Jimmy was at the store in the morning and Russell went over the stock with him, explaining cost marks and various other matters that should form part of a clerk’s knowledge. Jimmy was, for once, not in the least flippant, and Stick, when he finally appeared to release Russell for a recitation, appeared to view the new employee more leniently than Russell had dared hope he might. Jimmy’s duties were not to begin until the morrow, and presently he and Russell hurried back to the Academy together.

“Your friend Stick seems rather a Gloomy Gus,” observed Jimmy on the way, “but perhaps by kindness and forbearance we may cheer him up. Is he taking the afternoon watch to-day, Rus?”

“Yes, I’m going back after this class, and he’s going to stay from three to five-thirty. Stick’s not a bad sort, but he doesn’t put his best foot forward very often.”

“I didn’t think to notice his feet,” replied Jimmy thoughtfully. “Well, here’s where we part. Oh, by the way, what about my attire? Do you think I ought to—well, dress for the part to-morrow? Something, say, a trifle modish, eh? Gray trousers and frock-coat, maybe, with a lavender tie and a single black pearl in it. Or do you think the usual more negligent dress would answer?”

“I’d go in for simplicity,” answered Russell, grinning. “What you have on looks all right. Besides, customers might think you bought those knickers in the store, and that would be quite an advertisement, eh?”

“Right-o! Well, see you this afternoon, doubtless. So long, Mister Employer!”

There was nothing very dramatic about Russell’s return to the football fold. A hurried and curt-spoken Gaston welcomed him with a sudden smile and a brief congratulatory nod. “Fine, Emerson!” he called as he passed. “B Squad for you.”

Followed half an hour’s work that proved to Russell very conclusively that he was in no good shape for the task ahead of him. He had lost a fortnight’s training and the fact was evident. Long before signal drill was done he was aching in most of his muscles and puffing like a grampus. He was glad indeed of a short respite on the bench before the squad walked across to the first team gridiron, where, although the time for scrimmage had arrived, a squad under leadership of Ned Richards was still hustling down the field, Ned’s voice, sharply imperative, rising above the tones of Coach Cade and Captain Proctor, trailing behind and rapping out criticism. That bunch, reflected Russell as he paused with his companions to form a sweatered and blanketed group along the edge of the field, was the first team’s A Squad, although there were two players on it whose presence surprised him. These were Crocker, at left end in place of Lake, and Greenwood, at full-back. Joe Greenwood was Sid’s brother, a heavy, dark-complexioned youth who had played with Russell on last year’s second. Russell hadn’t thought him varsity material, but he was displacing the veteran Browne. Possibly, though, Browne was on the hospital list or in trouble at the Office: Russell hadn’t been following football very closely.

The rest of the squad were first-string men: Butler, playing at left tackle for Captain Mart Proctor, Rowlandson, Nichols, Stimson, Putney, McLeod, Richards, Harmon, Moncks. Across the sunlit field, the substitutes’ bench showed far fewer huddled forms than had sat there last week, indicating that the first cut had taken effect. In the stands a score or so of onlookers were scattered, their hands more often than not thrust deeply in their pockets, for the afternoon was chill in spite of the flood of late sunlight. Captain Proctor detached himself from the followers behind the squad as it trotted past down the center of the gridiron and cupped his hands.

“Ready for you in five minutes, Gaston!” he called. “Help yourself to the field, will you?”

Steve Gaston nodded and tossed a ball to the turf. “Pass it around,” he ordered crisply, “and keep moving.”

So the second team players strung out along the edge of the gridiron in two roughly formed ranks and, walking briskly, shot the ball from one to another, frequently tripping over a trailing blanket when the pigskin eluded them and bobbed across the turf. Finally there was the hoarse squawking of a horn and Manager Johnson was signaling them. Two sweatered substitutes were unsnarling the chain. From the stand came a rat-a-tat of chilling feet against the boards.

“Second team’s ball,” announced Coach Cade through his small megaphone. “We’ll take this goal!”

“Yah,” derided the scrub’s captain sotto-voce as he pranced about, limbering his legs, “why don’t you let us toss for it, Tightwad?” Russell grinned as his glance met Falls’. “They haven’t kicked off to us for a week,” the captain added ruefully, yet smiling. “Come on, fellows! Let’s take it away from them!”

“You take right end, Emerson,” ordered Coach Gaston. “Look out for Harmon on forward passes, boy. All right, Second! Go to it! You fellows who aren’t playing, keep your blankets on. You’ll be wanted before this ruckus is through.”

The second lined up across the field for the kick-off, a whistle shrilled and big Jim Newton, center, lifted the ball well toward the first team’s goal. Russell, following down under the kick, scanning warily the hastily forming enemy interference, told himself that it was good to feel the sod underfoot again, to hear the soft rasp of canvas and creak of leather. Then he was swinging on a heel to dash across the field toward where Moncks, the pigskin clutched tightly, was coming along behind his interference. It was not Russell who stopped Moncks, but Captain Falls. The best Russell could do was topple Richards, in doing which he got a fine rap on the side of his head that, partly broken by the edge of his helmet, was yet hard enough to make his senses swim for a moment. When he got unsteadily to his feet again the teams were lining up near the thirty-five-yard line. Behind each team was its coach, and their voices were already to be heard. Russell, skirting the first team line to his position, saw that Captain Proctor was at his place again. Then Ned Richards yelped the signal, the lines swayed, met, there were gasps and grunts, an angry, stifled exclamation from Wells, the scrub’s right tackle, a hoarse bellow from Falls, and Harmon was crashing out of the welter of brown canvas bodies. Russell, playing out and back, sprang in, eluded the savage spring of an interferer and got his man, aided by Reilly, a half. But Harmon was hard to stop, and both tacklers gave ground for another yard ere the runner was down. Russell, blocking with one knee Harmon’s attempt to thrust the ball forward, muttered: “No, you don’t!” Then the whistle piped just as reËnforcements plunged down on the group. Harmon had made four yards outside Wells, and Wells was mad. He muttered aloud as he crouched with swaying arms at the end of the line, and Russell caught his threatening, taunting words.

“Come on! Try that again, you big stiff! I’ll put that long nose of yours on the blink for keeps! Send it this way, Ned! Come on, you Sore-Heads! Oh, you would, eh?”

This latter remark was to Mart Proctor, who had feinted inside Wells as the ball was snapped. There was an ecstatic moment for Wells, and then Mart deposited him neatly against his guard and tore outside him. Russell, already crossing behind the backs, left the invader to Reilly and met the play which was coming through left tackle. It was Greenwood this time, and the full-back added another three yards to the total. On the next attempt there was a fumble by Moncks, recovered by Richards for a yard loss. Then first team punted, Richards dropping the ball in Goodwin’s arms on the scrub’s twenty-yard line and the left half reeling off seven strides before he was downed by Crocker.

Carpenter, the scrub quarter, made two on a wide run and then Reilly, red-headed and hard-fighting, squirmed through Rowlandson for three more. But that ended the advance and Kendall punted well into enemy territory. First gained three on a criss-cross, Harmon carrying, and then Richards passed diagonally across the line to McLeod, and the latter, catching the heave unchallenged, went half-way to second’s goal before Carpenter stopped him. Play was held up while first team and second team coaches criticized and instructed, and while Russell, his last breath about gone, sat on the ground and longed for the horn to sound the end of the period. Then he was up again, almost on his fifteen-yard line, set for a forward pass that didn’t materialize. Harmon carried past Wells once more and fought and squirmed to the scrub’s twenty-one. Falls went down the crouching line and slapped perspiring backs and implored his men to hold, and Gaston, deep-voiced, shouted to Goodwin to close in and watch that guard! Then came the play again, and, over the heads of his plunging team-mates, Russell saw Richards, ball in hand, trotting back and back, saw Harmon sneaking fast across the turf to the left, saw Squibbs dash headlong at Richards, saw the latter side-step, calmly, smilingly, and saw the right arm go back for the long throw. All about him were warning voices as he forced his tired legs and tuckered lungs to new exertion.

“Pass! Watch that man! Stop that throw!”

Russell, running, glanced back. Overhead was the ball, a dozen yards ahead was Harmon, walking sidewise, hands ready. Behind Russell streamed the field, coming fast but too late to get into the play. Carpenter was closing up the gap between his position and the side line. Russell called on his flagging strength for one last supreme effort. Harmon had stopped, was facing the descending ball, had raised his arms. Russell was still a good six yards distant and he knew that Harmon would be off before he could reach him. There was but one chance and he took it. Throwing his arms high, he leaped into the air, hoping against hope. But fortune was with him. The flying pigskin grazed his left hand. The touch of it was so light that Russell scarcely felt it, but it served to deflect the ball. Harmon swayed to the right, the ball spurned his eager grasp and went trickling, bouncing across the turf toward the side line. Russell paid no further attention to it. He eased himself gently to the ground and turned onto his back. A minute later Lawrence pulled him to his feet and put a strong arm under his shoulders.

“Good work, Emerson,” he panted. “Better step out. Gaston’s looking. All right now?”

“Yes,” said Russell faintly. “I’m—fearfully—soft!”

They made their way back to the forming line-up, but Coach Gaston intervened. “That’ll do, Emerson,” he called. Then, turning to the far side of the field, “Tierney!” he bawled. “Tierney! Hurry up!”

Russell yielded his helmet and went off with drooping head. He was heartily ashamed of himself. He had lasted some eight minutes only! Of course the reason wasn’t far to seek: a fellow can’t play football if he isn’t conditioned; and Russell realized that he was very far from conditioned. A summer spent largely indoors hadn’t, he thought ruefully, prepared him very well for what was before him. He sank down in the line of waiting substitutes and wondered if he would ever get his breath fully back again!

Of course first team went over. Having reached the twenty yard line, it wasn’t to be held by anything the second had to offer in the way of argument. Moncks got a good gain through center and Harmon made it first down on the scrub’s sixteen. From there, using concealed plays, the first wore down the defense until, on fourth down, with the ball on the five yards, Richards faked a forward and passed to Moncks and the latter raced around the second’s left for a touchdown. The period ended soon after and the second team players joined the substitutes and huddled into blankets and listened to a grave discourse on their shortcomings and failures from the coach.

When the second period started Steve Gaston put on almost a new eleven. Russell didn’t go in again, but sat on the turf, wrapped in a faded gray blanket, and saw Tierney play right end. And Tierney did very well, Russell thought, even if he did let Harmon get safely off with another forward pass that paved the way for the first team’s second score. For that matter, Russell had almost done the same thing himself. He was still wondering why he had been caught flat-footed on that play!

Coach Cade likewise called on his second-string players for the last period, and on his third-string as well. Russell saw with satisfaction that when Jimmy Austen supplanted Mawson at left half—Harmon had not started the last period—his punting, if not in the least phenomenal, was very good. Russell got a case of mild heart-failure every time the ball went to Jimmy for travel by the aerial route, for Jimmy was deliberate to a fault. It looked as though he simply hated to part from that ball until at least two of the enemy were almost upon him. But he had Fortune with him to-day, and of his four punts not one was blocked and each went its way as he fore-ordained it to; forty yards, forty-five and, once, a magnificent fifty-odd. At carrying the ball, though, Jimmy met with less success, and after each of his several attempts Russell heard the incisive voice of the coach dealing out rebuke.

Second didn’t score that afternoon, didn’t approach to scoring, indeed, and, afterwards, Steve Gaston’s quiet thoughtfulness indicated that he wasn’t any too well pleased. Steve had yanked Squibbs and Emerson back to the fold and added two other unknown quantities in the persons of a brace of sophomores who had messed about with last year’s freshman team. So far, so good, but the second team was still far from the hard-fighting, bull-dog aggregation that he was working for. He told himself that the weight was there, and the aggressiveness, and the knowledge sufficient for his ends, but that for some reason the fellows weren’t using them. He wondered if there was some way in which to make the team forget that they were doing battle with their fellows and really fight! Of the crowd, Wells was the only one who exhibited the proper spirit. When Wells went into action friendship ceased. Put Wells in football togs and he would have fought to a finish with his grandmother! Sometimes Steve had to call the tackle down for “slanging” too much, but he always hated to do it. If he could only get the rest of the team into the same frame of mind he would, he felt, have a real eleven, an eleven that would make history.

On the way out of the gymnasium he caught sight of Russell and hailed him. “I used you a bit hard this afternoon, Emerson,” he said, “but I wanted to see how you showed up, and there isn’t much time for coddling.”

“I’m afraid I showed up pretty poorly,” said Russell. “I had no idea a fellow could go stale so soon, Gaston.”

“I know.” Gaston nodded. “You were all right, though. Get some one to work out the kinks in your muscles to-night. A good hot bath will help, if you get right into bed afterwards. I’ll let you off easy to-morrow. How did the team strike you?”

Russell hesitated, for it hadn’t occurred to him before to consider that subject. “Pretty fair,” he said at last. “It’s early yet.”

“It’s never early when it comes to getting a team in shape,” responded the coach. “I’ve got the stuff there, Emerson, but I don’t get it out. I will, though, by ginger! I’m going to make that bunch deliver the goods. Well, good night. Take care of yourself.”