Coles Wistar’s room in Lykes, which he shared with Ted Ball, First Team quarter-back, looked full to capacity when Chick and Bert arrived there that Monday evening. Once inside, however, accommodations of a sort could be discerned, and Chick crowded onto a bed and Bert squeezed in between Anstruther and Tommy Parish on the window-seat. Coles Wistar was Football Manager, and it was largely a football crowd which was present. There were George Anstruther, familiarly “Judge,” and Billy Pillsbury, assistant managers, Ted Ball, Hank Howard, Pete Ness, Jim Galvin and Nip Storer, all of the Team. Tommy Parish was present because Pill had brought him and no one had yet thrown him out. Homer Johnson, who roomed with Captain Lowe, had brought Jonas’s regrets and remained to partake of hospitality. These, with the host, Chick and Bert, formed the party, a round dozen in all.

Lykes Hall, reserved for the Senior Class Students, held fewer rooms than the other dormitories, but, fortunately for Coles’ party, they were larger than the rooms in Haylow or Upton or Borden, the latter the Freshman domicile. Number 5 was well-furnished and attractive, for Coles had excellent taste in such matters. There was a refreshing lack of school and college pennants on the walls, this style of decoration being represented by a single Alton banner hung above the double windows. There were a good many pictures, most of them etchings, of which Coles was a modest collector, a few framed photographs and one lone trophy on the walls. The latter, placed above a closet door, was a wooden panel some three feet long with a black, sanded background against which gilt letters startlingly announced “EASTBOUND TRAINS.” It was a memento of Ted Ball’s unregenerate freshman days, and although it had always grated against Coles’ artistic sensibilities he had never been able to persuade Ted to remove it. Ted acknowledged that it might be a jarring note in the decorative scheme, but he had annexed that trophy under extremely difficult circumstances, braving arrest and, possibly, penal servitude, and, although nowadays self-condemnatory in his explanation of its presence here, he was secretly very proud of it. Ted was a rather stocky, bright-eyed chap of eighteen, fun-loving and extremely popular at Alton. He was equally brilliant at studies and as a quarter-back, a shining example to his team-mates which, unfortunately, not many emulated.

The particular host of the evening, Coles Wistar, was unlike his room-mate in many ways. Coles was tall, with a thin face and lightish hair, wore glasses and looked intellectual. He had spent a year at a junior preparatory school near Boston before coming to Alton and had managed to acquire the broad A and a Bostonese accent. You could always make a hit with Coles by inferring that he came from the Hub, although as matter of fact, he lived in a small village in New Hampshire. In spite of one or two trifling affectations he was no fool and was an unusually capable manager. Conversation, interrupted by the arrival of Chick and Bert, gathered momentum again. Tommy Parish, it appeared, had, in the terse phraseology of Hank Howard, been “shooting off his mouth again.”

“Says the Team’s the rottenest he’s seen since he came here,” explained Hank to Chick. “The silly ass doesn’t know a thing about football, anyway, but you’d think, to hear him go on—”

“Pshaw,” began Chick, “why pay attention to that coot? He just likes to hear himself—” But Tommy, even in the midst of Coles’ scathing rejoinder, overheard and challenged Hank’s assertion.

“All wrong, Howard. I know a heap more about football than most of you guys who play it, or try to. Why wouldn’t I? All you fellows learn is how to look after your own positions. You’re on the inside looking cross-eyes at your own jobs. I’m on the outside looking in at the whole works. Now let me—”

“Muzzle him, somebody,” said Nip Storer.

“Tie a can to him,” advised Jim Galvin.

“Let the silly ass talk,” laughed Ted Ball. “Go on and tell ’em, Tommy.”

“Sure.” Tommy looked entirely composed, quite unaffected by hostility. Any one well acquainted with him—Pill, for instance—would have known that he was having a thoroughly good time. “Sure I’ll tell them. Howard says I don’t know anything about football. All right. I say I know more about it than he does.”

“Quit your kidding,” growled Hank.

“He may know more or less about playing tackle, but I’ll bet he can’t answer three questions I can put to him.”

“What sort of questions?” demanded Hank suspiciously.

“Questions on football. Questions covered by the rules which you’re all supposed to know from A to Z, whether you’re a tackle or an end or a back.”

“Heck, I don’t pretend to have all the rules at my finger ends,” protested Hank. “There are too many of them!”

“Shoot ’em, Tommy,” said Jim Galvin. “Go on, kid.”

“All right, but these are for Howard, mind. The rest of you keep out. First, your side kicks, Howard. You are on-side. The opponent prepares for a fair catch. You are nearer the ball than he is. What would happen if you made the catch?”

“I’d get socked ten or fifteen yards, of course,” answered Hank, “for interfering with a free catch.” He spoke doubtfully, though, suspecting a snag.

“Hold on,” exclaimed Nip eagerly. “You said he was on-side!”

“Keep out, you!” Tommy warned. There were chuckles from some of the others and Hank looked harassed.

“How could I be on-side, I’d like to know? Even if I was—”

“Second question,” interrupted Tommy. “Your side has the ball ten yards from the opponent’s goal line and on the fourth down makes a forward pass over the line. You receive the pass. You stand with one foot on the end line, but the ball reaches you a yard inside the zone and you complete the pass. What about it?”

Hank looked about for aid, but met only grinning countenances. “The ball came down inside the zone?” he asked cautiously.

“A yard inside. You have to reach well out for it.”

“If I catch it it’s all right,” said Hank. “You said I had my foot on the end line, not over it. Anyway, if the ball was inside—”

Ted’s chuckle unsettled him, and he scowled his annoyance. “Hang it, I didn’t say I could answer all the catch questions you could think of! Just the same, I’ll bet I’m right about that. Ain’t I, Ted?”

“Third question,” said Tommy inexorably.

“Oh, shut up! Answer your own fool questions!”

“Behave, Hank!” admonished Coles. “Put the question, Tommy.”

“You’re captain of your team, Howard, and the other side has the ball between your fifteen and sixteen yards. One of your side is caught holding and the umpire penalizes you fifteen yards. What would you do?”

“What down was it?” asked Hank, mazed. “I mean, who had the ball?”

“The opponent, on your fifteen and a half. One of your gang is caught holding in the line and the ump socks you the penalty and puts the ball forward fifteen yards from where it was put in play. You’re captain of your team. Get it?”

“Sure, but what can I do? The ball still belongs to the other fellow, doesn’t it?”

Several of the listeners were exchanging puzzled glances, while Hank’s forehead was a network of wrinkles. Of the dozen there only Tommy and Bert appeared serene, Tommy owlishly regarding his victim, Bert leaning back against the window-sill wearing a faintly amused expression. “That your answer?” inquired Tommy.

“Gosh, I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” fumed Hank. “If my side had the ball, all right, but you say it hasn’t. What would you expect me to do, anyhow? Sass the umpire?”

“Look here, Tommy,” broke in Jim Galvin, “I don’t get that any more than Hank does. What’s the answer?”

“I’ll tell you in a sec. First, how many of the questions did Howard answer correctly?”

“None, so far,” said Jim. “He doesn’t seem to have answered the last one at all yet.”

“Wait a minute!” Hank protested. “What was wrong with the first answer? He asked—”

“You could have caught the ball yourself, Hank, if you were on-side,” said Ted. “Shut up a second. What’s the catch in the last one, Tommy?”

“Why,” Tommy replied sweetly, “if I’d been captain instead of Hank I’d have protested the placing of the ball half a yard from the goal line!”

“Gee, that’s right!” exclaimed Chick. “It ought to have gone to the one-yard line! Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

“Right as rain, old dear.”

“Oh, thunder,” growled Hank disgustedly, “no one’s expected to know all the kinks! And, look here, you fellows, what was wrong with that one about the forward-pass into the end zone? I was inside and the ball was inside and I made the catch. I’ll bet I answered that one right!”

“No, you didn’t, Hank,” laughed Ted. “Tommy said you had one foot on the line. Rules say you mustn’t do it, see? On or over, either one, queers you, Hank.”

“That’s crazy! I’ll bet the rest of you didn’t know it, either! Gee, I’d like to ask you guys a few!”

“Go ahead,” advised Pill. “Show ’em up, Hank.”

Hank looked grim for a moment, and it was plainly to be seen that he was doing some hard thinking. Then, as expectant silence prolonged itself, a slow grin overspread his face and he shook his head. “No use,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t think of any!”

“Well, it looks to me as though Tommy had won his point,” said Anstruther. “So it behooves us to listen respectfully to his pleasant criticisms of the Team. Go ahead, Tommy, and say your piece.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’ve said it. I said this year’s team was the punkest I’ve seen here, and I say it again.”

“Well, you’ve seen quite a few,” remarked Chick, with a wink at Bert. “How many years have you been here now, anyway, Tommy? This your fourth or fifth?”

“Third,” replied Tommy untroubledly amidst the laughter. “I saw last year’s team and the team before that, and I’m seeing this thing you’ve got here now, and I say it ain’t so good, fellows. Mind you, I’m saying this for your benefit, not because I want to crab.”

“Oh, no, you never crab, Tommy!” said Pill.

“What,” asked Coles in a patient voice, “strikes you as being the principal—ah—weakness?”

“The players,” replied Tommy promptly, and allowed himself a wicked grin.

A howl of derision went up. Then Coles inquired with a pretense of vast respect: “Are they all rotten, Tommy?”

“Oh, no, there are three or four that look pretty good.”

“Thank Heaven!” cried Ted. “We’ve got something to build on!”

Chick, however, demanded scoffingly: “Say, for the love of Pete, who gave you any license to set yourself up as a critic, Tommy? You’re nothing but a fat loafer, and you know it. Cramming the football rules doesn’t make you a judge of the game, youngster.”

Perhaps it was the reference to a tendency toward obesity that got under Tommy’s skin. In any case, his cheerful calm vanished and he answered warmly: “If I’m fat, Burton, it’s not in my head! And it doesn’t take a critic to see what a rotten game you’re playing, either!”

“Lay off that stuff, Tommy!” ordered Coles severely.

“So I’m fat-headed am I?” demanded Chick, reddening. “Say, you blamed little fat rotter—” He thrust himself off the bed and took a step toward the window-seat, but Ted interposed.

“Calm yourself, Chick. Tommy doesn’t count. Besides, he didn’t mean what he said, did you, you crazy ape?”

“Sure, I did,” responded Tommy, once more master of his emotions. “He has got a swelled head and he is playing rotten.”

“If you can’t act like a gentleman—” began Coles angrily.

“Oh, put him out,” called Nip Storer.

Chick, held in subjection by Ted’s capable hand—it’s difficult to get to your feet when some one is pushing against your chest—glared wrathfully at Tommy. Tommy returned his gaze without a qualm. After all, reflected Bert, beside him, he didn’t lack courage!

“I really think you’d better beat it, Tommy,” advised Ted coldly. “You are a pesky nuisance, anyway, and I don’t know who let you in.”

“Then he goes, too,” said Tommy, nodding at the irate Chick. “He hadn’t any call to say I was fat!”

“So you are,” declared Chick hotly. “You’re a fat fool!”

“Move both members be allowed to withdraw,” said Jim Galvin, grinning enjoyably.

“Seconded,” said Anstruther. “The secretary is directed to expunge the remarks of both gentlemen—I mean rough-necks—from the records.”

“Forget it, you two,” advised Ted. “Mutual apologies are in order. How about it, Tommy? If you want to stay, son, you’d better behave.”

“Do we get the apples?” asked Tommy soberly.

“Sure,” Ted answered amidst laughter.

“I apologize,” said Tommy. “Just the same—” But Bert’s elbow colliding with his ribs interrupted his qualifying addenda.

“All right,” agreed Chick, restored to better humor. “He isn’t fat. He’s merely plump.”

Tommy looked doubtful for a moment, but Coles pulled a box of apples from under a bed and the doubt vanished. During the subsequent half-hour Tommy was much too busy to indulge in what he termed constructive criticism. No one counted the number of Northern Spies he demolished, but it was considerable. Conversation proceeded briskly but somewhat unintelligibly. In the middle of the feast “Dutch” Kruger arrived, bearing a fat black case, and was hailed tumultuously. He devoured two apples hastily, urged on by impatient watchers, and would have started a third. But Jim Galvin deftly took the apple away from him and substituted the black case. Dutch’s protests were drowned. Good-naturedly he produced a shining saxophone.

“‘Football Blues,’ Dutch!”

“Aye! Attaboy, Dutch! I want to sing!”

“What time is it?” asked Dutch anxiously.

“Only nine. Lots of time, boy. Give us ‘The Football Blues.’”

Dutch grinned, nestled the mouthpiece against his lips and blew. At the same time he began to pat the floor with his feet and sway from his hips. The saxophone nodded and curveted. Most of the assemblage broke into song, tapping the floor, too, swaying as Dutch swayed. Tommy, a large red apple in one hand, his eyes staring fixedly, hypnotically at the musician, heaved his plump shoulders ludicrously. From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that out!” which, however, failed to make itself heard in Number 5. Up and down the corridor doors were set open and in more than one room a toiler at his books gave over toiling for the while and pursed his lips.

The thing was a composition of Dutch’s own, words and music, and if the rimes wouldn’t always bear inspection the tune was enough to make you lenient. “The Football Blues” had made Dutch famous throughout the school and he was much in demand. There were many verses, which recounted the experiences of an ambitious youth essaying to play football, but it was the chorus that made the hit. The saxophone wailed and sobbed and yowled, Dutch’s eyes roamed from floor to ceiling, ecstatically bright, and the crowd roared lustily from bodies that swayed and shook.

They had to have all the verses, which were numerous, and after they were exhausted Dutch played other melodies and the concert continued until Coles warned that it was nine-thirty and, grabbing another apple or two, the guests went off. On the way to Upton, Chick, recalling his grievance, observed disgustedly: “I don’t see why Coles had to have that pesky nuisance there. He’s the freshest kid in school. Gosh, some one ought to turn him over and give him a good whaling!”

“Tommy Parish? Yes, he is trying. He seems to love to start an argument and get every one peeved. Funny chap.”

“Funny? He’s crazy! The next time he gets fresh with me I’ll slap his pudgy face, no matter where it is.”

“Well, I guess you’d always find it in about the same place,” said Bert.