“Put some glue on your hands, Chick!” advised Tommy Parish in a clear, carrying voice from his seat in the front row of the stand. The sally gained a ripple of laughter from the somewhat apathetic audience. Bert Hollins, huddled under a blanket on the players’ bench, a few yards away, turned a mildly indignant countenance toward Tommy and was met with a wide grin and a jovial wink. Across the field, Chick Burton, right end, captured the trickling pigskin and tossed it disgustedly toward the referee. The disgust was natural, for Chick had just missed his third forward-pass in that quarter.

Alton Academy was playing its first game of the season, with Southport School, and the third period was well along. Southport had scored a field-goal in the first quarter and Alton a touchdown in the second. Nip Storer had failed to kick the goal after the latter event. It had been drizzling ever since noon, and a wet ball and a slippery field were not making for brilliant playing. For that matter, however, even had the weather conditions been of the best it is doubtful if either team would have put up a good game, for both were slow and ragged, missing numerous opportunities to score and plainly badly in need of practice. Perhaps Chick Burton was no worse than the others, but that was a matter of opinion, and Tommy Parish’s opinion was to the effect that Chick was the principal offender of the afternoon. If Chick had caught just one of the throws from Jim Galvin, Alton would be in possession of twelve points instead of six. At least, so Tommy thought.

Tommy sat with his knees hunched up almost to his chin and munched peanuts. Tommy was usually munching something. He was a short, heavy youth with a round face and a liability to boils on the back of his brief neck. Indeed, it was quite an unfamiliar sight to see Tommy without at least one protective arrangement of gauze and plaster between his collar and the edge of his pale brown hair. Because his seat was in the front row of the grand-stand, he was able to perch his feet on the edge of the barrier and so form a sort of trough between legs and stomach for the accommodation of his bag of peanuts. When not dipping into the bag or deftly detaching the shells from their contents he snuggled his hands under the edge of his thick blue sweater. Since Tommy never wore a hat at school—whatever he did at home—a fact which may account to some extent for the faded tone of his hair, he presented a rather damp and bedraggled appearance. Drops trickled down his somewhat button-like nose, encircled his slightly protrusive ears and quivered on his round chin as it moved ceaselessly and rhythmically during the process of mastication. But if moist, he was quite happy. Give Tommy something to eat and something to look on at and weather conditions meant nothing in his young life. His was a cheerful disposition, and if those who smarted under the frank expressions of his judgment frequently wanted very, very much to murder him, Tommy cared not a whit. He believed in being outspoken, in giving candid publicity to his opinions; in short, Tommy hewed to the line and let the chips fall wherever they blame pleased!

The game went on, Southport capturing the ball after Fitz Savell, playing at half, had let it ooze from his arms. Tommy set his strong, white teeth on a particularly attractive peanut and observed reproachfully, “Why don’t you hand it to him, Fitz, ’stead of making him pick it up that way? Where’s your manners, boy?”

Homer Johnson, two rows back, reached a long leg across the intervening seat and placed a foot against the back of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s head went suddenly forward with a jerk and two peanuts fell to the wet boards, a total loss. “Cut out the merry quips, Tommy,” advised Homer. “You weary me.”

Tommy turned his head cautiously. As a matter of fact he happened to be free from boils at the moment, but affliction had taught him caution in the matter of moving his neck and it had become second-nature. He observed Homer without rancor. “Hello,” he said. “Great game, isn’t it?”

“The game’s bad enough, Tommy, without any help from you,” answered Homer coldly.

“Oh, no, Homer, you’re wrong,” responded Tommy affably. “Nothing’s so bad it can’t be helped. Constructive criticism, Homer, old timer, is never inopportune, never mal venu.” Tommy delighted in French phrases which he pronounced with a fine New England accent. He knew just how far he could go with Homer Johnson without getting into trouble, and it is doubtful if he would have risked that “old timer” had they not been separated by a row of seats and their occupants. Homer was a senior and Tommy still no more than a sophomore, although others who had been his classmates last year were now juniors. Homer frowned but contented himself with “Shut up, Tommy!” delivered sharply. Tommy smiled placidly and slowly returned his gaze to the peanut bag.

“Crazy kid,” commented Freeman Naughton, grinning as soon as Tommy’s head was turned away. “I’ve wanted to kill him fifty times since I’ve been here!”

“He’d have been dead long ago if I’d yielded to my desire,” chuckled Homer. “Tommy bears a charmed life, I guess. Gets away with stuff that would get another fellow kicked from here to State street. Did you hear what he got off on Jonas the other day? He and another fellow were passing in front of Upton and the ball got away from him just as Jonas came along and Tommy yelled, ‘Thank you, Jonas!’ Well, you know the way Jonas moves when he isn’t playing football. He ambled along and picked up the ball and looked at it and finally tossed it back, and Tommy yelled, ‘Say, listen! I want to ask you something! Is your name Jonas Lowe or is it Jonah Slow?’ I guess Jonas wanted to slaughter him, but he let him live.”

Naughton—he went by the name of “Naughty,” naturally enough—chuckled. “The cheekiest thing he ever did, though, was in our freshman year. I guess I told you.”

“About Kincaid?”

“Yes. Kincaid had wandered off the lesson, the way he does, and was telling the class something he’d seen in Rome or some place; something about some ruins; and Tommy pipes up with: ‘Mr. Kincaid, haven’t those ruins been there a long time?’ ‘Why, yes, Parish,’ says Kincaid, ‘some thousands of years.’ ‘Then,’ says Tommy sweetly, ‘maybe they’ll keep, sir, if we go on with the lesson.’”

The quarter came to an end with the score still 6 to 3, the teams changed goals and Mr. Cade, the coach, familiarly known as Johnny, hustled a set of bedraggled substitutes from the bench and sent them trotting in to report. Jake, the trainer, wrapped the deposed ones in dry blankets and circulated an already soiled towel about on which they wiped their wet faces. The game started off on its final period with a new backfield, save for Galvin, at full, and two new linemen. Southport introduced two fresh ends, but made no other changes. Southport made a determined drive for the Alton goal and got the pigskin as far as the twenty-eight yards, where, after two attempts at the Gray-and-Gold’s line had yielded scant returns, and a short forward-pass had gone wrong, her left half dropped back and tried to duplicate his feat of the first quarter. But this time he was hurried and the ball slanted off to the left and passed well beyond the goal post. Storer punted on second down and Southport got the pigskin again on Alton’s forty-six. Once more she tried desperately to reach a point from which to score by kicking. A wide sweep gained but two yards and a smash straight at the center of the line was good for as many more. Then, however, a puzzling double pass sent a back inside Dozier, at left tackle, and the runner dodged and twirled to the thirty-three before he was nailed by Ball, the Alton quarter-back.

Again Southport tried the ends, first one and then the other, and the ball went out of bounds on the second play. With about twenty-eight to go on a third down and the ball well to the side of the gridiron, a place-kick looked unpromising, and when the visitor set the stage for it Alton was incredulous. Warnings of a forward-pass were cried, but when the ball went back it sped straight to the kneeling quarter and was set to the ground. The kicker was deliberate and Chick Burton, slipping past the defense, almost blocked the ball, but it passed him safely, sailed up and over the cross-bar and added another three points to Southport’s score and tied the game.

Alton didn’t have a chance to better her figures during the few minutes that remained. Southport, evidently as pleased with results as if she had won, set herself on the defensive and held the enemy safely away from her goal. The stand was almost empty by the time the last whistle blew. In the front row of seats, however, Tommy Parish still huddled, arising at last with a sigh of repletion and a deluge of peanut shells to the ground. Then, sinking his neck into the collar of his sweater and his moist hands into the pockets of his baggy breeches, he turned from the scene of conflict and made his way back across the soggy field toward Upton Hall. Ahead, the tired players plodded along by twos and threes, blankets trailing, subdued and disgruntled. Toward the end of the procession Coach Cade’s short, thick-set figure walked beside that of Captain Lowe. Jonas was almost six feet tall and correspondingly broad, and walked with a lumbering pace that added to the contrast between him and Johnny. The gymnasium swallowed them up and Tommy went on, passing within smelling distance of the kitchens in Lawrence Hall and sniffing the air eagerly. This was a Saturday, and generally on Saturdays the evening meal was extremely satisfactory. Tommy almost regretted those peanuts. Still, nearly an hour must elapse before he would be allowed to assimilate more food, and Tommy’s recuperative powers were of the best. He reached the walk between Borden and Upton, turned to the right and presently disappeared into the latter dormitory.

Up in Number 30 Tommy removed his outer garments, swathed his rotund form in a garish blanket dressing-gown and subsided on the window-seat, piling the several silken pillows behind his head. The view was not cheerful just now. Through the mist-covered panes Tommy looked across the Yard, damply green of turf, to Academy street and the white residences beyond. There were few persons in sight. Up the middle path came a figure in a shining yellow oil-skin coat, snuggling a package under an arm; one of the fellows returning from a shopping expedition, apparently. Tommy wondered whether the contents of the package were edible. A few forms moved along Academy street, citizens with umbrellas these. To the right, near the Meadow street side of the Yard, a light appeared in Doctor McPherson’s house. (“Mac” was the principal.) Occupying a corresponding position across the wide expanse of maple dotted turf, Memorial Hall emitted two fellows carrying books from the school library. Tommy watched them idly as they followed the walk which led them to the front of Academy Hall. As they passed Upton he recognized the taller of the two and had half a mind to raise the window and exchange insults. But the effort was too great and he contented himself with tapping a pane with the seal ring he wore. Evidently the sound didn’t carry, for the youths disappeared from his range of vision without looking up.

At Alton Academy the dormitories form a line across the top of the campus: Haylow first, near Meadow street, then Lykes, then—with Academy Hall intervening—Upton and Borden. Back of Academy is Lawrence, which is the dining hall, and well over toward River street, hiding behind Borden, is the Carey Gymnasium. The land descended gently each way from the dormitory row, in the front toward Academy street and the town, in the rear toward the open country. On the latter slope, a slope too gradual to really deserve the name, was the athletic field, with the quarter-mile track, diamonds, tennis courts and sufficient territory besides for the accommodation of such mildly important bodies as the soccer and lacrosse teams. Like many New England preparatory schools, Alton possessed an appearance of age out of proportion with fact, an appearance largely due to the maples that shaded the walks and the ivy that grew almost to the eaves of the older buildings. Not that Alton was a new school, for it was not, but it was younger than many; younger, even, than its principal rival, Kenly Hall, over at Lakeville.

Tommy was getting quite drowsy now and would probably have fallen comfortably asleep if Billy Pillsbury hadn’t selected the moment for his homecoming. Billy, generally called “Pill” was sixteen, a sophomore—although, unlike Tommy, he was new at it—and held the proud and important position of Second Assistant Football Manager. Pill was a slight, pink-cheeked, trim-looking youth, with dark hair swept back from a classic brow and held swept by some fragrant concoction that Tommy found particularly nauseating—or pretended to. Pill entered with the aspect of one wearied by the weight of authority imposed on him and sank into a chair. Tommy viewed him without enthusiasm.

“Gee, what a day!” sighed Pill.

“Yes, rotten,” responded the other, carefully misunderstanding. “Doesn’t look much like clearing, either.”

“Oh, the weather!” Pill put that aside with a wave of a slender hand. “I meant the—the work. And that game! Say, wasn’t that criminal, Tommy?”

“Sure was. Every fellow on the team deserves hanging.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” protested Pill. “They’re all right. Trouble is, they haven’t had enough practice, Tommy.”

“Why not? Ten days ought to give them some idea of the game!”

“They weren’t any worse than Southport.”

“What of it? Last year we licked Southport something like 23 to 0. And the year before by— Well, I forget what it was.”

“I don’t,” returned Pill triumphantly. “It was 6 to 6, the same as to-day. And that year we licked Kenly, and last year we didn’t! So you can’t prove that the team’s going to be rotten that way!”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be rotten,” answered Tommy placidly. “All I say is that it was rotten to-day. Look at the way Burton played, for instance. He had three chances with forward-passes and missed every one of them. Touched them all, too. Why, we’d have had a touchdown any time if he could have frozen onto just one of them!”

“Chick was sort of out of tune,” acknowledged Pill. “He’s been that way ever since work started. Looks to me as if he was still sore about the captaincy.”

“Think so?” Tommy looked interested. “Say, I’ll bet you’re tres right! I thought he and Jonas Lowe weren’t acting awfully thick!”

“Oh, they get on all right,” said Pill. “Still, I do think that Chick was awfully disappointed last winter. Maybe you can’t blame him, either. Why, I’d have bet my shirt that they’d make him captain, Tommy!”

“Yes, so would I, I guess. The trouble with Chick Burton is that he’s a mighty pleasant guy, and most every one likes him a lot and all that. But when it comes to choosing a leader, why, Chick doesn’t—er—inspire confidence. That’s the way I get it, and I guess that’s the way the team felt last December. It was a surprise, though, when they elected Lowe. Guess Jonas was as surprised as any one, even Chick. Think he will make a good captain, Pill?”

“Jonas?” Pill looked frankly dubious. “Gee, I don’t know, Tommy. He’s a corking old scout, and the fellows like him well enough; and he knows a lot about football; his own position and the other chap’s; but it doesn’t seem to me that he’s what you’d call a born leader.”

“Huh, neither is Chick.”

“Yes, he is, too! Chick’s the—the slap-bang, hit-or-miss sort that—”

“Mostly miss to-day,” interpolated Tommy.

“—that fellows take to. He may be wrong, but he makes you think he’s right. And he has—well, dash, you know; and a jolly way of banging into everything; sort of a ‘Come on, gang, let’s go!’ fashion that wins the crowd. What I think about Chick is that if he had made the captaincy he’d have been a poor leader, Tommy, but every one would have forgiven him and, if we’d lost to Kenly, would have said: ‘Well, it wasn’t Chick Burton’s fault! It was just rotten luck!’”

“He’s sure got a pal in you,” said Tommy. “I didn’t know you two were so amical.”

“Your French is rotten, as usual. We aren’t very friendly, either, for that matter. I mean, I don’t know him very well. Say, that’s a funny thing about Chick Burton. He gets on finely with every one, but you never see him chummy with a soul. Ever notice that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What about Hollins? He and Chick look to be pretty thick.”

“Well, they room together, you know, and I heard they were pals before they came here. But outside of Bert Hollins he doesn’t take up with any fellow, so far as I see.”

Tommy chuckled reminiscently. “You ought to have seen the pained look on Bert’s face this afternoon when I razzed Chick once for missing a throw! Say, that poor nut thinks Chick invented football, I guess.”

Pill, having finally set about the task of removing his damp clothing, chuckled as he kicked off a shoe. “I’ll bet! Bert thinks Chick is just about all right, I guess. Talk about Damon and Pythias!”

“Well, I fancy it’s a bit one-sided,” replied Tommy pessimistically. “Friendships generally are.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Chick’s a senior and could have gone into Lykes this fall if he’d wanted to. But he stayed here in Upton so’s he could be with Bert. That looks like he thought a good deal of him, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe and peradventure,” Tommy yawned. “Hurry up and get dressed. I’m starved. I see Bert’s still trying to play football. This is his third season, isn’t it?”

“Second. He’s a junior. I dare say he will make the team this year. He told me the other day that he’d put on seven pounds since last fall. He isn’t a bad player. He might have got placed last fall if he hadn’t been so light. Johnny had him in a few minutes to-day, at the last.”

“Well, I’d like to see him make it,” said Tommy reflectively. “He’s sure tried hard and long, and I’m strong on the nil desperandum stuff, Pill. Who do we play next week?”

“Banning High. Bet you you’ll see a different game next Saturday, Tommy.”

“If I don’t,” responded the other, “I’ll ask for my money back! Say, pour l’amour de Michel, do we eat or don’t we?”