Friday was a hard day to live through. Excitement was in the very air and football tunes assailed one at every turn. For the players the day was a nervous period of suspense. Dick was heartily glad when recitations took his thoughts off the morrow. There was some punting and a light signal drill on the field in the afternoon, but it was all over by half-past four. A final black-board talk was held in the evening and after it most of the players went over to the final mass-meeting and sat on the stage and were wildly cheered. Everyone who could think of anything to say that evening said it: Mr. Morgan, Chairman of the Athletic Committee, Coach Driscoll, Captain Peters, Billy Goode, Manager Whipple and one or two lesser luminaries. And the musical clubs played and the Glee Club sang and everyone joined in, and enthusiasm held sway until late.

Saturday morning dawned brisk and fair, with a light westerly wind sweeping along the Front. Kenwood began to appear on the scene as early as half-past ten, and from that time on blue banners were almost as numerous as brown-and-white ones. The Kenwood team came at shortly after twelve and went at once to Alumni Hall for an early luncheon, heartily cheered on their way by friend and foe. On the train that brought the thirty husky warriors came also five persons whose affiliations were evidently with Parkinson, for each of the five wore a brown necktie, differing somewhat in shade, and two wore brown-and-white arm-bands. In the confusion existing in and about the Warne station they were not discovered by the reception committee of one for several minutes. Then Dick gave a yell, charged through the throng, grabbed Sumner White and spun him around.

“Sum! You old scoundrel! How are you?” Dick was surprised to discover how glad he was to see Sumner.

“Fine! Gee, Dick, you’ve grown an inch! Say, you needn’t have come to meet us. I told your——” Sumner stopped, grinning. “See who’s here?”

“Hello, Charlie! Hello, Jim! Say, I’m awfully glad——” Dick’s words stopped in his throat. Then: “Dad!” he gasped.

Mr. Bates laughed a trifle embarrassedly as he took Dick’s hand in both of his own. “Yes, it’s me, Dick. I—I thought I’d come along and keep these young fellows in order, you know. Well, how are you, son?”

“I’m great,” answered Dick, “but I’m so knocked in a heap—Think of you coming, dad! Gee, I’m glad to see you! How are you? Let’s get out of here where we can talk.” Dick took his father’s arm and piloted him out to the sidewalk. Taxicabs were not to be thought of, for the demand already exceeded the supply six to one, and so they set off along the street afoot, Dick talking and asking questions and all the others chiming in every minute. It wasn’t until they were crossing the campus, Dick pointing out the sights, that he remembered the appointment with Mr. Driscoll. Then he hurried them all to the room in Sohmer and left them in charge of Stanley while he and Sumner went on to the gymnasium. On the way Dick explained the situation to his companion, perhaps not very lucidly, and Sumner was still in a most confused condition of mind when he faced the coach. But it didn’t matter, for Mr. Driscoll’s questions were few and somewhat perfunctory after Dick had had his say about Sandy Halden. “I think, sir,” Dick ended, “that Halden didn’t find that piece of an envelope at all. I think he addressed it himself, copying my writing the best he could.”

“And I think you’re right,” agreed Mr. Driscoll. “I’ll have something to say to Halden after this game’s out of the way. He’s a dangerous fellow to have around.”

Five minutes later they were back in Number 14, in the midst of a merry din of talk and laughter. Dick couldn’t remain with them long, however, for luncheon for the players was at a quarter to one, or as soon as the Kenwood party vacated the dining hall, and so, giving the tickets he had obtained for them to Sumner, he hurried away. “Stan will look after you,” he shouted back from the door. “There’s a stand-up lunch in Alumni for visitors at one-thirty, or you can get real food in the village. Stan will take you over to the field in plenty of time and I’ll see you here after the game. So long, dad! So long, fellows!”

“Go to it, Dick!” cried Sumner. “Eat ’em up, old scout! We’ll be rooting for you!”

A sketchy luncheon in the dining hall, with no one eating much, not even the veterans like Bob Peters and Harry Warden, a flight by way of the service entrance to the gymnasium and the usual confusion of changing to playing togs and listening to final instructions at the same time. Then, at last, just before two o’clock, a heartening, quiet talk of a minute by the coach.

Kenwood was already at practice when Parkinson reached the field. The home stand arose and gave the “long cheer” and the base drummer of the Warne Silver Cornet Band thumped vigorously. Counter cheers mingled from across the field and then the visitors cheered for Parkinson, and Captain Bob led his men forth and a ten-minute warming-up followed, with three squads trotting up and down and the punters stretching their long legs down by the east goal. It was four minutes past two when the teams took their places and the din of cheering and singing subsided.

In seats half-way up the centre of the south stands Mr. Bates and Sumner White and the other three visitors from Leonardville watched intently. Sumner had just discovered that Dick was not in the Brown-and-White’s line-up and had proclaimed the fact disappointedly.

“What’s that mean?” asked Mr. Bates anxiously. “Isn’t he going to play, Sumner?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” replied Sumner, assuming more confidence than he felt. “You see, a quarter-back doesn’t often last a whole game. It’s a pretty hard job. So they generally put in one to start the game and then run the other fellow on later. I guess Dick will get in before the half’s over, Mr. Bates. I think I see him down there on the bench. Yes, there he is, sir.”

Mr. Bates had to have his son pointed out to him, and then a shrill whistle blew and Kenwood, having lost the toss, kicked the ball high and far into the sunlight.

For the first ten minutes of that game Parkinson and Kenwood tried each other out and neither team approached a score. Kenwood had what advantage lay in a mild westerly breeze and she punted often. But if she expected fumbles or misjudgments she was disappointed, for either Stone or Warden caught unfailingly and usually took the ball back over one or two white lines before being stopped. Just at first Mr. Bates, whose football education had been sadly neglected, thought the game much too rough and predicted broken legs and worse, but before that first quarter was at an end he was inured to the ungentle behaviour of the contestants and was following the varying fortunes of the game with grim lips and flashing eyes.

Parkinson made one first down and Kenwood two in the initial period, the second of the Blue’s successes coming just at the end when a back shot unexpectedly around Peters’ end and made all of seven yards before he was pulled to earth and enthusiastically sat on by most of the Parkinson team! Two attacks on Newhall and Wendell added the three more and the chain was trailed to a new position. But the Blue was still well away from the home team’s goal and shortly after the second quarter began she had to punt again.

Neither team appeared to be able to gain consistently through the opposing line, while neither team had shown thus far much ability to run the ends. It looked like a punting duel all the way, with the victory depending on a “break” in the defence of one side or the other. It was a ding-dong affair for thirty minutes of playing time, and when the first half ended neither team could claim the advantage.

“You wait till Dick gets in, though,” said Sumner to Mr. Bates when the field had emptied and the Silver Cornet Band was blaring forth again. “That quarter they’ve had playing may be good, but I’ll bet Dick can play all around him. He’s awfully slow, for one thing——”

“Dick is?” inquired Mr. Bates, anxious to learn football lore.

“No, that fellow Stone. Dick’s a streak when he gets started. Why, he can do the hundred in ten and two-fifths, sir!”

“You don’t say!” murmured Mr. Bates. He wondered what the hundred was and how Dick “did” it, but he had no intention of exhibiting his ignorance any further. He was still recalling Sumner’s expression when he had innocently asked which team the little man in the grey flannel trousers—he happened to be the umpire—played on!

Stone, however, was still in the line-up when the third period began and Dick was anxiously looking on from the bench, one of some fifteen other equally anxious substitutes. It was when the last half was but four minutes old that Kenwood sprung her big surprise. The surprise was a tow-headed youngster who had been substituted at right half. Someone near the Leonardville contingent said his name was Marvel, and Sumner declared heartily that he was well-named. The next day’s papers called him Marble, which was probably correct but not nearly so descriptive. Marble was the nearest imitation of an eel that the Parkinson team had ever had to contend with. Kenwood played him close to the line, gave him the ball on a direct pass from centre and then set him loose. After he was loose he was about as easy to locate as a flea, and, having been located, about as easy as a flea to capture! His first stunt, and one that brought the visiting rooters to their feet with a sudden fierce and triumphant yell and sent Parkinson hearts into Parkinson boots, was a dash through the brown-and-white line outside left tackle. He went through much as a hot knife cleaves its way through butter, and after he was through he feinted and squirmed and doubled and twisted until only Stone stood between him and the Parkinson goal. And Stone missed him!

That forty-seven-yard run that ended in a touchdown squarely between the posts was just the medicine Parkinson needed, however, and with the score seven to naught against her, for Kenwood couldn’t have missed that goal with a blind and one-legged kicker, she set to work with a new determination and a new vim. Stone remained in just two plays after the kick-off. Then, not a little groggy, he limped off, loyally cheered, and Dick took his place.

Dick carried but one instruction with him. “Hustle your team, Bates,” Mr. Driscoll had said quietly.

With the coach’s encouraging thump on his shoulder to remember and the knowledge that his father and Sumner and the others were wishing him luck, Dick raced on with every nerve tingling and a big, hot desire in his heart to vindicate their faith in him. Bob Peters hailed him joyfully. Bob was as happy as a clam, despite an ensanguined nose. “Ata boy, Dick!” he sang out as Dick came up. “Look who’s here, fellows! What do you say?”

The others said many things, somewhat breathlessly but heartily, and Dick hurried back to his position the instant he had reported. “All right now, Parkinson!” he cried cheerfully. “Let’s see what we can do when we try! Every fellow on his toes and play fast! You’ve been asleep, every one of you! Let’s have some action. Let’s show ’em the game!”