Of course the joke was too good to keep, and two days later Blash’s friends—and he had a good many—developed a disconcerting fashion of greeting him with: “Is Blashington in the house?” Blash, however, could take a joke as well as play one. Dick had secret doubts as to his right to accept credit for the conspiracy, for without Stanley it could never have been born. Still, like a great many other great ideas, it had, in a manner of speaking, fashioned itself, and perhaps Dick had had as much to do with it as Stanley.

On the following Monday Dick found himself again in charge of one of the squads in practice. He had a suspicion that Harry Warden had said a good word for him to the coach, for more than once he found the latter watching him. With this encouragement Dick buckled down and worked very hard with the somewhat discouraging material supplied him. Halden was not with him today, but there was an excellent understudy for him in the shape of a chunky youth named Davis. Davis was just as slow as Halden had been, but he didn’t gloom or grouch. He was cheerful and apologetic and really tried hard, and Dick took a good deal of trouble with him and was extremely patient. When the squads were called in and the scrimmage began Davis insinuated himself between Dick and a neighbour on the bench.

“Say, Bates, I’m mighty sorry I was so stupid. And it was white of you to let me down easy the way you did.”

“Oh, that’s all right. You tried, and that’s more than some of them did. Look here, Davis, why don’t you brush up on the signals a bit before tomorrow? You didn’t seem to remember them very well.”

“The trouble is that I can’t think quick enough, Bates. You say ‘Six! Twelve! Fourteen!’ and I know that I’m going to have the ball——”

“No, you’re not!” laughed Dick. “Not on those signals!”

“Eh? Oh, that’s right! Well, ‘Five, twelve, fourteen, then. What I mean is, that while I’m getting the first number you call the third and then the ball is snapped and I haven’t found out where I’m going with it!”

Dick laughed. “Can’t think quick enough, eh? You’ll have practice on that then. Look here, Davis, who told you you were made for a back?”

“No one, but you see I sort of wanted to play there. You don’t think I can?”

“Oh, I don’t want to say that,” answered Dick kindly, “but I do think you’d do better work in the line. Seems to me you’d fit in pretty well at guard.”

“I guess I’m too short,” said Davis sadly. Then, brightening: “But I wouldn’t have to remember so many figures, would I?” he asked.

“Well, anyway, you’d have another second or so to think about them,” chuckled Dick. “Why don’t you tell the coach you’d like to try playing guard? You are a bit short, but you’ve got weight and you look husky. How old are you? Sixteen?”

“Seventeen. I don’t look it, do I? Say, I suppose you wouldn’t want to speak to Mr. Driscoll, would you?”

“Me? It wouldn’t do any good, my speaking to him, Davis. I’m just one of the dubs like the rest of you.”

Davis appeared to doubt that. “I thought—Well, you won’t be long. Anyone can see that you know the game. Maybe I’d better ask Bob Peters, though. I’m sort of scared of Mr. Driscoll.”

“All right, Davis, go to it. Neither of them will bite you, I guess. Were you here last year?”

Davis nodded. “And the year before. I’m in the Third.”

“Oh, are you? Well, how does Mr. Driscoll stand with the fellows?”

“Stand with them? Oh, ace-high, Bates,” answered the other earnestly. “He’s a corker! Don’t you like him?”

“I don’t know him, but it seems to me he’s sort of old for the job. And he doesn’t seem to——” Dick stopped. “Oh, I don’t know, but he acts a bit stand-offish, and football seems so much of a business here! I guess I can’t explain just what I mean.”

Evidently he hadn’t, for Davis looked blank. “He isn’t though,” he affirmed. “Stand-offish I mean. I like him immensely. Most everyone does. And he can turn out good teams, Bates.”

“Well, that’s the main thing. I wonder if we have punting practice after the scrimmage. Who is the skinny chap that was in charge of the punters Friday?”

“Gaines. He’s playing on the further squad there. See him? At right half: the fellow with the new head-gear. He’s pretty good, too. He played right half last year. I’m no use at punting. Guess my leg’s too short.”

“That can’t be my trouble,” laughed Dick.

“Oh, you! I thought you were mighty good at it,” said Davis approvingly. “I wish I could do half as well as you did.”

“Well, I can get distance sometimes,” acknowledged Dick, “but I’m just as likely to kick to one corner of the field as the other! Direction is the hard thing.”

“I suppose so, only it’s all hard for me.” After a moment of silence he said: “Do you know, Bates, half my trouble today was that I was scared. I was afraid you’d jump me the way you did Sandy Halden the other day.”

“You weren’t on the squad that day,” answered Dick, puzzled.

“I was trailing behind. When you let Sandy go I wanted to take his place, but I was pretty sure I’d do even worse! You ought to have heard Harry Warden chuckle when you slammed Sandy.”

“Did he? Well, I had a lot of cheek to do that, because I wasn’t supposed to change the line-up. But Halden was too much for me. Has he played before this year?”

“Oh, sure! Sandy tried last year, but they dropped him to the Second and he got peeved and quit. He’s always trying something. He had the golf bug last Fall and thought he was going to do wonders. But that petered out, too. Nobody would play with him after awhile because he was always blaming things on them. If he topped a ball he said the other fellow had coughed or moved or something. He was playing with Rusty Crozier one day: Rusty’s a mighty good player: and he was fiddling over his ball on a tee when Rusty began swinging his club behind Sandy. Sandy told him he should keep still when his adversary was playing. Rusty had heard a lot of that and he got mad. ‘That so?’ he asked. ‘Let me show you something, Sandy.’ He pushed Sandy aside, and took a fine long swing at Sandy’s ball and sent it into the woods over by the old quarry. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you go hunt for that, Sandy, and when you find it try to swallow it. Maybe you’ll choke on it!’”

“Did he find it?” asked Dick amusedly.

“Don’t think so. Anyway, he hasn’t choked yet!”

On Wednesday Sandy Halden fell to Dick’s squad in signal drill. There had been a very strenuous twenty minutes with the tackling dummy and most of the fellows were still smarting under the gentle sarcasms of Billy Goode, and some nursed sore spots as well. Halden had failed as signally as any of that particular squad to please the trainer and had come in for his full share of disparagement, and his temper was not of the best when signal work began.

Dick resolved to have no trouble with Halden; nor any nonsense either. But Halden started off more hopefully today and managed to get through the first ten minutes of drill without a mistake. He showed Dick, however, that he was still resentful by scowling on every occasion. Davis had, it appeared, found enough courage to ask for his transfer to the line, for he was on Dick’s squad at left guard. Of course, with none to oppose him Davis managed to go through the motions satisfactorily enough, but whether he could ever be made into a good guard remained to be seen. There were five signal squads at work that afternoon, and several of them were followed by blanketed youths for whom no positions remained. Coach Driscoll and, at times, Billy Goode and Manager Whipple moved from one squad to another, the coach, however, devoting most of his time to the squad containing the more promising of the substitute material—or what seemed such at that early period. Captain Peters was at right end on the first squad, which held all of last season’s veterans: Furniss, Harris, Cupp, Upton, Newhall, Wendell, Stone, Gaines, Warden and Kirkendall. The weather had turned cold since Saturday and there was a gusty north-east wind quartering the field, and the more seasoned squads were charging up and down the gridiron with much vim.

Dick had his men pretty well warmed up at the end of ten minutes and plays were going off fairly smoothly. Then, down near the east goal, came the first serious mix-up in the back field. Showers, playing full-back, had received the ball from centre direct and was to make the wide-turn run outside his own left end, the two half-backs going ahead as interference. It was a play that had already been gone through half a dozen times that afternoon. But now for some unknown reason Halden, instead of sweeping around to the left in the wake of the other half, plunged straight ahead at the right guard-tackle hole and emerged triumphantly beyond. His triumph ceased, though, when he saw Showers and the right half-back trotting along a good fifteen yards distant. He pushed through toward Dick, who had been engaged with a mythical opposing back, scowling darkly.

“You called for a straight buck!” he challenged.

“Wrong, Halden,” replied Dick quietly. “I called for a run outside left end and you were supposed to be in advance of the ball.”

“You got your signal wrong, then!”

“I don’t think so. Everyone else understood it. We’ll try it again presently, Halden. See if you can get it right next time.”

“I got it right that time. I heard the signal, and it was——”

“Hire a hall, Sandy,” advised a lineman. “You were all wrong.”

“I was not! Bates doesn’t give the signals so anyone can get them, anyway. He talks down in his boots!”

“Never mind that, Halden. Signals! 9—11—You’re out of position, Halden. Come on, come on!”

“What’s eating you? I’m in position!”

“You are now, but you weren’t. Signals! 9—11——”

“I haven’t moved an inch!”

“Well, do it now then. Move a couple of hundred inches and get out of here.” Dick looked around for someone to take Halden’s place, but there were no followers today. Halden had turned very red and now he stepped up to Dick sputtering.

“You can’t put me off, you smart Aleck! I was put here by Driscoll and I’ll stay until he tells me to go. You think you’re the whole thing, don’t you? How do you get that way? You make me sick!”

Dick made no answer, but he watched Halden closely, for the boy was quite evidently in a fighting mood. It was Davis who came to the rescue by slipping out of his place in the line and inserting himself suddenly between Halden and Dick.

“Sure, he’s got a right to fire you, Sandy, and you’re fired! So beat it!” Davis pushed Sandy playfully away. “Bates is boss, son.”

“He is not! He’s no more on this squad than I am! Quit shoving me, Short!”

“Driscoll is looking over here,” warned Showers uneasily. “Let’s get at it, fellows.”

“Right you are,” responded Davis, jumping into his place again. “Let her go, Bates!”

“I must have another half-back,” answered Dick, looking about.

“Oh, forget it,” growled Halden. “I’m not going off.”

“I think you are,” replied Dick quietly. He left the squad and walked across to where Billy Goode was standing with Manager Whipple. “I’m short a half-back,” he announced. “Got someone, Mr. Trainer?”

“What’s the matter? Someone hurt?” asked Billy.

“No, but I’ve let Halden go. He tried to make trouble.”

Billy looked at Dick quizzically. “You let him go! What do you know about that?” He turned inquiringly to Stearns Whipple.

Whipple smiled. “Benson’s not working,” he said. “Give him Benson.”

“Would you?” Billy shot a look of mingled disapproval and respect at Dick. “Well, all right. Send Halden to me. Say, what’s your name? Gates? Oh, Bates! Well, if I was you Bates, I wouldn’t get too uppity.” Billy went off for Benson and Dick started back toward his waiting squad, followed by the amused regard of Whipple. Benson trotted out from behind a neighbouring group and joined Dick.

“Billy sent me over,” he said. “I’m a half-back.”

“Go in at left, will you? That’s all, Halden. Goode says to report to him.”

Halden walked up to Dick and spoke very softly. “I’ll get you, Bates, if it takes a year!” he said.

Dick nodded. “Come on, fellows! Signals!”

Some ten minutes later Coach Driscoll found Dick on the bench while the first and second squads were taking the field for the scrimmage. “Whipple tells me you had trouble with Halden,” he said. “What was wrong, Bates!”

“He tried to hold up work arguing whether he or I was wrong about a signal I gave.”

“Who was wrong!”

“He was, sir, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t work. Just wanted to chew the rag. So I let him go.”

The coach smiled faintly. “You probably did right, Bates, but perhaps in future you’d better report the matter to me first. You see some fellows might question your authority.” The coach’s smile grew. “Well, I dare say Halden won’t trouble you again.” He nodded and went off. Dick looked after him thoughtfully.

“When he smiles he doesn’t look so old,” he said to himself.