Coach Cade was pleased with Saturday’s game, and said so. So, too, was the school in general. In fact, it seemed that the school found more encouragement than was warranted. One heard a good deal on Sunday about what Alton was going to do to Kenly when the time came. Doubtless much of this optimism was due to the arrival of Felix McNatt in the backfield, which, with the placing of Proctor at left tackle, appeared to round out the team remarkably. Certainly there was little in Saturday’s victory over a palpably weaker opponent to account for all the enthusiasm which spread over the school like a contagion.

Sunday afternoon, walking across to Academy Hall to post a letter, Willard encountered McNatt bent on a similar errand. McNatt showed evidences of having played football recently, for three strips of adhesive plaster formed a star over one cheek-bone. Having dropped their letters in the box beside the entrance, the two boys stood for a few minutes and talked. McNatt was evidently a trifle discouraged about his mission of reforming football on a more scientific basis.

“Mr. Cade says there’s a good deal in it, but thinks the—ah—impetus should come from the colleges. Now I don’t agree with him there, Harmon— By the way, is your name Harmon or Brand? I heard some of the players calling you Brand yesterday.”

“Harmon. Brand’s just a nickname.”

“I see. Well, as I was saying, I don’t think Mr. Cade is right. I believe that if we fellows at this school developed the game along the lines that you and I have discussed so frequently, others would follow. There—there’d be a movement, Harmon. If we look to the colleges to make the start we’ll have to wait a long time, I fear. In my opinion colleges are extremely conservative in the matter of football, especially the larger ones, the—ah—the leaders. Of course I realize that the season is so far advanced that any extreme changes now would possibly militate against the team’s success. Nevertheless, I am hoping that Mr. Cade will decide to experiment in a small way. I have spoken to quite a number of the players and they all appeared most interested. In fact, I don’t recall that any of them offered a serious criticism.”

“I guess it’ll take time,” murmured Willard. “Great ideas generally have to—to overcome a good deal of opposition, don’t you think? How does it seem to be playing again, McNatt?”

The full-back’s face lighted. “Splendid,” he replied. “Do you know, Harmon, I didn’t suppose I could find so much pleasure in the game again. Of course I realize that I’m still rather stale, but it’s coming back to me, it’s coming back.” McNatt nodded gravely. “I make mistakes and I’m frightfully slow, but with practice I’ll improve. At least, I hope to,” he corrected modestly. “It’s possible, though, that I shan’t do as well as I should. The fact is, Harmon, I’m conscious of the variance of thought that exists between those in charge of the team and me. I approach the problem confronting us scientifically. They approach it in the old hit-or-miss style. I strive not to let the lack of—shall I say?—harmony trouble me, but I fear it does at times. So often, when the quarter-back signals one play, I know that the situation calls for another, and I fear that the absence of a sympathetic approval of the play demanded sometimes—ah—unconsciously reduces my enthusiasm for it. And, really, one must be thoroughly convinced of the propriety of a play before one can go into it wholeheartedly, just as one must be convinced as to any other act. You see what I mean, Harmon?”

“Oh, absolutely,” answered Willard, “absolutely! But, really, McNatt, I wouldn’t trouble much about that. Seems to me you’ve been playing a mighty sweet game.”

“You think so?” asked the other doubtfully. “I don’t know. If only it was possible to give reasoning thought to the conduct of the game! But it will come, I’m certain of that. Meanwhile I shall do the best I can.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Willard earnestly.

“There’s just one thing that might happen,” resumed McNatt as they strolled away from Academy, knitting his brows. “Some time that quarter-back—is his name Tarbox?”

“Tarver, Gilbert Tarver,” replied Willard gravely.

“I think I’ve called him Tarbox several times. Well, as I was saying, there is a possibility that some time he may call a play that I shall subconsciously rebel against and, under a certain mental condition, it might be that I would—ah—spill the beans.”

Willard went off into a gale of laughter. McNatt viewed him in mild surprise. “I’m afraid,” he said, gently reproving, “the result would be far from humorous. It is conceivable that it might, happening at a crucial moment in the contest, even prove disastrous to our fortunes!”

“I—I wasn’t laughing at that,” moaned Willard, wiping his streaming eyes. “I was laughing at—at your slang!”

“Slang? Oh!” McNatt smiled. “I dare say it did sound queer. I pick up quite a good deal of slang from Winfred. Well, I must get back. I’m working on a plan that will, I think, produce more certainty of result to the kick-off. You may have noticed how seldom the team in possession of the ball at the kick-off is able to concentrate defensively in the locality of the catch. My idea, if it proves practical—and I think it will—would enable the team to know where the ball would descend and so concentrate on that point. Well, I’ll see you again, Harmon.”

Willard reported the conversation to Martin, who was doing his best today to convince himself that what had every appearance of a cold in the head was merely a touch of hay fever, and Martin mixed laughter with his sniffles. “The poor nut,” he said. “He’d try to introduce science into eating a fried egg if he thought of it! How the dickens can the team know where a kick-off is going to land when the fellow who kicks the ball doesn’t know himself half the time? I suppose his idea is to have the ball brought back if it doesn’t go where it’s expected to! Say, Brand, remind me to get a Darlington paper tomorrow, will you? There ought to be something about last night’s job in it. I’ll bet those fresh chumps over at Hillsport are hopping mad today!”

“That’s a safe bet,” laughed Willard. “I only hope they’re not mad enough to raise a row about it.”

“How could they?” asked Martin indignantly. “Didn’t they do the same thing to us last fall? Much good it would do ’em if they did get sore! I guess faculty would have a pretty good comeback, son! Anyhow, you should worry. You didn’t have anything to do with it. Any more than I did,” added Martin after a moment.

Willard laughed. “It sounds fine the way you say it, Mart,” he answered, “but I guess faculty would have a lot of trouble getting your point of view. We were right there, old chap, and we even kept watch while the—the nefarious deed was perpetrated.”

“Where do you get that talk?” demanded Martin, punctuating the question with three mighty sneezes. “You’d better keep away from McNatt, son. You’re catching it! Brand, just so long as my conscience is at rest I care naught for what faculty may say or do. And I’ve got what is probably the most restful conscience in captivity!”

“Well, I guess Hillsport’s too good a sport to make a howl,” replied Willard. “Cal’s clothes are simply covered with paint, Bob says. And he doesn’t dare wear them for fear faculty might notice and get a line on what happened. He’s going to smuggle them over to the tailor’s and have ’em cleaned.”

“Well, he would have a hand in it,” said Martin complacently. “You didn’t see me begging to be allowed to desecrate the walls of the dear old town, did you? I knew better. Paint always spatters, especially when you try to put it on bricks. I could have told Cal that, but he’s so blamed knowing that he wouldn’t have paid any attention to me.” Martin sneezed again and shook his head. “It was coming over in that old trolley that gave me this cold. I guess I got worse than a spoiled suit out of the adventure. If I don’t manage to break this up tonight I’ll be out of football for days! I know these colds of mine.”

“I thought you said it was hay-fever,” remarked Willard innocently.

Martin growled. “It’s more than a month too late for hay-fever, I guess.” He seized his handkerchief, opened his mouth and twitched his nose. Nothing happened, however, and he relapsed again, with a dismal shake of his head. “It’s getting worse all the time,” he muttered. “Is there a window open anywhere?”

“No, but I’ll open one,” answered Willard obligingly.

“Don’t be a silly ass,” requested the other. “If you had this grippe you wouldn’t be so plaguey comic!”

“It’s growing fast,” laughed Willard. “An hour ago it was just hay-fever. Then it was a cold. Now it’s grippe. Better see a doctor, Mart, before pneumonia sets in!”

“Oh, shut up! What time is it?”

“Almost time for supper. What shall I bring you? Do you care for milk-toast?”

“I do not! And I’ll look after my own supper. I guess maybe some food will do me good. If it turned out to be influenza I’d be all the better for having lots of strength. It’s weakened constitutions that cause so many fatalities. A fellow wants power of resistance, I guess.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but a clean handkerchief wouldn’t hurt!”

Monday introduced real November weather. The sky was overcast when Willard piled out of bed in the morning, and a cold breeze was blowing from the east. Radiators were sizzling and the bath-robed, gossiping groups were noticeably absent from the corridor when he set forth for the lavatory. Winter was in the air, and the coffee at breakfast never tasted so good.

It was just before ten that Willard received the disturbing message from the school office. Mr. Wharton, the secretary, desired to see him immediately after twelve. Oddly, perhaps, Willard failed to connect the summons with the Hillsport episode for some time. All during his ten o’clock recitation he subconsciously tried to think of some neglected study or duty that would account for the secretary’s desire for his company, and it wasn’t until he had disposed of that explanation by the slow process of elimination that Saturday night’s affair obtruded itself.

He didn’t allow that to alarm him, though. After all, a mere prank of that sort, common wherever there were boys’ schools, couldn’t be taken very seriously. In any case, he would get off with a reprimand. What bothered him more was the question of how Mr. Wharton had managed to associate him with the affair, and he wondered whether Martin and the others were wanted at the office also. He hoped to run across one or the other of them and compare notes, but luck was against him, and as soon as he was released from classroom at twelve he set forth a trifle uneasily down the corridor to the office.

He had to wait several minutes while the secretary heard and denied a freckle-faced freshman’s request for leave of absence over the next Sunday and then he made his identity known and received a distinct shock when Mr. Wharton jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said: “Doctor McPherson.”

The thumb indicated a closed door across the width of the outer office. Although Willard had never passed through that portal, he knew that it admitted to the Principal’s sanctum. His confidence waned as he opened the gate in the railing, heard it click behind him and hesitated before the blank portal.

“You needn’t knock,” said the secretary, over his shoulder. “The Doctor expects you.”

Willard thought the latter sentence sounded horribly grim!

The Principal’s office, unlike the outer room, was large and spacious, with a flood of pale light entering by three big windows that overlooked the Green. A half-dozen mahogany armchairs stood about the room, a wide bookcase almost filled one wall space and a huge table-desk, remarkably free from books or papers occupied the geometrical center of the soft green rug. At the desk, his back toward the windows, sat Doctor Maitland McPherson, a man of well under fifty years, thin-visaged, clean-shaven, somewhat bald. He laid aside the book he had been reading at Willard’s entrance, slipping an ivory marker between the pages before he closed it, and nodded pleasantly.

“Harmon?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring one of those chairs here, please, and be seated.”

Willard followed instructions and then looked inquiringly across the few feet of shining mahogany and green blotting pad to the countenance of the Principal. This was his first close view of Doctor McPherson, although he had seen him at least once every day. Usually the length of the assembly hall separated them, and just now Willard wished mightily that it still separated them. Not that the Doctor looked very formidable, for he didn’t. He wasn’t a large man, and his strength and vigor were evidently that of the mind rather than of the body. His brown eyes, rather golden brown, were soft and kindly, and two deep creases that led from the corners of his short, straight nose to the ends of his rather wide mouth suggested that he preferred smiling to frowning. Even now there was a smile on the Doctor’s face, although it wasn’t a smile that encouraged the caller to emulate it.

“I presume,” said the Doctor, “that you know why I sent for you, Harmon.”

“No, sir,” answered Willard, honestly enough.

“Really?” The Doctor’s grizzled brows went up in faint surprise. Leisurely, he swung his chair a little and opened the upper left-hand drawer beside him. Then he laid something midway between him and Willard, something that by its appearance seemed to desecrate the immaculateness of the mahogany on which it rested. It was a crumpled object, white in places, black in other places, smeared and stiffened. In brief, it was a white handkerchief befouled with black paint.

“Have you ever seen that before, Harmon?” asked the Doctor.