The school weekly, The Doubleay—more generally referred to as the “Flubdub”—was almost epic over the Lorimer game in the following Thursday’s issue. It dwelt heavily on the dramatic aspects and very lightly on the scientific. It found, or pretended to find, much encouragement in the masterly way in which the Alton representatives had overcome the enemy’s lead and soared to victory in the last minutes of play. Every one came in for a kind word—every one save the adversaries—and there was even fulsome praise for a few: Captain Emerson and Appel and Cricket Menge and Greenwood and Gordon Renneker. Even Slim, who had stuck it out for three periods, was mentioned approvingly. The Flubdub concluded with a flourish of trumpets, declaring that the Alton team had already found its stride and was headed straight for a victory over Kenly Hall.

The Flubdub’s effusion is set forth here, out of chronological order, merely to show how judgments differ. There were others who viewed the Lorimer game with less enthusiasm; as, for instance, Slim and Leonard. Slim made a wry face and shrugged his shoulders. “Just plain robbery,” said the left end. “We hadn’t any more right to take that game than—than nothing at all! Talk about stealing the baby’s rattle! Why, bless my soul, General, the only reason that ‘39’ play succeeded was because it went wrong! I was supposed to box that end of theirs, Kellog, and he wouldn’t box. By rights, he ought to have swung around back of me and spoiled the picture. Just by luck he didn’t, and Cricket got by and squirmed loose. That wasn’t good football, son, it was good luck. We played pretty fairly punk, the lot of us, although we did do a bit better after Appel took the helm. Bee isn’t the player Carpenter is, but he certainly can run the team a sight better, if you want my opinion. As for me, I don’t mind owning that I was rotten. But all the others were, too, so I don’t feel so badly. Even your friend Renneker did more heavy looking on than anything else, so far as I could see.”

“I’m afraid I can’t claim him as a friend,” said Leonard. “He’s never known me since we parted in the cab that day.”

“Well, I’m beginning to sour on that handsome guy as a tackle. Looks to me like he was touched with frost!”

At about the same time that Saturday evening Rus Emerson was seated in Coach Cade’s front room in the old white house opposite the school gate on Academy street. Johnny sat at one side of a big mahogany table and Rus at the other, and each was slumped well down on his spine as if he had put in a hard day’s work. The soft light of the lamp left their faces in shadow. The coach was speaking. “Who makes up these All-Scholastic Football Teams, Cap?” he inquired.

“The papers, I guess. That is, the sports editors.”

“Reckon they make mistakes now and then?”

“I wouldn’t wonder.” Rus smiled gently in the shadow.

“H’m.” There was silence a moment. Then: “He certainly looks good,” continued the coach almost wistfully. “I don’t know that I ever saw a chap who came nearer to looking the part of a clever, hard-fighting lineman. Why, just on appearances you’d pick him out of a crowd and shake hands with yourself.”

“He certainly does look the part,” agreed Rus. “And maybe he will find his pace after a bit.”

“Maybe.” But Johnny’s tone was dubious. “He won’t find it unless he looks for it, though, and it doesn’t seem to me that he’s taking the trouble to look.” The coach laughed softly, ruefully. “The funny thing is, Cap, that he’s got me bluffed. I know mighty well that he needs jacking up, but every time I get ready to ask him if he won’t kindly come alive and take an interest in things he turns that calmly superior gaze on me and I haven’t the courage. Why, drat his handsome hide, Cap, he looks like he invented football! Speaking harshly to him would be like—like knocking off the President’s hat with a snowball!”

Rus chuckled. “He’s got me like that, too. I want to apologize every time I open my mouth to him. Do you know, I’m beginning to wonder whether it wouldn’t be a good plan to switch him over to the subs for a few days. It might be good medicine.”

“Ye-es, it might. We’ll see how he comes on the first of the week, though. Besides, Cap, who’s going to tell him he’s out of the line-up?” laughed Johnny. “Me, I’d have to write him a letter or send him a telegram!”

There was a knock at the door and Tod Tenney came in. “Hello, Coach! Hi, Rus! Say, is there anything special this evening? Anything to discuss, I mean? If there isn’t I want to cut. There’s a shindig down town.” Tod grinned.

“‘Nobody knows,’” hummed Rus, “‘where the Old Man goes, but he takes his dancing shoes!’”

“Yes, there’s one thing,” answered the coach gravely. “I’d like your opinion, Tod. What do you think of this fellow Renneker?”

Tod already had the doorknob in hand, and now he turned it, pulled the portal inward and sort of oozed through the aperture. But before the countenance quite disappeared the mouth opened and the oracle spoke.

“He’s a false-alarm,” was the verdict.

Then the door closed.

Sunday afternoon Slim and Leonard went to walk again and, at Leonard’s suggestion, ended up at Number 102 Melrose avenue. Johnny McGrath seemed extremely pleased to see them, but Slim had to hint broadly before the lemonade pitcher appeared. They talked of yesterday’s game, which Johnny had attended. “I took my kid brother,” said Johnny. “He plays on his grammar school team now and then. He’s a sort of tenth substitute or something, as near as I get it. Well, he told me confidentially yesterday after we got home that his team could beat the stuffing out of ours!”

Slim laughed. “I wouldn’t want to say it couldn’t, the way we played yesterday. How does it happen, though, that the kid’s playing football when you can’t, Johnny?”

Johnny smiled. “Mother doesn’t know it, you see. Maybe I ought to tell on him, but he’s crazy about it and I haven’t the heart. Sure, I don’t believe he’s likely to get hurt, for all the playing he does.”

“Nor I. I just wondered. I do wish you could talk your mother around, though.”

“Why,” answered Johnny, “if I was to tell her I’d set my heart on it she’d not forbid me, Slim. But she’d be fearful all the time, and she’s had worry enough. And it isn’t like I cared much about it. Maybe I’d be a mighty poor football player, do you see? And, anyway, there’s basket ball, and baseball, too.”

“I didn’t know you played baseball,” said Slim.

“In the summer. We have a team here in town called the Crescents. I play second. Most of the fellows are older than me. It’s a good team, too.”

“Sure,” said Slim. “I’ve heard of the Crescents. Some of the fellows from the carpet mills are on it, eh?”

“Most of them are mill fellows; McCarty and O’Keefe and McCluer and Carnochan—”

“How come you don’t call yourselves the Shamrocks? Or the Sinn Feiners?”

“Well,” laughed Johnny, “our pitcher’s name is Cartier and the shortstop’s is Kratowsky. And then there’s—”

“Don’t,” begged Slim, “I can’t bear it! Who do you play against?”

“Oh, any one. We played about thirty games last summer and won more than half. We go away for a lot of them. We went as far as Bridgeport once. We played twice at New Haven and once at New London and—” Johnny stopped and pushed a slice of lemon around the bottom of his glass with the straw. “Say, what’s the name of the big fellow who’s playing left—no, right guard for us?”

“Renneker,” said Slim. “First name’s Gordon. What about him?”

“Nothing. Gordon Renneker, eh? Does he play baseball, do you know?”

“No, I don’t, Johnny. Want him for the Crescents next summer?”

Johnny shook his head. “I was—I was just wondering. You see, there was a fellow played on this New London team—the Maple Leaf it was called—looked a whole lot like this chap.”

“Maybe it was he,” said Slim cheerfully, setting down his glass with a regretful glance at the empty pitcher. “Maybe baseball’s his real game and he got mixed.”

“This fellow’s name was Ralston, George Ralston,” replied Johnny, frowning. “Sure, though, he was the dead spit of Renneker.”

“I’ve heard of fellows changing their names before this,” said Leonard. “Perhaps, for some reason, Renneker didn’t want to play under his own name. Was he good, McGrath?”

“He was,” answered their host emphatically. “He played first, and he had a reach from here to the corner of the porch and could hit the cover off the ball every time. He played fine, he did. Kind of a lazy-acting fellow; looked like he wasn’t much interested. And maybe he wasn’t, if what they told us was so.”

“What was that?” asked Slim, smothering a yawn.

“Well, it was the newsboy on the train handed me the story. I wouldn’t like to say he was giving me straight goods, for he was a mean looking little guy. You see, those Maple Leafs beat us, something like 14 to 6 it was, and some of our crowd were kind of sore. Going back on the train they were talking over the game and this newsboy was hanging around. Pretty soon he came over to where I was sitting and got to talking. Seemed he lived in New London, or else he hung over there. Anyway, he knew some of the players, and he got to telling about them. ‘That fellow Smith,’ he said—that wasn’t the name, but he was talking about the pitcher—‘gets thirty for every game.’ ‘Thirty what?’ I asked, not getting him. ‘Thirty dollars,’ said he. ‘No wonder we couldn’t hit him then,’ I said. ‘And how about the catcher?’ ‘Oh, he don’t get paid,’ said the boy. ‘They don’t any of the others get paid except that Ralston guy. They give him twenty-five. He don’t play regular with them, though.’ I let him talk, not more than half believing him. Of course, I’d heard of fellows taking money for playing on teams supposed to be strictly amateur, but it’s always on the quiet and you don’t know if it’s so. Afterwards I told Ted McCluer what I’d heard and Ted said he guessed it was straight goods; that he’d heard that that pitcher wasn’t playing for his health.”

Slim frowned and shook his head. “I guess you are mistaken, Johnny,” he said. “Renneker’s rather a swell, as I understand it, and it isn’t likely he’d be running around the country playing ball for a trifling little old twenty-five dollars. Guess you’re barking up the wrong tree, son.”

“I’m not barking at all,” replied Johnny, untroubled. “Only when I had a close look at this Renneker fellow yesterday he was so much like Ralston that I got to thinking.”

“Well, I’d quit,” advised Slim with some emphasis. “And I’d be mighty careful not to tell that yarn to any one else. You know how long Renneker would last if it got around.”

Johnny nodded. “That’s a fact,” he agreed.

Leonard looked puzzled. “But if he isn’t the fellow McGrath took him for, how could it matter any?”

“You aren’t Julius CÆsar,” answered Slim, “but you might have a hard time proving it.”

“Get out! CÆsar’s dead!”

“So are you—from the neck up,” retorted Slim. “Come on home before you get any worse.”

“I suppose, now,” said Johnny thoughtfully, “they’d not let Renneker play on the team if it happened that he really was this other guy.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” answered Slim, a bit impatiently. “What do you think? Accepting money for playing baseball! I’ll say they wouldn’t! But I tell you you’re all wrong about it, anyway, Johnny. So don’t talk about it, son. Even if a fellow is innocent, getting talked about doesn’t help him any.”

“Sure, I know,” agreed Johnny. “It wouldn’t be him, I guess.”

“Not a chance,” said Slim heartily. “Coming, General?”

Half a block down the avenue Leonard broke the silence. “Sort of funny,” he remarked, “that the initials should be the same. ‘G. R.’; Gordon Renneker and George Ralston.”

“Too blamed funny,” muttered Slim.

Leonard looked at him with surprise. “You don’t think, do you, that—that there’s anything in it?”

Slim hesitated a moment. Then: “Don’t know what to think,” he answered. “Johnny’s no fool. If you play baseball with a chap you get a pretty good view of him. Of course, now and then you find a case where two fellows look so much alike their own mothers mightn’t know them apart at first, and Johnny might easily be mistaken. I dare say he didn’t get a very good look at Renneker yesterday. Besides, what would a chap like Renneker be doing barnstorming around for a measly twenty-five?” It was evident to Leonard that Slim was working hard to convince himself. “Anyway,” he went on, “Johnny’ll keep it to himself after this.”

“Yes,” Leonard affirmed, “but I think he still believes he’s right.”

“Let him, so long as he keeps it to himself. I’m not awfully enthusiastic about this Gordon Renneker, General. So far he hasn’t shown anything like what you’d expect from a fellow with his reputation. And I don’t warm up to him much in other ways. He seems a pretty cold fish. But he may get better, and, even if he doesn’t, I guess we wouldn’t want to lose him. So it’s up to us to forget all about this silly pipe-dream of Johnny’s, see?”

“I see,” replied the other thoughtfully.

Something in his tone caused Slim to dart a questioning glance at him, but Leonard’s countenance added nothing to his voice and they went on in silence.