With the beginning of the fourth week of the season, the football situation at Alton Academy had become fairly well straightened out. The squad was down to thirty-four, about as low as it was likely to go, the Second Team had hit its stride and was providing tough opposition four or five times a week, and, with the approach of the first important contest, that with Lorimer Academy next Saturday, the preliminary season was coming to an end in a fairly normal manner. The victory over New Falmouth, while of no great consequence, had shown coach and players and School that the Team possessed latent possibilities, something which the School, at least had begun to doubt. One win out of three starts was a record that was scarcely impressive. However, if Alton was having her difficulties, so, too, was her rival, Kenly Hall. Kenly had won her first game handsomely enough, had lost her second without apparent rime or reason and had been able to do no better on Saturday last than play Oak Grove to a scoreless tie. Since Oak Grove was normally a small-caliber team, Kenly’s last performance had brought encouragement to Alton. Kenly almost always turned out a scoring eleven, and her inability to put anything over on Oak Grove suggested that this fall, for once, she was minus heavy artillery.

On Monday the substitutes held the center of the stage at Alton, since those who had played for any length of time on Saturday were excused after signal work. The Second came across, rearing to go, and engaged an adversary largely composed of second-choice substitutes. Bert, somewhat to his surprise, was allowed to start at right half. Lovell was at quarter for a while, and Tyron and Couch completed the backfield. The scrimmage went slowly, for Mr. Cade was trying out two new plays—new, at least, to the team—and the play was frequently stopped for criticism or instruction. Mr. McFadden’s charges were an eager, hard-fighting lot, and in the first ten minutes neither side scored. Field-goals were barred to-day, except for which both First and Scrub might have had three points. Bert tried his best to act on Tommy Parish’s suggestion and keep his head up when he went at the line. Sometimes he did it, but habit was strong and more times he failed. Still, he comported himself fairly well, and when he was relegated to the bench at the end of the first half was able to assure himself that he had done as well as Tyron.

In the second half of the scrimmage Parkhurst started in Bert’s position, but he was so weak on defense that he lasted but a few minutes and gave way to Keys. The Second got under way when the ball was fumbled by Riding, who had succeeded Lovell toward the end of the first session, and picked up by a Scrub end. From their own forty-two yards Mr. McFadden’s pets smashed along to the First’s thirty-one, using a wide sweep that worked with all the efficiency of a steam-roller. Shelfer, playing right end, was of so little use when the play came on his side that Mr. Cade sent him off and looked about for a substitute. Ends, however, were scarce this afternoon, and finally Fitz Savell was tried. Fitz might have claimed immunity, since he had worked rather hard Saturday, but that was far from his thoughts. At end, a position he had played awhile a year back, Fitz fitted excellently, so well that runs around the First Team’s right ceased after the next attempt. Too close to the side-line to try a play around the other end, Scrub piled into right guard for no gain and then shot off a neat forward-pass to the left that was caught close to the boundary and advanced for a total gain of seventeen yards. From the First’s twelve yards the Second went over for a touchdown in three plays, the final one being an unexpected plunge through a loose center by quarter after a seeming attack on tackle had fooled the defenders. Couch was slightly hurt in that play and Franklin took his place at full-back. No goal was tried and the First kicked off again and the Scrub left half was downed without a gain by Fitz Savell. One plunge netted two yards and Scrub punted. Keys caught on his forty-three and the First started to hammer the right of the adversary’s line and made good going to the opposite forty. There, two smashes were stopped and Keys made an ineffectual attempt to take a long heave from Franklin. Time was taken out for the Scrubs and Coach Cade seized the opportunity to make several changes. Two new linemen were brought in and Keys was sent off to the showers. Coach Cade’s demand for another half-back brought Jake, the trainer, to his feet.

“Half-back! Come on, one o’ you! All right, What’s-your-name!”

But “What’s-your-name” didn’t get well onto the field before he was turned back. “This man doesn’t know these plays, Jake,” called the coach. “Who else is there?”

“Not a one, Coach. They’ve all been worked.”

“Well, send some one. Hollins, you come.”

So Bert went back, even more surprised than before, and Mr. Cade said: “Take it here, Hollins. Let’s see what you can do. We ought to get a score this time.”

It was fourth down and Don Riding called for kick formation with Franklin back. Bert took his place behind right tackle, the signals started and the ball shot back. Franklin, however, had had woefully little practice at taking the pass from center and he made a poor job of it. The cry of “Ball! Ball!” arose piercingly as the lines swayed. Bert jumped to the right to head off an opponent who was leaking through, and just at that moment something bounded against his leg. He threw himself outside and let the adversary stumble past him. Then he was running toward the trickling ball, one of several in pursuit. A lucky, half-hearted leap on the part of the pigskin coincided with Bert’s swoop, and he straightened up, tucking the ball tightly to him, and started ahead. A falling player sent him staggering to the right, but he recovered and headed in. It looked like a forlorn hope, for the enemy seemed closing in on him. Then, however, Tolman shot past him and went crashing into the nearest of the foe and Bert sped around the falling forms and found his pace.

It wasn’t difficult after that. Only one tackler threatened and a straight-arm sent him spinning aside. Bert had picked up the ball near the Scrub’s forty-yard line and by the time he was racing over the twenty he was a good two yards in advance of the nearest foe. The Scrub safety man had run in at the warning of the fumble and he was a poor third when the goal-line was reached. Bert crossed it winded but serene and yielded gracefully to the vindictive tackle of the first pursuer. Mr. Cade, trotting slowly up, said: “Good work, Hollins! Nice dodging. Never mind the try-for-point, fellows! First kicks off!”

Returning somewhat breathlessly up the field, Bert puzzled over the coach’s reference to dodging. Bert couldn’t remember having dodged once! However, he had won praise from Mr. Cade, and that was certainly good luck! For that matter, the whole proceeding, he reflected, had been a matter of luck! He guessed the touchdown wouldn’t raise his stock much.

Yet, on Tuesday, the indications were that it had, and that he had slipped overnight a little farther up the list. He knew this by two tokens. One was the speculative look he surprised on Larry Keys’ countenance. The other was the fact that when Larry, who had succeeded Pete Ness at right half, went out in the second session of the scrimmage game Jake’s summons was: “Hollins! Go in at left half, boy!”

He played some six minutes that day, remembering better now to keep his head up and look for the opening. Once that proceeding served him well, for on an off-tackle play something went wrong and his own full-back and the opposing end were blocking the hole. Seeing it in time, he sped on out, closely pursued by the Scrub left end, side-stepped an enemy back and went around for seven yards. Then he stood and listened while Coach Cade made a few critical remarks to Oscar Couch. The First took revenge to-day for yesterday’s 6 to 6 tie, piling up three touchdowns on the enemy. One of these was put across while Bert was in, and, although it was Couch who took the ball over, Bert had a fine part in the conquest of those last eight yards and felt as triumphant as any one when, the heap of bodies having been disentangled, the pigskin was found to be well across the mark.

That afternoon Fitz Savell had another try at end, left this time, and Joe Tate looked extremely worried during the experiment. There was no doubt that Savell had the making of a brilliant end-rush, although since that position seemed well supplied with talent there was no apparent reason for sacrificing a good backfield man. Finally Tate was restored to his place and Fitz was later seen at left half once more. Returning to Upton from the gymnasium after practice, Chick voiced uneasiness to Bert. “Wonder what Johnny’s idea is in letting Fitz play end. The man’s a half-back and a mighty good one, and it would be a queer piece of business to try to make an end of him in the middle of the season. Anyway, we’ve got four good ends right now.”

“Who’s the fourth?” asked Bert. “Tate and Shelfer and Kruger, sure, but who’s the other?”

Chick grinned. “Your Uncle Dudley, son. Of course I oughtn’t to call myself good, but you’ll excuse it.”

“Yes,” answered Bert, suddenly serious, “you are good, Chick, when you want to be, but it seems to me that you haven’t been up to your real form this fall. Not always, I mean.”

Chick looked affronted for a moment. Then he laughed. “What’s the idea, Bert?” he asked. “Think I’m getting a swelled head, or what?”

“No, but I mean it, Chick. I supposed you knew it, too, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Oh, come,” protested Chick, “don’t lay it on! I don’t say I’ve always played at top-notch. No fellow can, I guess. But I’ve kept my end up as well as any of them, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps,” said Bert. “I may be wrong, of course. Only it has seemed to me that you—well, that you don’t try as hard as you did, Chick; don’t take as much interest in the game. Perhaps I imagine it. Anyway, you mustn’t get sore because I spoke about it.”

“Sore! Of course not.” But he did sound a trifle irritated. “I thought I’d been playing a pretty good article of football, old scout, and your information is rather jarring. Any one tell you this, or did you just discover it for yourself?” Chick’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“My own idea entirely,” replied Bert lightly. “I dare say I’m not a competent judge of how end position should be played. Of course, Chick, I want to see you playing way ahead of every one and so I’m probably over-critical. You know how you’re playing better than I do.”

“I’d ought to,” agreed Chick. Then, when they were in the room, he reverted to the subject. “Funny idea of yours,” he mused. “Thinking I’m off my game, I mean.” He laughed uneasily. “Hope Johnny doesn’t catch it! Fact is, Bert, I haven’t been feeling quite as peppy as I ought to so far this fall. Maybe it sort of shows in my playing, eh? I don’t believe it, though. I’ll bet I’ve played just as good a game as Joe Tate right along. Don’t you think I have?”

“Why, I don’t know, Chick. I’ve said I’m no judge of how end ought to be played. Last year, if you’ll remember, you played a better game than Joe, a whole lot better.”

“That means you don’t think I have, eh? I don’t see how you figure it. Take last Saturday, for instance—”

“I won’t do it,” laughed Bert. “If you say you’re playing up to top form that’s all there is to it, Charles.”

“Top form? Of course I’m not. No fellow reaches top form as early in the season as this. All I do say is that I’m doing just as well as Joe or any other end! And if Johnny thinks he can scare me by bluffing with Fitz Savell he’s wrong!”

“I don’t think he had anything like that in mind,” said Bert. “Fitz is too good a back to turn into an end. Tell you what, Chick. Cut out the pool for the rest of this week, get to bed on time and then see if you don’t feel a lot zippier!”

“Oh, piffle! How is playing a little pool going to affect my football? Don’t be an ass, Bert! Anyway, I’ve got a date with Les Devore for to-morrow night. Maybe I’ll quit for a while after that. Got to recoup my losses first, though! That guy has certainly been putting the harpoon into me lately!”

“Did you lose again last night?” asked Bert.

“Well, I didn’t exactly win. That fellow’s middle name is Lucky, Bert!”

“I guess it must be. Pretty good reason for letting him alone for a while, isn’t it? I mean a fellow can buck against a better game, Chick, but a run of luck is something else.”

“I guess that’s so,” agreed Chick thoughtfully. “When we started playing I could beat him two times out of three, but now, with everything breaking his way, I’m doing well if I get one game in four. But, heck, his luck can’t last! And when it stops, believe me, Bert, I’m going to lay him out stiff!”

“I’d lay off awhile and give the luck a chance to catch up,” said Bert lightly.

“Yes, maybe I’d better,” muttered Chick. “After to-morrow.”

What happened at Mooney’s Wednesday night Bert didn’t learn. He was asleep when Chick returned, and since the latter made no mention of the previous evening’s events when morning came Bert didn’t inquire. Chick seemed in good spirits, whistling while he dressed, but Bert more than half suspected that much of the gayety was assumed. As a matter of fact, Chick was not the sort to arise from bed blithe and singing. It usually took him ten minutes to get his eyes thoroughly open, and during that period he was more the bear with the sore head than the nightingale! So if Chick whistled with intent to deceive he selected the wrong method.

Bert was rather too taken up with his own affairs for the rest of that week to pay very much attention to Chick’s, nevertheless he did make note of the fact that neither on Thursday nor Friday evenings did Chick resort to Mooney’s. Evidently then Chick had decided to act on Bert’s suggestion and allow Mr. Lester Devore’s phenomenal luck at pool to become exhausted. Perhaps, too, although he had not accepted Bert’s hint with much enthusiasm, Chick thought it wise to take no chances. Certain it was that he got to bed both nights by ten o’clock, or almost, and that his performances on the gridiron seemed animated by more vim.

Meanwhile Bert discovered that from an unimportant third substitute he had advanced in the period of a few days to the rÔle of a player of consequence. Perhaps the degree of consequence wasn’t great, but certain it was that he never failed to get into the scrimmage line-up and that Coach Cade, suddenly and rather disconcertingly aware of his existence, gave him a good deal of attention. The attention was sometimes embarrassing, as when on Wednesday afternoon Bert balled a play all up and found himself on his back with two of the enemy kneeling on his diaphragm and the pigskin, tightly clasped, some six yards back of the point it had started from. Bert had heard of coaches who became tempestuous and profane under less provocation, but Mr. Cade was not one of them. Mr. Cade might raise his voice a note or two, but he never lost control of it—or of himself. He didn’t even call names; that is, not hard names. He might refer in a gentlemanly manner to a fellow’s apparent lack of mentality and address him as a “poor goat,” or he might, in cases where a lineman failed to show sufficient aggression, use the allowable term “loafer.” But such appellations left no smart. However, it is not to be assumed from this that Mr. Cade was tongue-tied. Not a bit of it. He had a surprising command of the English language and a remarkable fluency in the use of it. He also displayed a positive genius in the correct choice of words. If one could only remain sufficiently detached, as it were, during one of Johnny’s best orations one could without a doubt vastly improve one’s rhetoric.

But remaining detached was difficult, and on the occasion alluded to Bert profited not a whit in the matter of increasing his vocabulary or perfecting his speech. He did, however, profit in another way. After Mr. Cade had lucidly and in detail explained your mistake, you didn’t make that particular mistake again. Oh, you might turn right around and make another, but not that one! No, sir, never again; or, anyway, not for a long, long time! Bert’s ears got very warm and he looked so long and steadily at Johnny’s old sweater that he could have drawn a plan of it weeks later and located every hole exactly. Then suddenly the call-down was over and Mr. Cade was saying cheerfully: “All right, First! Let’s go now, and stop fooling! Let’s have a first down!”

But of course Bert wasn’t the only one to incur the coach’s displeasure. Even as experienced a hand as Nip Storer got his on one occasion. Bert, standing by while play ceased, felt sympathetic for Nip, but his sympathy was evidently misplaced since, as soon as Johnny had ended, Nip turned away with a jovial wink. Well, perhaps after you had played two years you got hardened, Bert thought. But as for him, he was still subdued. Chick was on the carpet, also, once, and to Bert it seemed that Mr. Cade’s voice was just a trifle colder than before. Chick never took any too kindly to criticism, even from the coach, and he looked slightly contemptuous, slightly mutinous during the proceeding. Bert wished he wouldn’t, for Mr. Cade could not fail to notice it, and Bert was fearful that the coach had already set down more than one black mark against Chick.

Thursday there were no misadventures for Bert. He even scored a mild triumph by breaking away from the congested area after a delayed pass and streaking something over thirty yards into the less populated section of the field. He might have kept on and quite lost himself in the vast open spaces around the Second Team’s goal line if a pesky long-legged youth named Simpkins hadn’t pursued him and eventually attached himself to his legs. Bert never had liked the name of Simpkins, and to-day he liked it less than ever. On Friday the work-out was light and confined principally to the essentials. But the Scrub paid a brief visit and indulged the First Team substitutes in a ten-minute scrimmage. Because of the dismissal of the regulars, Bert found himself starting the trouble at right half-back, with Tolman beside him and “Ben” Franklin playing full-back. That wasn’t much of a contest, for the Second took things into her own hands and marched up the field after the kick-off in a disgustingly irresistible manner, pushing the opposition contemptuously aside and eventually scoring without once losing possession. Bert, among others, was used rather roughly, and on one occasion caused a cessation of hostilities while Jake soused him with water and pumped air into his lungs. Such occasions can be extremely unpleasant while they last, but once over leave no painful effects, and consequently Bert was both surprised and indignant when Jake, in charge because Mr. Cade had accompanied the regulars to the gymnasium, a few moments later called him out. Not being in such awe of the trainer as he was of the coach, Bert voiced his indignation when he reached the side-line.

“What’s the idea, Jake?” he remonstrated. “I’m all right! Losing your breath isn’t anything to stop playing for!”

Jake viewed him with a cold and fishy eye and spoke briefly. “Shut your trap,” said Jake.

Well, after that there was just one thing to do, and Bert did it. He shut his trap.

Scrub threatened a second time, but lost the ball when Parkhurst intercepted a forward-pass and had to be satisfied with her six points. Although the session had been but half-length, casualties were heavy on both sides, with the First Team substitutes receiving the lion’s share of the injuries. None of them was serious, but they were uncomfortable enough to engender resentment, and back in the gymnasium, already deserted by the regulars, acrimonious debate ensued up and down the aisles between the lockers. Bert, still feeling rather outraged because of the way in which he had been treated by the Scrub, and indignant because Jake had pulled him out in the middle of the fight, was not in a mood for ragging. So, when Laidlaw, a Scrub end, referred to an occasion when Bert had failed to stop his mad career, Bert resented it. One word led to another, a shoe was thrown, a bench was overturned, an appreciative audience, forgetting its own disputes, closed about and Bert had the extreme satisfaction of knocking Laidlaw to the floor in something under sixty seconds. Laidlaw, undaunted if staggered, would have continued the engagement, but Jake issued wrathfully forth from the rubbing room and made remarks which indicated that the bout didn’t have his sanction. So the audience, jeering good-naturedly, dispersed, leaving Bert to fondle a swelling chin and Laidlaw to staunch a flowing nose. Then Bert came on Laidlaw’s shoe and politely if coldly returned it to him, and Laidlaw said “Thanks” very gravely and departed to his shower. And ten minutes later, meeting on the way out, they both grinned and, without a word uttered, parted somewhat better friends than before.

The next morning the Alton Team piled into two busses and hit the trail for Lorimer, while the School cheered the departure and prepared to follow later by train. Bert sat beside Chick and was secretly very elated and somewhat excited. Last season, although he had witnessed every game that Alton had played away from home, he had never made the journey with the Team. If proof was lacking of his new status on the Eleven this happening supplied it. Here he was, with Captain Jonas, large and good-humoredly taciturn, but two seats away, Chick at his right shoulder and Hop Meecham at his left, really and truly, positively and absolutely at last one of the gang! The October morning was gray and chill, with a suggestion of mist at intervals, but Bert didn’t know that the sun wasn’t shining!