Jimmy was very conscientiously obeying Mart Proctor’s request to practice punting. As a senior who was not overburdening himself with extra courses, Jimmy had several periods of leisure between nine in the morning and three in the afternoon, and while these periods came at different hours on different days they never failed, and, as it happened, Tuesdays came very close to being full holidays for him. On those days his morning was blissfully free from the requirements of class attendance, and not until eleven-thirty did his schedule mean a thing to him. Usually there was some one on the field when Jimmy arrived who was quite willing to chase his punts and kick them back to him, and so he had already put in a good many hours of work outside the regular practice sessions. He had requisitioned a football from Jake and kept it in his room, since more often than not he went from dormitory to field without stopping at the gymnasium for a change of raiment. Casting aside his jacket, he was ready for the task, since he always affected knickerbockers. An old pair of football shoes, one having a tan lacing and the other a black, which ordinarily kicked about under his bed collecting dust, were donned before leaving the room. On Tuesdays, however, Jimmy dressed for the work and engaged the aid of some football aspirant whose hours of leisure matched his.

On this particular Tuesday, the day following the small events narrated in the preceding chapter, Jimmy, having picked up the football from where it had lodged under Stanley’s bed, viewed it with disapprobation. It was a very old ball, and a very scarred and battered one. As Jimmy mentally phrased it, it had whiskers all over it, by which he meant that what may be termed the epidermis of the ball was abraded and scruffy and adorned with little—for want of a better word—hang-nails of leather which in Jimmy’s opinion mitigated seriously against both distance and accuracy. Of course he couldn’t expect a brand-new ball, but it did seem as if Jake might have found one less feeble and senile than this! Why, the poor thing ought to have been retired on a pension years ago! Jimmy viewed it dubiously and at last distastefully, dropping it from one hand to the other. If he had a decent ball to work with—

Well, why not? If the management wouldn’t afford him one, why not buy one of his own? Why not indeed? Jimmy tossed the ancient pigskin from him, unmindful of direction or ultimate destination, pulled out the top drawer of his chiffonier and selected two bills from a number that reposed in a small box there. Then he looked at his watch. He had commandeered Neirsinger, a quarter-back candidate, for half-past nine. It was now twelve minutes after. In eighteen minutes he could get to West street, purchase a new football and—well, if not reach the field at least get within sight of it. So, stuffing the money in a pocket, he hurried forth and down the stairs and across the Green by an illegal but well-defined path that led straight to the center gate. Being like most of us a creature of habit, Jimmy’s subconscious mind was leading him to Crocker’s hardware store, and to Crocker’s hardware store he would have gone, so, doubtless, moving Stanley to reproaches, had his eyes not caught sight of an unaccustomed object when, having traveled the block between the Green and West street, he turned to his left on the latter thoroughfare.

The object was suspended above a doorway a half-dozen rods from the corner, a sign about two feet in length and somewhat less than a foot and a half wide. It hung from a projecting wrought-iron rod, at right angles to the building, and presented a bravely gay broadside to the passers, for paint and gilt were still new and fresh upon it. There was background of dead black against which was portrayed a golden-brown football. Above and below the ball read the legend in plain but quaintly old-fashioned lettering: Sign of the Football. The letters, like the molding that surrounded the whole, were of gilt. In its way, that swinging sign was quite a work of art, and Jimmy, who had a keen appreciation of the picturesque, paid it tribute ere, stopping stock-still two doors away, he viewed it fixedly, frowningly for a moment. Then:

“‘Inverted bracket,’” he muttered triumphantly. “‘Inverted bracket.’ That’s it!”

He went on triumphantly, aware now that he had no business to transact at Crocker’s, and wondering that he had forgotten the new store. Under the glittering sign he stopped and observed the windows. In that at his left were displayed four weary-looking geraniums, bearing a few pink blossoms, in pots; two ornamental vases filled with dahlias of various hues; a glass sign that leaned against the vases and proclaimed in gold letters against a black ground: Pulsifer the Florist—Funerals a Specialty; and, finally, somewhat in the background and so unobtrusively suggestive, a wreath of artificial ivy and white roses. Jimmy turned from this appalling display with a shudder and moved to the window beyond.

This, he told himself commendingly, was better. Against an expanse of clean white paper lay, at either side, a pennant; at the left the gold-and-gray of Alton, at the right the blue-and-white of High School. Between these had been assembled a fairly enticing array of seasonable articles: a football, a head harness, a nose-guard, one of the small horns affected by umpires, a shining nickel whistle, two pairs of shoes, two pairs of woolen hose, a tennis racket, a box of felt-clad balls and one or two other objects. Across the back of the window hung a low curtain of dark blue material and against it was a colorful poster: a brawny youth in togs, football nestled against his ribs, arm outstretched, face stern with ferocious determination, spurning a vividly green sod beneath flying feet. Below the figure was the cryptic legend: “PandF spells Best.”

Jimmy entered the store. It wasn’t a very large store, even for West street, and it was rather dark. On the left was the establishment of J. Warren Pulsifer: a long counter, bare save for some wrapping paper and a box of pins, a desk surrounded by iron grilling, a refrigerator, or what looked like such, behind whose glass doors could be indistinctly glimpsed a modest stock of flowers in tall, brown papier-mÂchÉ receptacles. There were, also, two tiers of shelves back of the counter, and these held an array of dusty boxes. Behind the iron grilling a tall, dejected looking man with faded hair and mustache looked anxiously up from his desk as Jimmy entered and then with a slump of his narrow shoulders that was, Jimmy was certain, accompanied by a sigh of relief, returned to his occupation.

The other side of the store held a duplicate of the long counter, but it had been recently varnished and so presented a different appearance. Varnished, also, had been the shelves beyond, while a six-foot show-case near the entrance lent an added air of luxury. In fact, this side of the store was, in contrast, almost startlingly gay. Boxes of various colors thronged the shelves, pennants hung above them, a blue-and-white sweater lay across the counter, articles of leather and metal gleamed from the show-case, show-cards and posters and placards were numerous. Jimmy thought, in fact, that there were rather too many of these latter, even if they did lend a certain air of business. Viewing cannily the, after all, rather scanty furnishings and stock on hand, he felt that there was something akin to bravado in that display of advertising placards.

There was but one customer within when Jimmy arrived, a small youth of perhaps a dozen years who was frowning doubtfully over a helmet displayed before him on the counter. Behind the latter stood the senior partner of the new firm, and at Jimmy’s appearance he looked up inquiringly.

“Hello,” said Jimmy, ending his leisurely inspection of the premises. “I’d like to get a football, please. No hurry.” He had quite forgotten Neirsinger and the flight of time.

“Just a moment,” answered Russell. The boy laid the helmet down with a sigh of rejection.

“Maybe I’ll be back,” he muttered, and turned away from the counter with a last desirous look at the article.

“All right,” replied Russell cordially. “Glad to see you.”

Jimmy smiled as Russell turned to him. “Didn’t have enough money, I guess,” he said.

Russell shook his head, and smiled, too. “I showed him a cheaper one, and one that would have fitted him, but he said he wanted to buy one he could ‘grow into’! You wanted a football?” He reached to a shelf behind him, drew down a box, set it on the counter and took the lid off. The box was empty, and he pushed it aside and reached for another. “Silly to put the empties back on the shelf,” he said carelessly as he opened the next box. Jimmy’s gaze roved over the rows of boxes and he smiled quizzically, but to himself.

The football looked very good to him as he searchingly examined it, but it was different from those he had been used to, a fact explained when his eyes fell on a design lightly burned into the outer leather. It was a diamond enclosing the characters “P. & F.” Curiosity clamored. “Say, for the love of lemons, Emerson, what does ‘P. & F.’ mean?” he demanded.

“Proctor and Farnham. They’re the makers. Ever used any of their goods?”

“No, never heard of them. New folks?”

“New in the East. They’ve been making footballs and things for years and selling in the West. They’ve just begun to go after this part of the country and we succeeded in getting the agency here. Very good stuff they make. Notice the way that ball is sewed? Those seams can’t open in a hundred years, I guess. And that leather’s the best horsehide procurable. There’s a big difference in leather, you know. Some balls scuff up the first time they’re used after they’ve been once wet.”

Jimmy nodded. “I know. Looks pretty good, still I’m sort of used to the other balls, Emerson.”

“I can sell you your kind,” Russell returned, “but I’d like awfully to have you try one of these. You see, fellows are sort of shy of new things and you’ve got to get them started. After that they go all right. If you care to try this Proctor and Farnham ball I’ll guarantee to give you a new ball or your money back if you decide you don’t like it after a fair trial.”

“Fair enough,” said Jimmy. “I’ll take it. By the way, what’s the price?” His eyebrows lifted when he heard it and he frowned a little. “What’s the price of the others?”

“Just the same,” replied Russell, folding a paper neatly about the pasteboard box.

“But that’s forty cents less than Crocker asks!” protested Jimmy.

“Then they ask forty cents too much,” answered the other calmly. “I think you’ll find Crocker’s prices going down before long.”

“I wouldn’t wonder,” agreed Jimmy. He picked up a pair of greenish-gray sport hose from the counter. “How much are these?”

“Three and a half,” said Russell. “We’ve got some good ones for less, though.”

“Guess I don’t need any just now, but those are mighty good-looking. Doing any business yet, Emerson?”

“Fair,” answered Russell, exchanging the bundle for Jimmy’s money. “Of course, it takes time to get started.”

“I suppose so.” With bundle in hand, Jimmy showed little inclination to hurry away. “You seem to have a pretty big stock here,” he went on. “Must take some money to get a place like this going.”

Russell nodded. “Quite a bit,” he agreed. “We haven’t laid in much except fall stuff yet. Have to go a bit slow at first.”

“Yes,” mused Jimmy. He was wondering if the storekeeper recognized him. If he had he certainly hadn’t shown it by so much as a flicker of his eye-lids. “Say, I saw you at that hotel at Pine Harbor, didn’t I?” he asked.

“Yes, I waited on you there,” replied Russell readily.

“I thought so,” murmured Jimmy. He was sitting on the edge of the counter now, swinging his legs thoughtfully. “Say, Emerson, I like your pluck,” he continued after a moment. “Working there at the hotel, you know, and then starting this place. Makes me feel downright lazy and no-good, though. Hope you’ll have all kinds of success.”

“Thanks,” said Russell, a little surprised. “I guess I wouldn’t be doing either thing if I didn’t have to, though, Austen; so I suppose there isn’t much credit coming to me.”

“Rot!” said Jimmy. “Lots of fellows need money and never think of getting out and hustling for it. They just let the old man come across with it. Don’t see why a fellow shouldn’t help his folks put him through school and college. Wish I could do it myself!”

“Can’t you?” laughed Russell.

Jimmy shook his head and frowned. “Wouldn’t know what to do nor how to do it,” he answered. “Besides, my father wouldn’t—” But he stopped there. “How do you fix it for time?” he resumed. “I mean, don’t recitations interfere with looking after this place?”

“Yes, but we manage pretty well. You see, Patterson’s a senior and I’m a junior, and most days we make it go all right. If we can’t either of us be here Mr. Pulsifer explains that we’ll be back in an hour. I suppose we lose some customers that way, but it can’t be helped. The store is closed for an hour at noon, too, but lots of them do that in this part of town. To-day I’m here until a couple of minutes to ten and then Stick—that’s my partner—stays until twelve. I’m here always in the afternoon from three-thirty to six, and sometimes Stick comes over, too. When there’s no one to wait on we can study pretty well here.”

“I thought you were playing football with the second, though,” said Jimmy.

“I had to give it up,” replied Russell. “Some one has to be here afternoons, and three mornings a week I can’t get around at all and Stick has to do it all.”

“Too bad, though,” Jimmy said. “About football, I mean. Still, maybe they don’t need you much. The scrubs have been pushing us around pretty fiercely so far.” Jimmy looked at his watch, whistled and jumped to the floor. “I must be getting back. I’ll give this ball a try-out this morning, Emerson, and let you know how I like it. And I’ll see that fellows know about your prices, too! Good luck!”

So Jimmy went his way briskly, a full twenty minutes late, and Russell, folding up the stockings that the customer had admired, smiled contentedly. He had at last succeeded in selling a “P. & F.” football, after several attempts, and, fortunately, to a fellow who, for some unknown reason, was anxious to boost the store. Russell decided to order four more balls that very day, since, in spite of the brave array of boxes on the shelf which looked as if they might contain footballs, the only other ball in stock reposed in the window!

When, presently, Stick Patterson arrived Russell announced to him the sale with much satisfaction and delegated to him the writing and mailing of the order to New York. Stick was equally pleased, but he voiced doubts as to the order. “They cost a lot of money, Rus,” he said. “Better get two instead of four, don’t you think? We can order two more later if those sell.”

“All right,” Russell agreed. Sometimes Stick’s conservatism was a trifle dampening, but he realized that it wasn’t a bad idea to have such a check on his enthusiasm. Without it his optimism might some day lead him to an error of judgment. “I’ll bet we’ll sell them, though, Stick. Austen’s sort of a leader in his crowd, and if he likes that ball he will say so, and from what he said I know he wants to like it, and I’m sure he will.”

“I fancy the ball’s all right,” returned Stick cautiously, “but not many fellows buy them. Did he want tick?”

“No, he didn’t say anything about having it charged. I was mighty glad, too, for I’d have hated to have lost a customer like him.”

“Wish the fellows that come around when I’m here were like that,” retorted Stick. “They always want tick and get sore when I tell them we don’t give credit. Any one else in, Rus?”

“Only a small kid looking at a helmet. He may be back. I tried to sell him one of the cheap ones, but he wouldn’t have it. Well, I’ll run along, Stick.”

“All right.” Stick seated himself behind the counter near the window, leaned his chair back and opened his book. “Say, Rus, how much longer do you think we can hold out if we don’t do any more business than we’ve been doing?”

Russell stopped at the door and leaned across to speak in a voice so lowered that it would not reach the rather prominent ears of Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer. “About three weeks, Stick,” he said soberly. “But we’re going to begin to sell things long before that, so don’t get the crÊpe out yet. You wait and see, Stick!”

“I’ll wait, all right,” grumbled Stick as the other hurried out, “but I’m sure of one thing, and that is I wish I’d never let him get me into this blamed partnership!”