That was on Friday. The next afternoon Parkinson played her first game, with Mapleton School. Mapleton had started the Parkinson schedule for several years, invariably providing just the amount of fight desired, and today was no exception to the established rule. Four ten-minute periods were played and Parkinson managed to run up seventeen points. It was a slow and uninteresting game from the spectators’ standpoint, and the afternoon was scorchingly hot for the last of September. “Babe” Upton, who weighed well over a hundred and eighty and played centre, affirmed afterwards that he could feel himself melting away like a candle. Indeed, although none of the team was allowed to remain in the contest for more than two periods, there were many who found it hard medicine. Dick, who as a member of the squad was supposed to look on and learn, watched the game from the Parkinson bench and sweltered uncomplainingly for the better part of an hour and a half. Naturally enough, his interest concentrated itself on Stone and, later, Cardin, the quarter-backs. He secretly thought that Cardin, with sufficient instruction, could be developed into a better quarter than Gus Stone, for Cardin was a quick, gingery youngster who drove his team hard, while Stone, although more experienced and heavier, had a tendency to go to sleep on his feet, and the plays always dragged just when they should have been run off at top speed. A third candidate, a thin ramrod of a youth, was tried out for a few minutes just at the end of the game. A neighbour told Dick that his name was Pryne, adding facetiously that it ought to be Prune. Pryne had scant opportunity to show whether he deserved the latter appellation, however.

When Mapleton had gone away and the stands had practically emptied, the members of the squad who had taken no part in the game were called out for an hour’s work. Coach Driscoll did not remain, and the job fell to Harry Warden, who because of a weak ankle had been out of his place at left half on the team that afternoon. By some chance the running of one of the three makeshift teams fell to Dick, and, with a few of the candidates who had failed to get placed on the squads following, he started off. The simplest sort of plays were being taught, straight line bucks and runs, outside ends and a rudimentary set of signals was used. At first the men moved hardly faster than a walk. Then, having presumably learned their duties, they were allowed to trot. It seemed to Dick that he was burdened with the stupidest aggregation on the field, and one of the backs, a shock-haired, long-nosed youth named Halden, outdid them all. No matter how many times Halden was walked through a play, the instant speed was called for he forgot all he had learned. Finally, after he had “gummed up” a simple two-man attack on left guard for the third time, Dick’s exasperation found voice.

“You! Eight half! What good do you think you are? You’re supposed to go in there and clear out that hole, and instead of that you let the runner ahead of you and then walk all over his heels! Can’t you understand that play? Don’t you get the signal, or what’s your trouble?”

“I thought full-back went ahead,” grumbled Halden.

“You thought! Great guns, haven’t you been through that play often enough? Come on, now! Try to get it right this time.”

Halden did get it right, but the effort so unnerved him that he stopped as soon as he was clear of the line and the full-back ran into him.

“All right as far you got,” commented Dick, bitterly, “but there’s supposed to be an opposing line in front of you, Halden. Keep on going! Here, we’ll switch that play to the other side and you watch how it’s done.” This time the right half cleared the hole on his own side and the full-back, ball hugged to his stomach, plunged after him. “Get it?” asked Dick of Halden.

“Sure,” growled the left half.

“Well, try it then. All right! 7—15—18—7——”

Halden started off much too soon, beating the signal by a yard, and a trickle of laughter arose from the squad. “Fine!” called Dick. “That’s great work, Halden! But it’s usual to wait until the ball is snapped! Here, you drop out and let someone else in here for a while.”

“You’re not running this,” objected Halden, angrily.

“I’m running this squad, and I don’t intend to waste everyone’s time trying to drive a simple idea into that concrete dome of yours!” Dick turned to the followers. “Any of you fellows play half?” he asked.

A volunteer stepped forward and Halden, muttering and angry, dropped back. It was at that instant that Dick noted the presence of Warden. If he had known the Varsity man was there, he might have been slower in assuming authority, but, having begun, he kept on with it. “All right. Left half, please. Now then, fellows, let’s get going again. Mind the signals!”

Of course when he called on right half to take the ball on a run outside, tackle one or two made the mistake of supposing it was the unsuccessful play that was called for and acted accordingly, but that was to be expected. “I told you to mind signals,” scolded Dick. “Don’t try to guess what’s coming. Listen to me!” When the goal line was reached and they swung around for a trip back up the field, Dick saw that Warden had taken himself off again and was somewhat relieved. He had more than half expected a calling-down for sending Halden out. Toward the end of the signal drill the squad worked fairly well, although Dick persisted in the belief that he had fallen heir to the most stupid bunch on the field. When dismissal came they trooped over to the benches to get sweaters, and as Dick pulled his on he heard Halden’s voice at his shoulder.

“Next time you bawl me out like that I’ll hand you a punch on the nose,” growled the half-back candidate. “You wouldn’t have done it if that big fellow hadn’t been there!”

Dick’s head emerged from his sweater and he viewed Halden coldly. “Son,” he said in as low a voice as the other’s, “if you try any tricks with me I’ll hurt you badly. And any time I’m playing quarter where you are and you don’t show any more intelligence than you did today, you’re going to get roasted. You make the most of that, Halden!”

“You try it!” hissed the other like a villain in a melodrama. “You think you’re somebody, don’t you? Well, you’ll get yours if you try to make a goat of me!”

“Oh, piffle!” said Dick disgustedly, elbowing away. “Keep your temper if you want to play football.”

“Yes, and I’ll be playing football when you’re kicked off,” answered the other.

Dick shrugged and went his way, Halden following gloweringly to the gymnasium. In the locker room, Harry Warden crossed over and seated himself beside Dick on the bench in front of his locker. “Say, Bates,” he began, “you’ve done that sort of thing before, haven’t you?”

“What sort of thing?” asked Dick, a twinkle in his eye. “Fired a fellow off the squad without authority?”

Warden’s sober countenance showed the faintest ghost of a smile: or perhaps it was only the eyes that smiled. “I meant run off signals. I thought you showed a good deal of familiarity with the job.”

“Why, yes, I’ve done it before, quite often. I’ve played three years, two of them on my high school team. We all had to take hold and coach at times, Warden. Our real coach couldn’t give us a great deal of time. He worked in a hardware store, you see, and his boss didn’t care a great deal about football.” Dick smiled. “We couldn’t pay him anything and he couldn’t afford to lose his job.”

“What school was that?” asked Warden.

“Leonardville, Pennsylvania, High.” Dick watched to see if the information aroused recollection. It didn’t. Evidently Fame didn’t travel into New England.

“You played quarter-back?” Dick nodded. “Hm.” Warden rubbed a cheek reflectively. “What’s your weight?”

“One-fifty-one today.”

“You look lighter. That’s your build, though. I liked the way you handled that bunch of dubs today, Bates. Ever done much punting?”

“Not very much. We had a full-back who was pretty nifty at that. I’ve done some drop-kicking, though.”

“Can you do two out of three from the thirty yards?”

“Yes, if the angle isn’t too wide.”

Warden got up. “I wouldn’t be surprised, Bates, if Driscoll took you onto the first squad some day soon. Keep on the way you’re going, will you? Let’s see if we can’t prove him wrong. You know, Driscoll insists that you can’t make a prep-school player from a high-school fellow. He says they always know too much. Think it’s that way with you?”

Dick looked haughty for an instant. Then he smiled. “Why, I don’t believe so, Warden. That’s a funny idea of his, though.”

“He says he’s never had much success with high-school fellows,” said Warden thoughtfully. “I know what he means, too. Maybe you wouldn’t notice it, Bates, but it’s a fact that most chaps who show up here from high schools have mighty good opinions of themselves. Half the time they’ve been captains of their teams, you know, or crack half-backs or quarters, and they don’t take kindly to new ways and hate being told anything. I know two or three cases myself. By the way, you weren’t captain, were you?”

“No.” Dick didn’t explain that he might have been had he remained in Leonardville! “I would say, though, that it depended on the fellow, Warden, and not on the fact that he’d been playing with some high-school team.”

“Yes, maybe. Well, see you again, Bates. And, by the way, you did just right to drop that chap this afternoon. So long.”

When he had gone Dick sat and nursed one bare foot for several minutes and wondered what Warden’s interest portended. He felt rather cheered-up when he finally went on with dressing himself. Warden’s remark about Coach Corliss and the first squad sounded good to him.