Sunday morning at school is always a time of reckoning. On Saturday events are likely to succeed each other too swiftly to give one time for reflection or realization, and when bedtime comes sleep arrives quickly to a tired body. But Sunday is different. There is that added half-hour of slumber, the later and more leisurely breakfast at which one eats a little more heartily than on weekday mornings, the following period of repletion and calm, and, subsequently, a long day interrupted by few duties. Under such circumstances even the least thoughtful are given to thought, even to introspection. Yesterday’s events, the events of the week, present themselves to the mind, pleasurably or otherwise, insisting on consideration. Even consciences have been known to stir on Sunday morning!

This particular day of reckoning brought one realization to each and every fellow at Alton, which was that the football situation was desperate. Some phrased it one way, some another, but that was what they meant. The team was variously described as “punk,” “shot full of holes” and “sunk without trace.” Certain morbid youths took to figuring the size of the score that Kenly Hall School would roll up against her helpless opponent. The figures ran all the way from 10 to 0 to 36 to 3. The youth accountable for the latter prediction explained that 3 by stating that even so implacable an enemy as Kenly would let Mart Proctor put over a field-goal under such circumstances, seeing that it was Mart’s last game and everything! But there were many who felt that the youth in question was unjustifiably optimistic.

How Coach Cade felt about the situation I don’t know. No one did know, probably, unless, possibly, it was Captain Mart. The coach never wore his heart on his sleeve, and his sharp dark eyes saw much more than they told. It was no secret that there was a conference in the coach’s room that Sunday night that lasted well after ten o’clock, but those who attended it gave out no news. Rumors, of course, were rife. Mart Proctor had resigned the captaincy after a falling-out with Johnny. Coach Cade had resigned after a row with Captain Proctor. They were going to scrap the first team, all but one or two fellows, and play the second against Oak Grove and Kenly. Hurry calls had been sent to all quarters of the East for assistant coaches. Ned Richards and Mart were at outs because the latter had taken the running of the team away from Ned in the last quarter yesterday. These were some of the wild rumors that circulated through the school on Sunday and Monday. There were others, but they were less sensational, and so less popular.

On Monday, however, things looked much as usual on the field. There were no cuts allowed, even those who had sustained injuries being out. The hospital list was also in evidence to a man; Neirsinger, with his neck swathed in bandages, Nichols with his left shoulder under leather, Harmon with a right ankle sporting much silk elastic, Smedley looking sad and pale after a ten-day bout with bronchitis; and one or two others. But they were all there, and while a few did no more than look on most of them performed at least some slight labor. There had been a short but earnest talk in the dressing room before practice and the members of the team had worn more serious countenances than usual when they had reached the field.

Contrary to the usual procedure, the second team was called across at half-past four and lined up against a first eleven consisting largely of second-string players. They looked easy to the scrubs, and the latter visioned another jolly massacre, but something went wrong with their vision. With Coach Cade and Captain Mart driving as mercilessly as in a mid-week scrimmage, that patched-up first eleven got together as no first eleven had for a fortnight and gave the scrubs the fight of their lives.

Russell had no difficulty that afternoon in following Coach Gaston’s injunction and forgetting that the opponents were Altonians. Butler, who played left tackle in Proctor’s place, erased all merciful tendencies from Russell’s mind shortly after the first clash when he sent a none too heavily padded elbow against the opposing end’s face, an all-encompassing attention that set his head ringing, almost jarred his teeth loose and, proceeding further, put his nose temporarily out of plumb. Of course, it was quite accidental. That is to say, Butler held no personal animosity toward Russell. He would have done the same no matter who had been playing scrub end. Perhaps Russell should have taken that into consideration and felt better about it. But there wasn’t much time for judicial consideration of anything, and so, occasionally removing the sanguine evidence with a sleeve, he forgot that Butler was a school-mate, a neighbor in Upton Hall, a brother member of the Debating Society and a good fellow generally, and, in football parlance, proceeded to “smear” him. So successful was he that Appel soon stopped sending plays at that end—greatly to Wells’ chagrin, a chagrin he didn’t hesitate to voice—and the two deadly opponents did more glaring than battling. That was a pretty struggle while it lasted, and it was watched enjoyably by non-combatants and approvingly by Coach Gaston. When the trouble began again after the first no-score period and a five-minute breathing spell it was Mart Proctor who occupied left tackle position on the first and Russell’s supremacy was at an end. Not that he allowed Mart to walk over him often, however. Russell played real football that Monday afternoon, and his deeds were respectfully spoken of afterwards. He and the passionate-spoken Wells formed on defense an outer guard that turned back most invasions.

Coach Cade whipped and spurred and the first fought as it hadn’t fought for two weeks and more. One by one the substitutes were withdrawn whenever possible and first-string men took their places, and there was a last whirlwind, breathless five minutes that took the ball half the length of the field and landed it under the scrub’s goal. There, spurning half-measures, Ned Richards, who had replaced Appel, sought to drive across. A field-goal would have been possible, easily possible from the eighteen-yard line, but a touchdown was still something that the first was incapable of against a team which, like the scrubs, had been fed for a fortnight on victory. Coach Cade stormed and thundered, Captain Mart shouted encouragement, Ned Richards scolded and goaded, and each time the second team gave back grudgingly, growlingly a scant yard or two yards. It was fourth down on the thirteen yards, with five to go, and Ned took matters into his own hands. A fake forward by Linthicum, standing well back of the line, the ball to Ned instead, a moment of delay and concealment, and then a lightning dash inside tackle on the right. It was Goodwin who stopped the runner barely on the eight yards. There was doubt about the distance and talk of measuring, but the second team captain pushed the hesitant official aside.

“Let ’em have it!” he said hoarsely, defiantly. “Sure, they made it!” He silenced a protest from the red-headed Reilly sharply. “Now let’s see ’em get over! Come on, Second! Show ’em who we are! They don’t know they’re up against the real team!” There was insult in that emphasis, and the first growled angrily. But the second laughed proudly and exultantly and lined up inside the eight yards and drew in their breaths deeply. Then came the onslaught once more. Mawson tried to get through Captain Falls and made less than a yard. Moncks tried the other guard position and made nothing. The first snapped into a shift and Linthicum edged back up the field. The second crossed to meet it. Russell went out and back. The ball passed, was gone from sight. A sudden massing of the scrubs at the left of center. A muddy helmet was lifted above the mÊlÉe, was poised there an instant and went back and down. The scrubs pushed in. A whistle blew.

“Fourth down!” panted the referee. “About ten to go!”

First had lost its scant gain!

Second howled raucous derision, taunted as it dug its cleats again. But first team had shot its bolt. A field-goal or a forward pass alone remained to her, and she tried the latter. It was Russell who took that pass five yards behind his goal-line and under the nose of the desperate Crocker, and it was Russell who sank gently down on the sward and, with the ball carefully beneath him, stifled a groan. For the disappointed Crocker had signified his feelings by a quick, hard blow to Russell’s already damaged nose.

In the tense excitement of the instant the blow had gone unseen, or unrealized, by most. But Wells had seen it and Wells acted quickly. Billy Crocker measured his length beside the goal-post, while first and second players rushed up, expostulating, threatening, eager for trouble. For the moment none remembered Russell, and that youth presently crawled to his feet with the ball, dabbed ineffectually at his bleeding nose and became aware of the fact that internecine strife was threatening a few yards away. But the coaches and the managers and the captains and one or two other exponents of peace dug their way into the group and begged and commanded and threatened, pushing and shoving here and there, and war was averted. Above all other voices could be heard the strident tones of the indignant and blood-thirsty Wells.

“He poked Emerson square in the nose, the dirty bounder! I saw him do it! Let him come over here and try it on me! Yah, you’d better get him away, Mart!”

Then Coach Cade and one or two more were questioning Russell and Russell was shaking his head negatively. “I’m sure it was an accident,” he asserted. “I’m satisfied.”

“He’s lying!” shouted the irrepressible Wells, struggling between his captors. “He’s lying!”

So the scrimmage ended.

Russell didn’t go over to the Sign of the Football that afternoon when he left the gymnasium. Jake had rendered first aid to his swollen and extremely painful nose, but Russell didn’t quite fancy parading that disfigured feature in public. Stick appeared slightly peeved when he got back to the room, but a glimpse of his friend’s countenance seemed to restore his good humor, or so, at any rate, Russell thought. Stick received a brief and bald narrative of the affair, voiced as much sympathy as he ever voiced over the misfortunes of any one but himself and put the matter aside.

“Kincaid was in this afternoon,” he announced. Mr. Kincaid was the Physical Instructor. “Wanted prices on a lot of gymnasium stuff; dumb-bells, eight pairs of clubs, a punching-bag—quite a lot of things. I brought the list back. Told him we’d let him know to-morrow.”

“But you could have figured the prices easily enough with the catalogue,” protested Russell troubledly. “He will think we’re a funny bunch if we have to hold a conference before we quote him prices!”

“That’s all right, but we’ve got to remember that Crocker’s got everything marked away down, Rus,” replied Stick placatingly. “If we want to get this sale we’ll have to beat Crocker, I guess.”

“Do you think he went to Crocker’s, too?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t go that way when he left the store, but he may have been there first.”

“Well, we’ll give him the regular prices with the regular discounts,” said Russell. “Let’s see the list.”

Stick produced it and Russell ran his eye down the typewritten memorandum. The list was surprisingly long and represented a very neat profit for the seller. Russell pulled a pad of paper to him and began to figure tentatively, appealing to Stick at intervals when memory failed him. But Stick answered at random and seemed little interested in what, three weeks ago, would have been a stupendous affair. Russell wondered. Had Stick informed him of the conversation on Saturday with Mr. Crocker he might have understood his partner’s indifference, but Stick had been very careful to make no mention of that.

After supper, a meal somewhat marred by many jocular allusions to his nose, Russell hurried to West street, avoiding as much as possible the lighted stretches. Not for several weeks had he been to the store in the evening, and when, expecting to find the premises dark, he saw a dim light burning within, his first feeling was of uneasiness. Nor was his uneasiness lessened when he found the door locked. But once inside he saw that there was no occasion for alarm. Behind the iron grilling of the desk sat Mr. Pulsifer, his startled countenance dimly illumined by the single light.

“Hello,” greeted Russell cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to find you here, sir, and thought of burglars or something when I saw the light.”

“I—I sometimes come here at night,” answered the florist hesitantly. “I was—er—looking over my books.”

Russell went back of the counter and found the catalogue he had come for, all the time aware that Mr. Pulsifer was following him with a perturbed gaze. Evidently, thought Russell, he was not wanted there, although it was hard to believe that Mr. Pulsifer’s occupation was so important as to cause him to resent intrusion. “If,” continued Russell to himself, “it was me, I’d be mighty glad to have some one come in to speak to! The old chap looks sort of down on his luck to-night.”

When he had said good night and gone out, locking the door behind him, his thoughts continued with Mr. Pulsifer. “Queer old codger, anyway,” he reflected. As a matter of fact, the florist was not really old, but he did give the impression of being so. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he went flooey some day and we had to either move or take the whole store. He can’t be making any sort of a living. Wonder if he has a family to support. Hope not. They must be starving, for all the money his business brings in. Well, I don’t wish him any hard luck, but I’d just as lief have a change of landlord. He sort of gives me the creeps!”

When he got back to the room Stick was gone, but Jimmy was awaiting him. “Thought I’d drop around and ask after the jolly old proboscis,” said Jimmy. “How’s it feeling?”

“If,” replied Russell with dignity, “you are referring to my nose, it is feeling punk. How does it look?” He forgot his dignity and was frankly anxious. Jimmy viewed it from various angles, his head on one side. Finally:

“Strange and—ah—quaint,” he answered. “It—it’s sort of spread, isn’t it?”

“Feels as if it was all over my face,” replied Russell, laughing. “Well, Jake says it will return to its usual graceful outlines in a day or two.”

“Possibly,” murmured Jimmy, “possibly, but I can’t conceive it. What have you got there?” he added, nodding at the catalogue.

Russell explained. “You’re just the fellow I wanted, too, Jimmy. Sit down over there and give me a hand with this. I’m going to get these prices to Mr. Kincaid to-night.”

Jimmy sighed as he took the indicated place and accepted the catalogue from Russell. “I came to tender sympathy,” he said, “and remain to toil. All right. What’s the first item?”

Twenty minutes later Russell departed for Borden Hall and Mr. Kincaid, and, left to himself, Jimmy settled down on his spine and picked out in the catalogue a great many articles that he meant some day to acquire, a favorite diversion of his in moments of leisure at the store. He knew that catalogue quite thoroughly now, from end to end, but he still found it interesting. He had spent something over a hundred dollars, in imagination, by the time Russell was back, looking very pleased and satisfied.

“Find him?” asked Jimmy, laying the catalogue down.

Russell nodded. “I guess we get the order, too, Jimmy. He didn’t say so. Said he would have to consider the prices a bit. But he was awfully nice and said we deserved encouragement and—and all that.” Russell thrust his hands in his pockets and beamed down on Jimmy. “There’s more than forty dollars of clear profit in that bill of goods!”

“Great! Say, do I get a raise of salary?”

“Yes, if we make that sale you get fifteen cents a week.”

“Gosh!” Jimmy was plainly awed. “What’ll I ever do with it?”

They talked over the afternoon’s events then. “You put up a corking game, Rus,” declared the visitor. “I was watching you and Butler, and I’ll say that Butler had nothing on you, son. Say, you’re playing lots better football than you did last year, aren’t you?”

Russell reflected. “Yes, I think I am,” he answered. “Steve Gaston’s a crackajack coach, Jimmy. He has a way of showing you how to do things that—oh, I don’t know, but he just says a couple of words and makes a motion and—and you get him! Yes, I really do think I’ve improved. Fact is, last year there didn’t seem to be any great whatyoucallit—incentive to do very much. You know that yourself. We just went over and let the first team whale us five days a week and that’s all there was to it. This year it’s lots different. We—”

“I’ll say so! This year you just go over and whale the first! Well, I’ll acknowledge that you guys have quite a team there. I’ll hand it to you. Also to Steve. He’s a regular, raging, rampageous tiger these days. Seems as if he’d like to get us all laid up in the hospital and then die happy.”

“Steve says the harder we use you fellows the harder you’ll use Kenly,” said Russell, grinning.

“Yes, and we’re going to use you fellows hard before we get to Kenly,” answered Jimmy warmly. “Believe me, Rus, there’s some kick in the old team yet, and in a day or two more you guys will be sorry you took advantage of our enfeebled condition—”

“Well, who enfeebled you?” laughed Russell. “It was the little old second that put the skids under you.”

“Nothing of the sort,” answered Jimmy indignantly. “Look at the hospital list we had!”

“You didn’t have any hospital list until we gave you one!”

“Say, you fellows hate yourselves,” said Jimmy wearily. “Anyway, you’re due for an awful shock pretty quick!”

“Sooner the better,” replied the other, cheerfully. “Then we’ll know that all our toil hasn’t been in vain. I don’t mind saying that teaching football to you mutts is pretty hard work, and I’ll be glad when it’s over.” Russell felt tenderly of his nose.

“I guess you’ll be looking on to-morrow,” said Jimmy, grinning.

“Oh, I don’t know. This thing will be a lot better by morning. I wouldn’t wonder if I was back on the job again, giving a few more pointers to you fellows.”

“Looks to me as if the old pointer was a bit out of commission,” Jimmy laughed. Then: “Say, Rus, I wish Johnny’d swipe you for our team. I don’t see why he doesn’t. You’re as good as that wild ass Crocker. Better, I believe. Or you would be if you were in fast company for a week or so.”

“Fast company!” groaned Russell. “Oh, my sainted aunt!”

“That’s all right, son. We may be going a little slow just now, but when we go back into high—watch our dust!”

“Watch you in the dust, you mean,” retorted Russell. “No, thanks, Jimmy, I get all the excitement that’s good for me now. And unless you fellows really take a brace in the next week it’s going to be a bigger thing to have been on this year’s second than on the first!”

“Something in that, too,” acknowledged Jimmy ruefully. “Say, what do you take it is the matter with us, anyway?”

Russell shrugged and frowned. “Blessed if I know,” he said. “You started out pretty well and went nicely until you struck Hillsport. That seemed to take all the starch out of you.”

“That’s right: we’re sort of rough-dried now. Maybe old Johnny can put the starch back into us, though. I’d hate to finish out here with a licking by Kenly. I wouldn’t mind if I had another year.”

“I suppose you’ll play in the Kenly game,” said Russell.

Jimmy nodded. “Bound to for a while. Of course, it’s hard luck having fellows like Harmon and Mawson on the same job, but Harmon won’t last the game; he plays too hard; and Mawson can’t punt much. Oh, yes, you’ll doubtless see little James rushed on in the last quarter to pull the game out of the fire.”

“I wouldn’t mind being in that game,” said Russell reflectively.

“Of course you wouldn’t! Even if you lose you don’t forget that you’ve been through one of the big hours of your life. Gosh, if something happened and I didn’t get in I’d just lie down and die, Rus!”

“And if you do get in you’ll probably die just the same, only more painfully! They say that Kenly’s got a rip-snorting team this year.”

Jimmy shrugged. “They say that every year—until we’ve licked them. Still, I do think they’re rather better than usual. And that’s sort of rotten, for we’re about half the team we were last year. Between you and me, old son, I guess we’re in for a drubbing. It’s against orders to say that, or even think it, but it’s my honest belief. Oh, well, we’ll make ’em work for it! And there’ll be some gorgeous and hectic moments before the old Gray-and-Gold is counted out! Besides, ding bust it, you can’t always tell, Rus. The under dog has won the battle before this! Well, see you to-morrow.”