Captain Emerson, Billy Wells, Bee Appel and Perry Stimson had gone over to Lakeville to watch Kenly Hall play Rutledge. Consequently Alton faced Oak Grove that afternoon minus the services of five of her best players. Kerrison took Rus’s place at right end, Wilde substituted for the “demon tackle,” as Slim called Billy Wells, Carpenter went in at quarter, a newcomer named Grant played right guard and Raleigh played left. Probably Coach Cade could have sprinkled in half a dozen third-string players beside and still seen the contest won by the Gray-and-Gold, for Oak Grove, selected for the last game but one because she was never formidable, proved weak beyond expectation. Alton piled up three scores in the first two periods, for a total of 21 points, and held the visitor to a field-goal. When the third quarter started Cruikshank was at the helm, and Goodwin, Kendall and Dakin completed the backfield. As the final half progressed other substitutions took place and when the last whistle blew only one man was on who had started the contest, and that man was Sam Butler. Leonard stayed on until the fourth period and then gave way to Falls. Two more scores, a touchdown and a field-goal by Kendall from the thirty-four yards, had added 10 points more to an impressive total. Oak Grove had, however, in the third period taken advantage of a fumble by Cruikshank and banged her way through for a touchdown, and the final figures were 31 to 10.

Leonard played a good if not startling game at right guard that afternoon. Perhaps he would have performed better had there been more incentive, but Oak Grove’s inferiority had shown early in the game, and Alton’s first two scores had been made before the first period was done, and one doesn’t fight as hard against a vanquished opponent as against one who still threatens. Besides that, Leonard’s adversaries—there were two of them—were not difficult. On the whole, that game proved scarcely good practice for the home team.

What had happened to Gordon Renneker was a question that many asked, for the former right guard was neither on the side-line or in the stand. Some insisted that he had accompanied the scouts to Lakeville, but that explanation was refused by others who had seen him at least an hour after dinner time. Leonard wondered and speculated, too, but it wasn’t until Johnny McGrath dropped in at Number 12 Haylow that evening, just as Slim and Leonard were starting for the movies, that the matter was cleared up for him. Jimsy Carnochan, it seemed, had met Johnny on the street just before supper and confessed to having written to Coach Cade.

“I guess he was sort of sorry he’d done it,” said Johnny, “but he wouldn’t say so. Maybe I didn’t read the riot-act to him, though! We nearly had a scrap!”

“I hope he chokes!” commented Slim bitterly. “That was a swell thing to do, just before the Kenly game! Leaves us flat for a right guard, and no time to find one. He ought to be—be—”

“I guess it was more my fault than any one’s,” said Johnny regretfully. “I shouldn’t have lugged him to the game that time and let him see Renneker.”

“You bet you shouldn’t,” agreed Slim heartily. But Leonard demurred.

“Piffle,” he said, “Johnny isn’t to blame. Better blame Renneker for getting fresh the other night and getting Carnochan down on him. Maybe we’re taking too much for granted, anyway, fellows. Maybe Mr. Cade just kept Renneker out of to-day’s game while he looks into the business.”

“Renneker wasn’t at training table for supper,” said Slim. “That means that he’s done for. I call it a pretty rotten piece of business!”

They lugged Johnny along to the pictures and discussed the matter very thoroughly both going and returning. Slim agreed eventually that maybe Leonard would hold down Renneker’s position satisfactorily, but they couldn’t get him to acknowledge that Mr. Cade had acted rightly in dismissing Renneker from the team. He said some very disapproving things of the coach, sneered at him for being a “Lily-white” and doubted that he or any one else could present adequate proof that Renneker had received money for playing baseball. Especially, however, he was bitter against Carnochan, and would have sought that gentleman out and presented him with a piece of his mind had not Leonard and Johnny dissuaded him. In the end they all agreed that it was up to them to keep what they knew to themselves, and by Monday they were very glad that they had, for Gordon Renneker was out on the field in togs coaching the guards and the news was abroad that he had been dropped because of difficulties with the Office. That was such a plausible explanation that no one doubted it, although one might have wondered how it was that he was allowed to aid in the coaching. The incident seemed to have made no great difference to Renneker. He was perhaps a bit more stand-offish than ever and inclined to sarcastic criticisms that seldom failed to get under the skin of Raleigh, who, worried over his failure to make progress that fall, was in no mood for the big fellow’s caustic humor. That the two never quite came to blows was chiefly due to the fact that practice came to an end just before Raleigh’s patience did.

Leonard had definitely taken Renneker’s position. Had Leonard had any doubt about it Coach Cade’s announcement on Tuesday would have dispelled it. “You’ll start the Kenly game, Grant,” said the coach after practice that afternoon, “and I expect you to show me that I haven’t made a mistake in selecting you instead of Falls. You’ve done very well indeed so far. You play a fast, heady game, my boy, and I’ll say frankly that when you’ve two or three more inches and another twenty pounds on you you’ll be a mighty good guard. You’ve got faults, but I hope you’ll get rid of most of them by Saturday. Starting before the ball is one of them. Tenney has four cases marked against you, and just because you’ve got by so far without being penalized doesn’t mean that you won’t get caught finally. And when an official once finds a player off-side he watches that player hard ever after; and sometimes he sees faults where there aren’t any, without meaning to. It’s just a case of giving a dog a bad name. I want you to steady down and look out for that trouble. Another thing, Grant, is over-eagerness to get through. It’s a good fault, if any fault can be said to be good, but it works against the play sometimes. Frequently you’re across the line when you ought to be still on your own side, which means that you’re out of the play when you might be helping it along. When you get your signal think what it means. Think where the play’s going and what your part is in it. Don’t break through and think afterwards, Grant. You’ve got a good nose for the ball, but don’t let it run away with you. It’s a fine thing to be able to put your man out and then get down the field under a punt, but we’ve got ends and backs to do that trick. Your part is to guard your center until the ball is passed, on attack, and then make the hole or stop the other fellow from coming through. In other words, you’re a bulldog first and a grayhound afterwards. Once you’ve done your duty thoroughly I don’t care how hard you go after the ball, but don’t skimp the duty. Sure first and then fast, ought to be your motto, my boy. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” answered Leonard stoutly.

The coach smiled. “Good! What’s the matter with that ankle?”

“Ankle?” repeated Leonard innocently.

“Yes, the left one. You’ve been limping, you know.”

“Oh, that! Why, nothing at all, sir. I gave it a sort of a turn, you know.”

“Tell the trainer to look at it, and don’t forget it.”

Captain Emerson and his brother scouts had brought back scant information from the Kenly Hall-Rutledge game. Rutledge had been outclassed from the first, and, without showing too much of her possibilities, Kenly had piled up 16 points against her while keeping her own goal intact. Kenly had made an average showing during the season. She had played one more game than Alton and had won all but two of them. Lorimer had beaten her decisively and Middleboro had tied her at 7 to 7. She had, for her, a light team, but one that was capable of speed and versatility. She had specialized in forward-passing during the early part of the season, but of late had fallen back on line plays for her gains, although signs were not wanting that forward-passes were still in her repertory. Briefly, Kenly Hall School was rather more of a mystery to her ancient rival this year than she generally was, and, since it is human nature to fear the unknown, there was less confidence at Alton than was usual before the big game.

The eleventh-hour loss of Gordon Renneker was a severe blow to most followers of the game at Alton. There were many who believed, not a few very ardently, in Leonard Grant’s ability to completely fill Renneker’s shoes, but they were in the minority. It stood to reason, naturally, that a youngster like Grant, lacking size, weight and experience could not wholly take the place of an All-Scholastic star. Leonard himself agreed with the majority. Oddly enough, Gordon Renneker did not. This was divulged on Wednesday when, after a half-hour of strenuous work for the guards and tackles and centers, the little squad returned to the bench and blankets to await their call to the scrimmage. Leonard found Renneker beside him when he had pulled the gray blanket around him. So far what might be called personal intercourse between them had been limited to those few words exchanged in the taxicab on the occasion of their arrival at Alton two months before. Now, after a moment, Renneker said abruptly:

“You’re going mighty well, Grant.”

“Thanks,” Leonard stammered. In spite of himself, he still found it impossible not to be impressed and a bit awed by Renneker’s imperturbable air of superiority.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t hold down that place as well as I could have done,” the other continued thoughtfully. “Hope so. Nasty trick, my getting dropped, Grant. I wouldn’t want the team to suffer by it. I don’t fancy it will, though, if you play the way I think you can.”

“Well, I don’t know,” muttered the other. “Aren’t you—isn’t there any chance of you getting in Saturday?”

“Oh, dear, no,” replied Renneker calmly. “Not a chance.”

“I’m sorry,” said Leonard. Renneker turned a slow glance on him. Then: “Thanks, but it’s of no consequence,” he said.

He nodded carelessly, arose and sauntered away.

Leonard wondered why he had asked such an idle question. He had known well enough that Renneker wouldn’t get back. He felt very sorry for him just then.

Later, he told Slim what Renneker had said, and Slim frowned and grunted: “Mighty decent of him, I’ll say.”

Leonard assented, but with too little enthusiasm to satisfy the other. “If it was me,” Slim went on, “I guess I wouldn’t be talking like that to you. I’d be feeling too sore about losing my position.”

“Well, but it isn’t my fault he’s off the team,” objected Leonard, mildly.

Slim grunted again. “Never mind; he’s off, and that’s what counts!”

Leonard felt that there was something wrong somewhere in Slim’s point of view, but he was too tired to pursue the matter.

There was a short session against the second team on Thursday, and then the whistle blew for the last time, and the season on Alton Field was at an end. The second cheered and was cheered and, finally, followed by the onlookers, crossed back to their own field and started a fire. A battered and discarded football, bearing a leering countenance painted on with white pigment, was set atop the pyre and the scrubs joined hands and danced riotously around it. The fact that the football subsided into ruins with only a faint sigh, instead of expiring with a resonant bang, was accepted as an ill omen of Saturday’s game. But the omen did not appear to affect the second team spirits appreciably!

Friday was a day of rest, but there was an hour of signal drill in the gymnasium in the afternoon and a brief blackboard lecture by the coach in the evening. The latter was over by eight-fifteen, however, and afterwards Slim tried to persuade Leonard to accompany him to the final mass meeting in the auditorium. But Leonard had no mind for it, and Slim, realizing that his friend was having a mild attack of nerves, didn’t persist long. Going out, he stopped at the door to say: “I wouldn’t think too much about to-morrow, General; about the game, you know. Better get a good story and read. I’ll be back soon.”

Leonard was willing to follow the other’s advice, but it wasn’t so easy. And when he looked for the good story it wasn’t to be found. At length he decided to walk over to the library and get a book, although, since the auditorium was above the library, he had no intention of tarrying there. It was a nice night, just frostily cold and with a couple of trillions of white stars winking away in a blue-black sky. Even with his mackinaw unbuttoned he was quite comfortable. Long before he neared Memorial he could hear the singing.

A long, measured cheer followed the last strain, and then came silence. No, not silence, for Leonard was close to the building now and could hear at intervals a word or two. Some one was speaking. There was a sudden burst of applause, quickly suppressed. Then he was entering the library. The long room with its mellow warmth and its two rows of cone-shaped green shades was deserted save for the presence in a corner of a small freshman hunched absorbedly over a book. Leonard paused outside the door, suddenly distasteful of libraries and books. Then he turned back and went down the steps again. It was far nicer outdoors, he thought. He would cross the grass to River street and walk around by Academy and Meadow to the farther gate. Probably by the time he reached the room again Slim would have returned, and then he could go to bed. Not, however, that bed held any great appeal, for he was quite sure he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep for hours.

Short of the first street light, that on the corner, he descried a shape ahead of him. Some one else, it appeared, scorned indoors to-night. The shape was tall and broad, and Leonard suspected one of the faculty, perhaps Mr. Screven, and hoped that he could get by without having to say more than “Good evening.” He couldn’t imagine anything more deadly than being obliged to loll along and listen to Mr. Screven’s monotonous voice. But, a few paces behind now, he saw that the solitary pedestrian was not Mr. Screven, was not, indeed, a faculty at all, but Gordon Renneker.