, while he didn’t smile frequently, his countenance bespoke good humor. He had very dark-brown hair, and there was a good deal of it, and it was perceptibly wavy under the rim of his straw hat. The straw hat, like the rest of his attire, had seen better days. In fact, McNatt’s trousers, of blue serge that had changed to plum-color on the knees, would not have greatly interested an old clothes man! The garment that clothed the upper part of his body was equally disreputable, a dark-green coat-sweater with many darns and one pocket that was trying hard to get away. The shoes alone appeared to be of recent origin, but as they were caked with mud along the soles the fact would have escaped casual observation.

“What made you think of this stunt?” asked Willard, nodding at the witch-hazel stick.

McNatt’s countenance expressed faint surprise. “Why, I’ve always been very interested in scientific matters,” he replied gravely.

“Oh,” said Willard, “do you call that science?”

“I’m not sure,” answered the other slowly. “The diving-rod, as it is sometimes called, has been in use a great many years both for the discovery of water and metals. Taking science in its broader sense of truth ascertained and systematized, almost anything not capable of classification as an art may well be termed a science. While the affinity existing between the diving-rod and water or metals underground may be viewed as a phenomenon, yet when we make use of that affinity to produce systematic results we enter the realm of science.”

Willard blinked. “I—I suppose so,” he agreed vaguely. “Can you find gold that way, too?”

“It has been done, I think,” said McNatt. “I haven’t been able to find much data on that subject, though.”

Willard looked more respectfully at the witch-hazel switch. “I guess it wouldn’t be much use looking for gold around here, though,” he said. “How would you know whether you had found gold or water if the thing dipped?”

McNatt considered in silence a moment. Then he shook his head. “I can’t say,” he replied. “Perhaps you couldn’t tell. Though, as gold is generally located away from water you would hardly expect that the diving-rod was indicating anything but gold.”

“Isn’t gold sometimes found in the beds of rivers and streams?” asked Willard. “Seems to me your diving-rod would get sort of mixed, wouldn’t it? And how about silver? Can you find silver that way, too?”

McNatt looked almost distressed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I haven’t devoted any study to the use of the diving-rod in the location of metals. Your questions open up an interesting field, though, and some time I’ll go into the subject thoroughly. And still, as I haven’t yet demonstrated the—ah—power of the instrument in the finding of water, possibly it would be idle to extend the experiments. There’s one possible explanation of failure that just occurs to me. Old Man Hildreth said he used a hazel stick. He didn’t say whether it was the hazel of the nut tribe—”

“I think it must have been,” said Willard emphatically.

“Or the witch-hazel. The ordinary hazel is a member of the oak family, but does the witch-hazel belong to the same family? There are certain similarities between the two, and yet they may not be botanically related.” McNatt presented a puzzled countenance to Willard. “What would be your opinion?”

“Search me,” said Willard cheerfully. “I thought a hazel was a hazel.”

“I’m afraid not. That may account for my lack of success. You see, I jumped to the conclusion that the witch-hazel was the proper one, probably because the word ‘witch’ suggested—ah—divination. So I may have been wrong.” McNatt’s face cleared and he looked quite cheerful again. “I’ll have to try again. Only—” He paused and pursed his lips dubiously. “Do you happen to know if the hazel grows about here?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” said Willard.

“Nor I. I’ll have to look that up when I get back. It’s strange that the encyclopedias give so little information on the subject of the diving-rod. I wonder—” McNatt fell silent, and after a minute Willard arose.

“Well, I guess I’ll be getting back,” he announced. It was, he concluded, too late to meet Martin and the others now.

“Back?” repeated McNatt, coming out of his trance. “Yes, that’s so. It must be—” He searched under the edge of his sweater for something evidently not there. “Have you a watch? I seem to have forgotten mine.”

“Twenty to five,” said Willard.

“Then we’d better start.” McNatt gazed thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully at his witch-hazel stick and laid it gently on the rock. “I may try that again some time, but I rather think I was mistaken; I rather think it should have been the corylus americana.”

“Something nutty sounds more likely,” said Willard gravely. To his surprise, the other chuckled.

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” he replied. “You see, some of the fellows call me McNutt. By the way, what’s your name?”

Willard told him and McNatt nodded. “Harmon: the name’s familiar. I remember now. There is a fellow of that name who plays football. Quite a remarkable full-back, I think.”

“Gordon Harmon? Did you know him?”

“I read about him. He played on one of the high school teams in New York City, I believe. Is he a relation of yours?”

“Brother.”

“Really?” McNatt turned and viewed Willard with real interest. “Well! Think of that! I dare say you’re sort of proud of him.”

“I suppose so,” replied Willard doubtfully. “I don’t think I ever thought whether I am or not,” he added, laughing.

“You should be if what they say of him is true,” said McNatt earnestly. “I followed his work last season with much interest. A natural-born full-back, I’d call him. By the way, do you play, too?”

“A little. I’m out for the team.”

“Full-back? But no, you’d be too light. End, maybe?”

“Half,” said Willard. “I’ve played there some.”

“Hm.” McNatt looked him over critically. “Yes, you might do well there. You look fast. Ten pounds more wouldn’t hurt you, though.”

“You talk like a football chap yourself,” said Willard. “Do you play?”

McNatt shook his head. “I used to, but I got—ah—out of sympathy with it. You see, Harmon, football is capable of being reduced to an exact science, but played in the haphazard manner that they play it here it lacks interest. I haven’t played recently.”

“Well, I don’t see how you can reduce it to any exact science,” Willard objected. “Of course, if you knew beforehand what the other fellow was going to do—”

“You miss my meaning,” interrupted the older boy. “See here, Harmon. You start with a playing space so many yards in length and so many yards in width. You oppose a team of eleven players with a team of a like number. You may do a certain number of things legitimately. Each situation developed in the course of a football game calls for a certain move. But that’s what coaches and quarter-backs don’t realize. They think that a situation is unprecedented and, instead of making the move that is called for, they confusedly try something they shouldn’t, a play never intended for the situation.”

“But how the dickens are you going to know what play the situation does call for?” demanded Willard. “The situations make themselves, and they’re all different!”

“Not at all. There are only a certain number of situations that can eventuate and they are quite capable of tabulation. For the purpose of argument, suppose we set the number at three hundred. Very well, there are consequently three hundred correct moves. Suppose it is A’s ball on B’s twenty-yard-line on third down with five to go, B has demonstrated that gains between her tackles are practically impossible. A is weak at kicking field-goals, but has proved capable of gaining on runs outside B’s right tackle. B has a good defense against forward-passes and has defeated A’s attempts to gain that way. Now, then, what is A’s correct play?”

“Why, a skin-tackle play, of course, at the weak end,” replied Willard. “At least, theoretically. But suppose the back who carries the ball slips or turns in too soon or—”

“No science, no matter how exact, is proof against the fallibility of those engaged in its demonstration,” said McNatt gravely. “The point I am trying to prove is that here is a situation that is neither unprecedented nor novel and that, capable of being recognized, has its proper solution which may be scientifically applied.”

“Maybe,” said Willard, “but, gee, how many situations would there be to recognize? About a thousand, I’d say!”

“Many less, I think. I’ve never attempted to tabulate them, but it would not be a difficult task. Science has performed far more difficult feats.”

“I dare say, but—but—look here, McNatt, if each team played football like that, I mean if each team had the right answer to every situation that might happen, why, gee, neither one would win!”

“You’re wrong, Harmon. You’re forgetting the element of human fallibility. Put two chess players at the board, give them each a similar knowledge of the game, and what happens? Do they play to a tie? Very seldom. One wins and the other loses. So it would be in football with each team applying science. One team would excel because she applied it more exactly, perhaps more instantly.”

Willard shook his head. “It sounds crazy to me,” he said. “And I don’t think I’d want to play if everything was cut-and-dried like that. Hang it, McNatt, it’s accident and chance that makes the game interesting.”

“I don’t agree with you. I think those things retard the development of it, Harmon. As it is now, individual skill rules. Why, look here. Suppose armies fought that way. Suppose a field general said to his subordinates: ‘I don’t know how to meet this situation. You fellows see what you can do. Maybe we can push back his left wing or maybe we can punch a hole in his center, do something, but don’t bother me!’”

Willard laughed. “That’s not a fair comparison, though, McNatt,” he answered. “At least, in football, the coach or the quarter-back has a plan and carries it out, even if it isn’t the right one!”

“A wrong plan is no better than no plan. Haphazard football is just as silly as haphazard war would be, Harmon. Fellows who teach football talk about the science of it, but they don’t study it. Their science begins and ends with finding out the other fellow’s weak spot and attacking it.”

“Sounds like pretty good science to me,” said Willard.

“It is good as far as it goes, but it’s only the beginning. Well, here’s my way. I’m glad to have met you, Harmon. I’d be glad to continue the subject sometime if you care to visit me. I’m in Number 49. I’ve got some things that might interest you, too; rather a good collection of minerals gathered around here, for one thing: nearly two hundred specimens.”

“Thanks, I’ll look you up some time,” said Willard, “but I guess I’ve had enough of that argument. It’s too deep for me, McNatt! So long.”

Willard turned toward Haylow and, when he had gone a little way, looked back. McNatt had stopped near Lawrence Hall and was staring up into the sky. All Willard could see there was a streaky white cloud. He shook his head as he went on again. “‘McNutt’ is right, I guess,” he muttered.