Alton expected a rather hard game with Banning High School, which she had succeeded in beating last year by the small margin of two scores to one. Banning, however, proved scarcely more formidable than Alton High had been, and on Saturday afternoon the Gray-and-Gold, playing a fairly ragged game herself, romped off with the contest to the tune of 27 to 6. Banning’s touchdown came to her as the result of a clever quarter-back run from midfield to Alton’s thirty-four yards, followed by a forward pass that again gave her her distance and laid the pigskin on the twenty-two. Two attempts past tackle were foiled and Banning prepared for a try-at-goal, her left half-back, who performed such feats for her, retiring as far as the thirty-three yards. Alton read in this a fear of having the kick blocked and was unprepared for the play that followed. The Banning half, having received the ball from center, romped away toward the right side of the field, drawing the adversary with him. Only Harmon, the opposing left half, refused to be taken in, and when, besieged by the enemy, the Banning runner side-stepped, poised the ball and threw hard and far diagonally across the gridiron, over the tangled lines of the players, it was Harmon who saw the danger and raced to meet it. But a Banning end, who had sneaked unobserved well toward the left side-line, caught the hurtling ball perfectly and, although challenged an instant later by Harmon and plunged at by Ned Richards a few feet from the goal line, sped over for Banning’s score. The handful of Banning supporters cheered rapturously and even the Alton crowd clapped their applause for a very pretty stratagem.

That happened in the second quarter and practically brought the half to its close. Banning missed the goal and left the score 13 to 6. In the second half Alton took revenge, adding two more touchdowns to her portion, both in the third quarter. Neither was spectacular, the Alton team plunging again and again at the enemy line, satisfied with short and certain gains. Once Moncks was banged through from the four yards and once Browne went over from the two. Captain Proctor attempted three of the goals and made each. The fourth, after Mart had given place to Butler at left tackle, was missed by Mawson, though by a few inches only.

The game showed better team-play by the Gray-and-Gold and better generalship by Ned Richards, but most of the faults which had been so apparent in the earlier game were still visible. Second and third substitutes had their inning in the fourth quarter and, at least, made the game more interesting if less scientific. Jimmy Austen had two chances to show what he could do at punting, and whether it was because he didn’t like the ball as well as his precious “P. & F.” or whether he was perturbed by the frantic efforts of the opponents to get through on him, the fact remains that he sent off two of the poorest punts seen on Alton Field in many a day.

Russell wanted very much to witness that game, but Patterson, who had been in a continual state of disgruntlement since the evening previous, made no offer to relieve him of duty at the store and Russell didn’t care to make the request. So far as business was concerned, though, he might almost as well have gone to the field, for there were only two customers and their combined expenditures amounted to but three dollars and forty cents. Russell was getting not a little alarmed over the lack of trade. Of course, as he told himself frequently enough, it took time to establish a business, but now the store had been open for more than a fortnight and the total of its sales—well, Russell didn’t like to dwell on that! Stick was more than alarmed. There were times when he showed absolute panic and loudly bewailed his connection with the enterprise. Without putting it in so many words, he managed to convey the impression that he held his partner to blame for enticing him into the enterprise, that, indeed, Russell had somehow managed to blind his better judgment. Stick was vastly afraid that he was going to lose his capital, and if he could have got out without impairment of it he would have gladly done so. Russell frequently wished devoutly that it was in his power to return Stick’s contribution to the fund, but that was quite out of the question. More than half of the capital had already disappeared. Stock, rent, advertising, half a hundred incidental expenses had eaten it up as a March sun consumes a snowbank. And sometimes, looking over the scanty stock on hand, encountering the doleful, pessimistic countenance of Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer, Russell thought there was just about as much left to show! At such times he had to go outside and look up at the gay cheerfulness of that sign above the door. Somehow that sign always restored his spirits.

This Saturday afternoon, however, as he waited in the darkening store for the hour of six to arrive and release him, his worries were complicated by that overnight conversation with Steve Gaston. Russell had a rather highly developed conscience, and he wasn’t able to get away from the idea that perhaps Gaston was right and that his duty to the School ought to take precedence over everything else. The fact that it appeared to be a physical impossibility to play football on the second team and conduct the business of the Sign of the Football at one and the same time added to the complications. Even if he should reach the decision that it was his bounden duty to join the second, how was he to do it? It would be useless to look to Stick for assistance. Stick had already and on four occasions assured him emphatically that he didn’t propose to do all the work connected with the store and that he’d be switched if he was going to sit around down there half the morning and all the afternoon while Russell went out and played football. Stick wasn’t keen on football, anyway, and he didn’t hesitate to say so. Russell had spent a whole hour trying to work out a schedule that would equalize their store duties and yet give him two hours each afternoon between three and five, and had signally failed. It couldn’t be done. The only alternative appeared to be the employment for a part of the day of a paid assistant, and Stick wouldn’t consider that for a moment. And Russell couldn’t blame him. With affairs as they were now, paying out good money, even a little of it, to a clerk would be rank absurdity. In fact, Russell didn’t seriously consider the plan himself. Faced squarely, the situation came to just this, he ruefully concluded. Either he must keep out of football or he must close the store each afternoon between three and five, or even half-past five, a period during which trade, should it ever discover the Sign of the Football, might well be expected to prove heaviest. Russell sighed and shook his head and kicked dolefully at the counter. Kicking at the counter appeared to bring him no relief and seemed to prove irritating to Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer, who glanced across reprovingly from where he was sadly making up a funeral wreath of wilted ferns and forlorn white carnations. Russell desisted. He wished there was some one he might talk it over with, some one with common-sense whose judgment he could rely on. He had quite a number of friends and acquaintances, had Russell, but, passing them before his mind’s eye, he found them all wanting. Ordinarily he could have thrashed the matter out with Stick, but as regards the present question Stick was badly prejudiced. And then, just as he was giving vent to another doleful sigh, there was a shrill and cheerful whistle at the open doorway and Jimmy breezed in.

Jimmy had a badly wrapped parcel under one arm from which protruded the label of what was, for all the world to know, a carton of biscuits of a popular and well advertised brand. Jimmy whistled because he was rather in the dumps, and it was for the same reason that, having hurried himself into civilian clothes after the game, he had set forth alone for Bagdad and the bazaars thereof. It always cheered Jimmy up wonderfully to spend money, and to-day, being in need of cheering after his dismal fiasco as a punter, and having plenty of money on hand, he had fared from store to store and bought a number of things of which he stood in no immediate want—mostly edible! He dumped his disintegrating parcel on the counter and smiled brightly, gayly at Russell.

“Hello,” he greeted. “How’s the busy mart of trade, Emerson?” He glanced across the store and then swung himself to a seat on the counter. “Guess I’ll buy me one of those things,” he went on in a lower and confidential tone, nodding toward the wreath. “Place it on my dead hopes, Emerson.”

“Dead hopes?” repeated Russell questioningly and smilingly.

“Ah,” replied Jimmy, “you weren’t at the game, then. I see. If you had been you wouldn’t have asked that question, Emerson. Yes, sir, my poor dead hopes. You see, I had an idea that I could become a punter. I toiled and moiled— Say, what is that? Anyway, I did it, and to-day Johnny let me in in the last quarter and I tried twice to punt the ball and each time I—well, the thing almost hit me on the head when it came down!”

“Dropped the ball too late, probably,” offered Russell. “I guess it takes a lot of practice, punting. You’ll probably bring it off all right the next time. By the way, what do you think of that ball you bought here?”

“That’s what I dropped in about,” said Jimmy, brightening again. “Came over for a few eats”—he glanced unenthusiastically at the parcel—“and thought I’d drop in and tell you about that there ball, Emerson. It’s a corker! It’s a dream! It—it’s all right! Say, honest, if I’d had that ball in the game I’d have poked it fifty yards, Emerson. Honest, I would! I like it mighty well, and I’ve talked it up a lot. Showed it to Mart Proctor the other day; and Johnny Cade, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if you sold quite a few of them this fall. Well, how are things going with you? Been busy to-day?”

“Fairly,” answered Russell. Then, encountering Jimmy’s straight and level gaze, he shrugged. “I guess there’s no use lying, Austen,” he corrected. “Business has been rotten this afternoon, and every other afternoon.”

“Thought so,” said Jimmy. His eyes roamed over the poorly lighted store and came back to Russell. “I guessed the other day that a lot of this was just bluff.” He nodded backward at the shelves. Russell flushed slightly. “Not that it isn’t all right,” added Jimmy quickly. “Bluff’s a part of every game nowadays, I guess. And I like your nerve. So business isn’t rushing, eh?”

“It isn’t even crawling,” responded Russell wryly. “At least, it isn’t crawling this way.”

“I wonder,” mused Jimmy, “if you didn’t make a mistake in locating over this way instead of further down town. You’d ought to get the trade from the town folks, Emerson; high school and grammar school fellows, you know, and that crowd. I’m afraid there isn’t enough business among the Academy fellows to make it go. What do you think?”

“Well, I wanted the Academy trade first,” said Russell. “I can get the other trade, I believe, if I can wait long enough. But the question is, can I wait? I—we’ve advertised in the High School paper, and we’re running a small ad. in the town paper three times a week. They gave us a pretty good reading notice last Saturday. Something ought to come of those ads.”

“Sure to,” agreed Jimmy comfortingly. “Later on, now, when fellows start baseball, you’d ought to do better, too. Fellows buy baseball stuff more than they do football. Take the dormitory teams, for instance. They’ll be starting up this week, I guess. Well, most every fellow will have a shirt and a sweater and a pair of breeches, and that’s about all they’ll need. Maybe they’ll be along to buy a nose-guard or a pair of stockings, and that’s their limit. They get an old football from the first team, one that’s been through ten wars, and that fixes them. Baseball, though, is different. Every chap wants to own a ball and a bat and, maybe, a glove—”

“It’s a long time till spring,” interrupted Russell. “Look here, Austen, do you know any good reason why the football management shouldn’t buy their stuff here instead of sending to New York for it?”

Jimmy looked startled for a moment. Then: “Why, n-no, I can’t say I do, Emerson. Of course, they always have bought their truck in New York, but—” Jimmy stopped and viewed the other with dawning suspicion. “Say, is that what you’re after?” he asked incredulously.

Russell hesitated, looked away and finally nodded. “Yes,” he said, “it is. I haven’t told any one else, Austen, but that’s what I had in mind. If we can get the job of supplying the school teams we’re fixed. We can do it, too, just as well and just as reasonably as any place in New York. That’s what I’m working for. It will take time, though, and meanwhile we’ve got to keep going. And that’s going to be the tough part. It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

Jimmy was staring reflectively at the floor. At last: “Do you know Sid Greenwood?” he asked.

“No. He’s basket ball captain, isn’t he?”

“Yes. You’d better meet him. Coolidge, too. Bob’s hockey captain. And—yes, by jove, Stan ought to be able to help you. You know my chum, Stan Hassell, don’t you?”

“Just to speak to,” replied Russell, doubtfully. “I don’t think he knows me, though.”

“Yes, he does. We were speaking of you just the other day. Now I tell you what you do, Emerson. You drop in at our room some night; say to-morrow; to-morrow’s Sunday, isn’t it? Thought so. Yes, you come around and we’ll talk this over. I don’t see why Stan shouldn’t have something to say about where baseball stuff is bought. He’s captain. And I’ll try to get either Bob Coolidge or Greenwood there; maybe both. If you could get the job to supply the basket ball team and the hockey team it would be a help, eh? And then, maybe, we can wangle the baseball situation, too, later. Gordon, the manager, is sort of a pill, but Stan can put something over on him, I guess.”

Jimmy was quite radiant, and his infectious grin met a ready response from Russell. “That’s mighty fine of you,” stammered the latter. “It would be a dandy start just to get one of the teams, Austen. Don’t know why you should take all that trouble, though. But I’m—”

Russell’s further and somewhat incoherent remarks were interrupted by Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer, who, having deposited the funeral wreath in the refrigerator at the back of the store, now paused nearby. “I’ll be going along, Mr. Emerson,” he announced sadly. “Please be sure that the door is locked when you leave. Good night.”

“Good night,” answered Russell. “I’ll look after everything, sir. By jove, it’s six o’clock!”

“Right-o! I must toddle. You coming over?”

A few minutes later, having put out the lights and securely locked the door, Russell fell in beside Jimmy and the two went briskly off toward the Green. Jimmy was whistling again, but now he had quite forgotten his great sorrow and the sounds he made no longer disguised a crushed spirit and a broken heart. At the corner of State street Russell broke in on the melody.

“Austen, I wish you’d do something for me,” he said.

“Name it,” answered Jimmy promptly. “Hang you, keep still!”

The latter part of the remark was addressed to the parcel he carried, which was earnestly striving to distribute its contents along the way.

“I want to—I want some advice,” continued Russell.

“In that case you’ve come to the right person, Emerson. I’m famous for my advice. What’s the problem?”

Thereupon Russell told about Steve Gaston’s visit and the resulting complications. “Now,” ended Russell, “do you think I ought to go back to the team, Austen?”

“Hm,” said Jimmy. “Well, I don’t just see how you can, you know!”

“But that isn’t it. Ought I to? Is it my duty to—to the School?”

Jimmy was silent for nearly half the block. Then: “Well, if you want my perfectly honest opinion, Emerson,” he said, “I think it’s every fellow’s duty to do what he can for the old A. A. If you can play a fair line of football and Steve needs you—” He stopped. “Still, there’s this store. I don’t believe any fellow could find fault with you if—well, if you didn’t play, Emerson. At least—” Then his voice dwindled again.

“Just the same,” persisted Russell, “you do think it’s my duty to, don’t you?”

“Except for the store—”

“Leave the store out of it, please, Austen.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Jimmy relievedly, “absolutely yes. Maybe I’m a little nutty on the subject, Emerson, but I never could stand fellows who weren’t willing to pitch in and do their blamedest for their school or their college or—or their country. Maybe I’m sort of sentimental, but that’s the way I feel. I hate a quitter. Not that you’d be that, of course, under the circumstances—”

“I guess, though, I would be,” said Russell thoughtfully. “Well, that’s settled then.”

“Meaning you’ll go back on the second? What about the store, though. Hang it, Emerson, you’d better not take my say-so. Leave it to some one else. Put it up to—to—I tell you! Have a talk with Mr. Kincaid. He’s a good old scout and has a fine bean on him!”

But Russell shook his head. “I’d rather have your idea than any of the faculty’s, Austen. I mean, it’s the way the fellows look at it that interests me. You’re right, and Gaston was right, and I’m sure of it.” Then he smiled ruefully in the twilight. “I wish, though,” he added, “I didn’t have to convince Stick!”

“Stick? Oh, Patterson: yes, I see. He won’t like it, eh? Look here, Emerson, why shouldn’t he take over the store afternoons? He’s got his money in it, the silly ass. Doesn’t want to lose it, does he? Well, it seems to me it would be just common horse sense for him to—to leap into the breeches—I should say breach, eh?”

“He won’t though. He’s—well, he’s pretty fairly obstinate. He doesn’t want to lose his money, no, but he says he won’t keep store afternoons and I know him well enough by this time to be mighty certain that he won’t!”

“Silly ass!” commented Jimmy as they reached the front of Academy Hall and the parting of their ways.

“I’m awfully much obliged to you,” said Russell. “You’ve been mighty friendly, Austen. I’ll be around to-morrow night if you’re quite certain you want to go to all that—”

“Wait a second!” interrupted the other, hunching the dilapidated parcel further under his arm with a thoughtful frown. “Look here, old son, I’ve got an idea. At least, I think I have. I’ve got something, anyhow. Would this Stick fellow be willing to stay in the store afternoons if he didn’t have to go there at all in the mornings?”

“Why, yes, I think he would. I’m sure he would. But, you see, the trouble is that he has to be there mornings, too. I have recitations—”

“A bas les recitations!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Listen! Suppose you could get some one to stick around the shop in the morning when you couldn’t. Wouldn’t old Stick be willing to put in the afternoon there?”

“Yes, but we’d have to pay some one, and—just now—”

“Not necessarily. At least, not much. Say—say twenty-five cents a week. Would twenty-five cents a week seem unreasonable? Then let us say fifteen—ten—five!”

“We might pay that much,” laughed Russell mirthlessly, “but just where could we find any one who’d come for that?”

“Where?” Jimmy struck an attitude intended to be heroic but which was somewhat marred by the sudden collapse of the parcel under one arm. A carton of crackers, a box of caramels, six oranges and two unidentified articles descended to the flagging. When the oranges had been chased down and recovered and the wreckage stowed into various of Jimmy’s pockets the latter took up the conversation where it had been so rudely interrupted.

“You asked where you were to find this—this paragon of industry, Emerson. In response I say to you: Look! Behold! He is before you!”

“Eh?” faltered Russell. “You? You mean—”

“Who else? Here am I with most of my mornings wasted. Of course, I kick the jovial football into the empyrean, but there are other times for that. Besides, I am convinced that I shall never cause Charley Brickley to faint with envy! When Mart picked me to become a punter he picked a most acidulous lime! But that aside and, as it were, apart, Emerson. I have always had a sneaking desire to sell things over a counter, and here’s my opportunity. You wouldn’t want me to do it for nothing. Your pride would rebel. So I insist on a salary, a salary of, shall we say, ten cents a week.”

“You’re—you’re fooling,” said Russell dubiously.

“Nary a fool! Come on, do I get the job? Let me remind you, Emerson, that time is fleeting and my inner man cries for sustenance. Also, doubtless, Stan is pacing the room like a caged lion. If the salary asked is too steep, why, I’ll compromise. We’ll say five cents; but I won’t come down another nickel!”

“Why—why—” stammered Russell.

“Agreed then! I’m a wage-earner at last! I’ll drop around later and we’ll sign the contract. So long!”

And Jimmy waved gayly and sprinted for Lykes.