The shake-up predicted by Sid didn’t come, although several experimental changes were tried in the line-up the next week. Dick learned from Cardin that Coach Driscoll had taken a large share of the responsibility for that defeat, declaring that he should have supplied the team with a better defence for the one-man pass. Dick and Cardin had taken to each other and, during scrimmage when Stone was running the First Team against the Second, usually sat together on the bench. In a measure they were rivals, but Cardin was second-choice quarter and Dick—well, Dick was so far down on the list that his number didn’t matter. Stone, Cardin and Pryne were the quarters who would be depended on this season, and Dick sometimes wondered why he and two other aspirants were retained. But they were, at least until the Friday of that week. Then Dick alone remained and could flatter himself if he chose to with the title of fourth-string quarter-back! With the passing of the two superfluous quarters came the elimination of a half-dozen assorted candidates and the First Team was down to less than forty players.

It had been decided that Dick and Stanley, Blash and Rusty were to accompany the team to Phillipsburg on Saturday, and, when that day arrived, go they did. But they didn’t go together, for on Friday afternoon, after the players were back in the locker room in the gymnasium, Manager Whipple read the names of the thirty-one fellows who were to report at eleven the next forenoon, and lo, the list began in this surprising manner:

“Abbott, Abernathy, Banker, Bates——”

So Stanley, Blash and Rusty Crozier travelled to Phillipsburg in the twelve-ten accommodation, while Dick, one of a small army of players, coaches, trainers, rubbers and managers, departed in style at eleven-forty on the Springfield Express which, for that occasion only, was scheduled to stop at Phillipsburg at twelve-fifty-four. They walked to the station, each with his togs in a bag, and presented a fairly formidable army as they marched by twos and threes down School Street. Small boys stood spellbound in awed admiration and elderly citizens smiled or frowned according to their sympathies: for Warne is still a somewhat old-fashioned town and there were still those who looked with disfavour on the rude sport of football.

At the station Billy Goode and his assistants were waiting beside a baggage truck piled high with paraphernalia, and the assistant manager, who, as he would become manager next year, must learn his trade by serving an apprenticeship to which fell the hard work, was standing nearby importantly frowning over an envelope full of round-trip tickets. He had counted the contents of the envelope three times and had got a different result with each count. Stearns Whipple relieved him of further responsibility by pocketing the tickets uncounted while the assistant dug up the balance of the eighty dollars entrusted to him. The express came in twelve minutes late—being late was a long-standing habit of the express—and they piled aboard. Seats were few and Dick was among the dozen or more who were forced to stand or sit on their up-ended suit-cases in the aisle. At the first stop after Warne, however, Dick and Warden were lucky enough to fall heirs to the seat of an elderly couple nearby who for twenty minutes had displayed intense bewilderment over the somewhat boisterous horde of boys who had invaded the car. Dick thought he read intense relief on the prim countenance of the old lady as she left.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Driscoll used you today, Bates,” said Warden when they were speeding on again. “I have an idea that it’s been decided to put in a practically fresh line-up in the second half. No one cares an awful lot whether we win from Phillipsburg, and it’s about time some of the second-string fellows got a good tryout.”

“But I’m not a second-string fellow,” demurred Dick.

“N-no, but I think he means to give all his backs a whack at it this afternoon. If you do get in, old man, just keep your head steady. Don’t let anything or anyone rattle you. If you look out for that you’ll make good, I guess. Another thing, Bates. Don’t be afraid of hustling the team. A team likes to work fast. It’s the waits between plays that raise the dickens sometimes. Keep us going. And talk it up a lot. That helps, even if it does sound crazy on the side-lines. Scold, too, but don’t nag. Stone nags too much. And Cardin doesn’t whoop it up enough. I tell you, Bates, a fellow likes to feel that his quarter is right on the job, that he isn’t missing a trick and that he’s standing by every minute. I don’t know if I make myself quite clear. But, for instance, when I’m playing I like to feel that all I’ve got to do is mind the quarter, that he knows what he’s doing. I want to have implicit confidence in my quarter. Then I can play ball. If I don’t have confidence I can’t. I get to thinking: What’s he mean by that? That isn’t the play for the down. Suppose he’s mixed on his signals: Is the ball going to be there when I’m ready? And I lose confidence in my own ability to make the play good.

“Last year we had Patterson. He was a wonder, my idea of just what a quarter should be. If it was fourth down on the other fellow’s one-yard and Billy called for a punt we’d have thought it all right. Not one of us would have questioned. He didn’t make mistakes and we knew it. I say he didn’t make mistakes, but of course he did once in a while. He was only human, you know. He pulled an awful ‘boner’ in the Chancellor game. He had called the ‘big shift’ and then he sent K around the wrong end and we lost about six yards; and a touchdown, too, as it proved, for we couldn’t make the distance afterwards. Of course we were pretty sore and we’d have said some hard things just then to anyone but Billy. You might expect a quarter after doing a stunt like that to be all broke-up, but when I got on my feet again Billy was laughing for all he was worth. ‘That’s the worst one I ever pulled,’ said he. ‘I guess the old bean’s slipping, fellows!’ So, in about one second we were all laughing, too, and calling it a joke. But Billy’s old bean didn’t slip very often, I’m telling you.”

“Did you win that game, Warden?” asked Dick.

“Oh, sure! We got over the next try all right. I forget the score. Something like three scores to one, I think. But if Billy had got sore we’d have all been sore, and being sore doesn’t help much. Unless you’re sore against the other team. A quarter wants to be a regular double-dyed optimist, Bates, and he wants to let everyone know it, for the rest of the team will take their cue from him. Just let them think that he’s discouraged and they’ll feel the same way, and as soon as they do they’ll quit trying their hardest. They won’t mean to, mind you, but they will. There’s a lot of psychology in a football game, old man.”

“Yes, I think that’s so,” agreed Dick. “Where I’ve played, back home, though, it’s always been the captain that’s run things, Warden.”

“Bad business. A captain shouldn’t butt in on the running of the team unless it’s absolutely imperative. He has a position to play and he ought to give his whole mind to playing it. You watch Bob. You’ll almost never see him question a signal or even suggest a play. You can’t have two bosses, Bates, and a quarter-back is in position to see what’s going on and to dope out the answer. Sometimes Bob will guess what the other fellow is up to and let us know, and he’s usually right, too, but that’s about all he does except play his position. Off the field he’s the Big Boss, but on it he’s taking his orders from the quarter just like the rest of us. I’m doing a lot of talking, but I’ve got rather strong convictions as to the proper playing of the quarter-back position, Bates, and I thought I’d hand them on. Even if you don’t like ’em there’s no harm done.”

“I’m glad you have, Warden,” said Dick earnestly. “I’d never thought much about the—what you call the psychology of the thing. But I see that you’re right. And I’ll keep it in mind—if I ever get a chance!”

“Oh, your chance will come before the season’s over. Mr. Driscoll isn’t keeping you on the squad just to look at. Bates, I’ve seen a whole team pretty nearly turned upside down between the first game and the last, seen fellows who supposedly never had a chance come out of the big game covered with medals. You never can tell! Well, next stop’s ours, I think. I’m as hungry as a bear. I hope they give us a good feed at the hotel. Two years ago we nearly starved.”

Phillipsburg didn’t impress Dick very favourably at the first glance for the sunlight of a gorgeous October day was almost obscured by a pall of smoke from the many factories along the railway. But later, when they had left the station behind and were trudging up the hill toward the centre of the city, the smoke disappeared and Phillipsburg turned out to be rather attractive. The hotel was one of those old-fashioned hostelries set close to the street, with a broad verandah running along the front on which gentlemen of leisure sat tilted back in their chairs and watched life go by. To the loungers the arrival of thirty-odd guests in one bunch was a refreshingly momentous event, doubtless affording them more real excitement than they had experienced since the last collision or runaway. Quite a number of them abandoned their ease and comfort and followed the end of the procession into the lobby to satisfy their curiosity.

Dinner—or luncheon as it really was—was served in a small and very musty smelling room on the second floor, a room evidently dedicated to the yearly banquets of the Odd Fellows and the annual conclave of the local Order of White Elephants. There was a faded red carpet on the floor and three long walnut tables were arranged around as many sides of a square. The chairs matched the tables and dated back to about the period of the Hayes and Tilden campaign. But the food wasn’t bad and the two coloured waiters, in spite of the infirmities of age, managed to get it to the table fairly hot.

After the meal was finished Coach Driscoll explained the plans for the afternoon game. Phillipsburg Academy had a light-weight and supposedly speedy team that relied on passing and running more than on line-smashing. Her punters were exceptionally good and her ends fast. To meet the Phillipsburg style of offence Parkinson would play her ends back and her tackles out, with Stone and Warden dividing the field. Phillipsburg made use of both the “bunch” and the “one-man” pass and used a lateral pass as well. If Phillipsburg switched her attack to the centre of the line, the Parkinson tackles were to come in again, but there were always to be two men up the field. On attack the Brown-and-White was to try out several new running plays and to use the forward-pass whenever practical inside the neutral zone.

“We’ve got a good chance, fellows,” said Mr. Driscoll, “to try out our passing and end-running plays against a team who has a scientific defence against them. If we make our passes go we’ll have reason to be a bit satisfied with ourselves, for Phillipsburg has worked out a pretty good defence against the passing game. What she can do to stop end-runs remains to be seen. But you’ve got to start quick today and run hard and watch the holes, you backs. You’ve got to show about twice the speed you showed against Cumner last week. If you don’t, these chaps will make you look mighty poor.

“I’m going to see that every fellow has a look-in at some time during the game. We may lose the game, but we’re going to get experience. Mind, I’m not saying we shall lose it or that we ought to, because I don’t think for a moment that Phillipsburg is a bit better than we are, even if we use third-string players. If you’ll use your heads today, and play as fast as you know how, you’ll come out on top. I want to see that Number 12 play go smoothly today. It’s a winner if you pull it right, but you’ve got to get together on it. All right. Any questions, fellows?”

A few minutes later they crowded into two yellow trolley cars and went bouncing and swaying out toward the Academy, a mile from town. Dick had held a few hurried words with Stanley and Blash in the lobby. Rusty, it seemed, had disappeared while they had been having lunch in a white-enamelled place down the block and hadn’t turned up since. “He’s probably up to some idiotic tomfoolery,” grumbled Stanley, “and we’ll have to go to the police station later and bail him out, I suppose. Well, good luck, Dick! Hope you get into it. If you do, remember the Maine and all that sort of thing!”

The squad changed into football togs in a room assigned to their use in the Academy gymnasium and at a few minutes past two went across the elm-shaded school yard to the athletic field beyond. A tall youth with an embarrassed manner and a prominent Adam’s apple, the assistant manager of the Phillipsburg team, personally conducted them. The game was scheduled for half-past two and already the stands were well sprinkled with spectators. A cheering section of some hundred or so Parkinsonians was already in place and the Brown-and-White trotted onto the field to a quite noisy reception. Three squads took the gridiron for signal drill and the punters got busy. Dick accompanied the latter and punted and caught for a good fifteen minutes, getting rather warm during the proceedings. Phillipsburg arrived at two-twenty and hustled out for a warming-up. By that time the stands were about filled and the cheering was on in earnest. Then the teams retired to their benches, the captains met in midfield, shook hands and watched the flicking of a coin, and Bob Peters waved toward the south goal.

“Means we won the toss,” commented Jerry Wendell, right tackle. “Well, here goes!” Dick laid strong hands on Wendell’s sweater and the latter squirmed out like a moth from a chrysalis.