If the result of the Banning game disappointed the spectators it quite as certainly disgruntled most of the players, the first-string fellows particularly. “Why in heck,” was the oft repeated query, “didn’t he keep us in and let us score on those dubs? Why, we were just getting to know them!” The explanation that Coach Cade had desired to provide experience for the substitutes, at the cost of an unimportant contest, was accepted but failed to satisfy. To be beaten by Banning High School was viewed rather like a slap in the face!

None of the regulars was any sorer than Chick Burton that evening, and on the way across the campus after supper he did a good deal of grousing, with Bert as a more or less sympathetic audience. Bert appreciated Chick’s view-point, but he considered that Mr. Cade had taken an allowable risk, and he tried to point that out to his companion. But Chick refused to see it.

“Johnny’s here to help us win games,” he asserted stoutly, “and not to make us look like a bunch of dubs. If he wants to give the subs experience let him do it in practice. We’ll give ’em enough experience! If we can’t, all he’s got to do is run ’em up against the Second. It’s all right to save your good men when there’s an important game coming, but we play New Falmouth next week and there’s six days between, and New Falmouth isn’t anything to get worried about, anyway. Why, any one of us regulars could have played four periods to-day and never turned a hair! I was just getting good when he yanked me out. Hang it, after the way those beggars ran us around in the first half, we all wanted a chance to sock it to ’em. Lum Patten was as mad as a hyena about it. I thought sure Johnny would hear him kicking. Rather wish he had, too. Say, I’ll bet the Flubdub will have something to say next week!”

The Flubdub was the popular name for the school weekly. Its official title was The Doubleay, but no one called it that.

“Well,” remarked Bert, “you had more luck than I had, Chick, even if you didn’t play the game through. I just sat on the bench and watched you fellows get trampled on.”

“Trampled on nothing!” said Chick indignantly. “You didn’t see me get trampled on. Nor the others, either. Suppose Banning did hold us for two periods. We were due for a come-back in the last half, and a hard one, too! Where do you get that trampled-on stuff?”

“I take it back,” laughed Bert. “Just the same, Chick, Banning out-played you, and you know it.”

“Why not? Johnny sends us in there with instructions to buck their line and not do any kicking unless forced to. You heard the dope he handed us. Said Banning was fast and shifty and our best bet was to hammer the guards and tackles. Well, he didn’t know what he was talking about. Those fellows had a corking good line from end to end and slammed us back every time we tried to smash it. That guy who played opposite to me was a regular man-killer! And look at the pair of guards she had! Looks to me like Johnny had it in for us and wanted to see us knocked cold! Maybe we were slow, like he told us afterwards, but I’ll tell the world that it would have taken a mighty good defense to stop that passing game of theirs to-day. We didn’t know how to meet it, and that’s the truth of it; and I say that wasn’t our fault. Johnny should have prepared us for that crazy sort of stuff before we went in. Banning would heave the ball thirty or forty yards and we’d play back to meet it, and then she’d toss one over the middle and make it good for five or six or maybe eight yards before our backs could get in on it. Maybe we were slow, but we were fast enough to rub those guys’ faces in the mud if we’d been allowed to stay in! That’s what gets my goat, hang it all: putting in a bunch of measly scrubs just when things got interesting and we were all set to go!”

“Fitz Savell played a nice game,” observed Bert rather wistfully.

“Oh, sure, but the rest of them just flubbed around. Look at the chance they had to score when they were down near the thirty that time! And look at the play Bus Lovell called for! Say, who was in charge after Jonas quit, anyway?”

“Bus, I think.”

Chick snorted. “I’ll bet he was. Any one else would have made him change that play down there. Just handed them the very thing they were looking for! Played right into their hands! Why, a child could have seen that they were all set for that forward-pass!”

“I fancy the trouble,” said Bert, “was that Bus didn’t have much of a choice of plays.”

“What of it? He needn’t have thrown the ball away. Savell had been gaining right along, making his own holes, pretty near. Why didn’t Bus shift his line over and use a double-pass that would have given Fitz a chance to slip around tackle on the short side? We only needed about five yards. Anyway, suppose he didn’t have the plays? Whose fault is that? Johnny ought to have given us enough to lick those guys to a frazzle. Beaten by a high school team! Blamed nonsense!”

Chick relapsed into injured silence and they crossed West street, a block from the campus, and turned to the right in the direction of Mooney’s. Bert hadn’t much desire to spend the evening in a billiard parlor, but Chick had pleaded hard and he had yielded. “You don’t have to play,” asserted Chick. “I just want you to come along and see me trim that Devore guy. He’s got a licking coming to him after what he did to me Wednesday!”

“I’m to be the cheering section, eh?” Bert had asked. “Well, all right. But understand, Chick, that this has got to be an early party. Ten o’clock sees this little golden head on the pillow, and that means quitting the festivities by nine-thirty.”

“Sure, that’s all right. I’ll win two straight to-night. I’m in the mood to conquer, old scout! They wouldn’t let me lick Banning and I’ve just got to beat up some one!”

Mooney’s wasn’t the disreputable place that Bert pleased to pretend. It was large, well-appointed and clean. There were fourteen tables on the long floor and when the two boys entered every one was in use. Bert hoped for an instant that the fact would turn his companion back toward the door and spare him some two hours of unenthusiastic watching in the smoke-filled hall. But Chick was undisturbed, and led the way along the aisle to where, near the back of the room, two youths were playing bottle pool. They were probably about twenty-three or four years of age, one a lanky fellow with long freckled face, the other a smaller, neatly-built chap with a face that might have been very good-looking if the features had been less peaked. He had rather colorless, small eyes, set too close together, and Bert took a mild dislike to Mr. Devore long before he discovered, as he did subsequently, that the gentleman’s first name was Lester. The game ended abruptly and Bert shook hands with the two. The freckle-faced fellow, who was introduced as Joe Mills, proposed a four-handed game, but neither Chick nor Devore seconded the proposal, and Bert flatly declined. Joe wandered off presently and Bert saw him no more that evening.

Chick explained to Devore at some length what he intended to do to that gentleman, and Devore pretended much concern, turning, however, to wink at Bert, who had established himself in one of the chairs ranged along the wall. Chick had quite recovered his spirits and was even in a rather expansive mood. The game started and Bert made himself as comfortable as he could and looked on. Devore was a presentable chap, neatly dressed in inexpensive clothes of the sort usually labeled “Varsity” or “Campus” and which are universally taboo at colleges. He wore a ring on one hand which might—or might not—have been a diamond, smoked cigarettes incessantly and talked cheerfully in a pleasant voice, using much slang, and an occasional oath when luck went against him. Luck didn’t do that very often, however, for Devore was a good player, using his cue with unconscious dexterity and seeming never in doubt as to what to do. Evidently he was no stranger to Mooney’s, for he exchanged salutations frequently. If Chick had not been a good player, too, that first game of fifty points wouldn’t have lasted long. As it was, however, it stretched out interminably, or so it seemed to Bert; although he did find interest in the last few minutes, when Devore overcame Chick’s lead of eight and ran out the game.

Chick took the defeat smilingly, but Bert could see that he was piqued. “I’ll play you for double this time, Les,” he announced. Devore appeared to hesitate, but he finally nodded. “You’re on, Buddie,” he agreed.

Chick won the second game rather handily. Apparently his adversary was not as steady a performer as Bert had believed him, for several times he fell down on shots that were not particularly difficult. His good humor, however, never deserted him; wherein he differed from Chick. Chick could be as gay as a lark while winning, but if Devore got the lead his banter ceased and he looked on in frowning, anxious silence. A miscue or a stroke of ill-luck invariably produced a word or gesture of annoyance from Chick. At such times Devore was loudly sympathetic.

At the end of the second game Chick was again in high spirits. “Come on now for the rubber,” he said. “What about it? Same stakes?”

“You must want to ruin me,” laughed Devore. “I’m no Millionaire Kid. I have to work for my coin. Still, I’d like to quit even, so I’ll go you, Buddie.”

“You haven’t got time, Chick,” Bert protested. “It’s four after nine now.”

“Oh, we’ll hurry it up this time,” Chick laughed. “It won’t take me long to beat this easy-mark!”

“Remember what you agreed,” said Bert. “Nine-thirty was the limit.”

“Make it twenty-five points,” Devore suggested. “I’m agreeable. I want to hit the hay early myself to-night.”

Chick consented, although not very cheerfully, and the third game began. Devore won the break and cleaned the table very neatly, winning grudging admiration from Bert. Chick went well for a while, only to miss an easy shot, and Devore pocketed the remaining balls. After the next break, Devore, with the game practically won, scratched, and Chick ran seven before over-anxiety caused his Waterloo. Bert had never seen Chick so concerned about the winning of a game of pool as he was now, and he wondered. The miss had put him in a black temper, and he sat slumped in a chair while Devore expertly and almost apologetically ran out, taking the winning ball on a double bank.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” exclaimed Chick impetuously. “I’ll play you just one more of twenty-five for two dollars! Come on now if you’re a sportsman! What do you say?”

Devore shook his head. “No, sir, I’m through, Buddy. I know when I’m well off, see? I had luck that time, but—”

“Afraid, eh?” asked Chick. “I’ll say you had luck! Come on, don’t be a quitter!”

Devore smiled but shook his head again, returning his cue to its locked box. “Honest, I’ve got to beat it, Chick. So have you. I’ll play you again Monday night. How’s that?”

“What time is it, anyway?” Chick looked at his watch and shrugged disappointedly. “Oh, all right. Monday night then. Better bring your horse-shoe along again, old man, for I’m going to show you some real pool! Let’s settle up.”

“Outside,” said Devore. “Mooney’s sort of strict, and what he don’t know won’t hurt him.”

Bert followed them down the hall, dodging the butts of busy cues, through an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke. Chick stopped at a desk and paid his score and then they were outside and Bert drew a long breath of the cool air with vast relief. Chick peeled a dollar from a small wad of bills and Devore carelessly thrust it into a pocket. “Well, good night, you guys,” he said. “See you Monday night, Chick?”

“You bet you will, you lucky coot,” replied Chick. “Good night!” Bert set a fast pace toward school, for it was well after the half-hour, and since the sidewalks were still crowded with the usual Saturday night throng, progress was slow and conversation difficult. It wasn’t until they had reached the comparatively empty stretch of State street that Chick voiced his disgust. “If you hadn’t been so keen on getting back,” he declared, “I’d have beaten that game. You don’t get a chance when you’re playing only twenty-five points and the other fellow has the first break. I’d be three dollars to the good instead of a dollar out; nearly two dollars out counting what I had to pay at the desk!”

“Mean to say you were playing for two dollars a game?” asked Bert incredulously.

“Sure; that is the last two games. We only had a dollar on the first. We never played for more than a dollar before, and I guess Les was sort of scared. Gosh, that fellow had luck to-night, didn’t he?”

“He seems to be a pretty clever lad at it,” said Bert.

“Oh, he plays a good game, all right,” assented Chick, “but he makes some pretty punk shots, too; generally when he can’t afford it. In the pinches he gets kind of nervous, I guess.”

“Do you usually beat him?” asked Bert.

“Yes. Well, anyway, I win oftener than he does. He has his lucky nights, like to-night.”

“Seems to me, Chick, two dollars is a good deal to play for, supposing you’ve got to bet at all. What’s the idea? You and I always have plenty of sport with nothing up except the price of the game.”

“Oh, well, a fellow plays better if he has a bet up. He started it. Offered to bet me a quarter one night and I took him up. Then I came back at him with fifty cents and then, first thing I knew, we were playing for a dollar. Well, if he can stand it I can, I guess. Bet you he doesn’t make more than twenty a week.”

“I wish you’d cut out the betting,” said Bert. “You can have just as good fun, Chick. Besides, if Faculty heard about it—”

“Pshaw, don’t be a Woeful Willy, Bert! How the dickens would Faculty get hep? Besides, there’s no school rule saying you mustn’t bet a dollar on a game of pool, is there?”

“No, I never heard of one,” owned Bert, “but Faculty has a way of making rules at short order. Mind shaking a leg a bit? It’s twelve minutes to ten. If I were you, Chick, I’d play less pool, anyway. Two or three nights a week is sort of overdoing it, isn’t it?”

“Why is it? Might as well be doing that as sitting around in the room. There’s nothing wrong with Mooney’s place, is there? You saw what it was like to-night.”

“N-no, there’s nothing wrong with it, I guess; except that a lot of betting goes on there and the crowd isn’t exactly the sort a fellow would pick out to spend an evening with.”

“Pshaw, the crowd’s all right. Just because they don’t happen to be our sort doesn’t mean anything, Bert. Take Les Devore, now. Of course he isn’t a college fellow, and all that sort of tosh, but he’s a mighty decent guy, just the same. Works hard for his living and gets his fun playing a little pool.”

“What does he work at?” asked Bert.

“Railroading. He’s something over at the freight yard, I believe. Why?”

“I just wondered. His hands don’t look as if he did an awful lot of work, Chick.”

“Great Scott, I didn’t say he handled freight! He probably works in the office. Some sort of a clerk, I dare say. I guess you don’t like him, from the way you talk.”

“I don’t know enough about him,” replied the other evasively. “I’ll own up, though, old chap, that I wasn’t strangely attracted to him this evening.”

“What was wrong with him?” demanded Chick irritably.

“For one thing, he plays too good a game of pool. I wouldn’t be surprised, Chick, if you found out that playing pool is Devore’s real work.”

“Forget it! He doesn’t play as well as I do, and you can’t say that I make a—a profession of it!”

“He doesn’t yet,” answered Bert as he followed his companion up the steps of the dormitory, “but I have a hunch that that bird is going to improve fast!”

“Is, eh? Well, he isn’t going to improve any faster than I do,” replied Chick, with a comfortable laugh. “Come along Monday night and watch me pick the pin feathers off him!”

“No, thanks, I’ve had all the smoke I can stand for six months. Wonder why it’s against the law to ventilate a billiard hall!”

“Gosh, you’re getting as pernickety as an old maid!” jeered Chick. “Tobacco smoke’s good for you, old scout. Keeps the moths out of your system, and all that.”

“What do you think I am?” laughed Bert. “A parlor rug?”

Bert beat the clock and was in bed when its hands pointed to ten. Chick undressed more leisurely, reviewing his and his adversary’s performance, and was still solicitously slicking down his hair when the fateful hour was announced by the booming of the church bell across the campus.

“Orders,” remarked Bert, good-naturedly ironic, “don’t mean anything in your life, do they, Charles?”

“Orders? Oh, that! Listen to me, son. Johnny’s got to square himself for what he did this afternoon before I put myself out obeying any orders of his. Say, I hope to goodness the Flubdub hauls him over the coals for losing that game!”

“He should worry,” yawned Bert.