That line-up held some real surprises, and since it was the line-up that, with but one change, continued to the end of the season it may be well to set it down here. Left End, Kruger; Left Tackle, Thomas; Left Guard, Wick; Center, Patten; Right Guard, Lowe; Right Tackle, Haines; Right End, Savell; Quarter-Back, Ball; Left Half-Back, Storer; Right Half-Back, Walsh; Full-Back, Galvin.

The re-forming of the whole left side of the line was a distinct shock, although lessened by the suspicion that the dumping of Tate and Dozier and Meecham was only temporary. At any rate the School entertained that suspicion, but the players themselves were less optimistic. The placing of Savell at right end was doubtless another experiment, and the presence of an almost unknown like Larry Walsh in the backfield was merely a wild flight of fancy on the part of the coach. So at least those in the stand explained the appearance of the new claimants. On the bench, away from the hearing of the coach, speculation was rife and animated. The deposed ones generally accepted their fate philosophically and smiled. One of them, though, was neither philosophical nor smiling. Chick’s countenance portrayed a queer mingling of puzzlement and resentment. Returning from warming up with the second squad, Bert, although the act savored of treachery, chose a seat far removed from his chum. He felt very sorry for Chick, but he knew that he had nothing in the way of condolences that the other would listen to.

If Coach Cade was aware of the mild sensation he had created there was nothing to indicate the fact. He gave his final instructions in his usual calm and cheerful manner and retired to an end of the bench with Manager Wistar to observe results. The results were not very startling. If he or any one else had expected to witness a sudden and radical change for the better in the playing of the Alton team he was doomed to disappointment. But probably he was experienced enough to expect nothing of the sort. The first half of the contest possibly vindicated his judgment, but it resulted in only one score by the Gray-and-Gold, a neat placement kick by Nip Storer. Oak Grove put up only a fair grade of football, presenting a rather decent defense but showing little in the way of attack.

The left of the Alton line did well enough, although it was evident that there was a lack of experience there. Of the three new occupants of the positions Nat Wick created the best impression. He was steady and shifty and helped his center well on defense and was a big improvement over Hop Meecham on attack. Fitz Savell performed brilliantly, although the opposition was not such as to make his work exceptional. Larry Walsh failed to distinguish himself at any time during the game, although he proved to be a hard-working, plugging back who could be depended on to make a short gain whenever he was used. Walsh had played on the Second last season without getting into the lime-light. He was a husky youth, with plenty of weight and a shock of yellowish hair which, when his head guard fell off, shone like an oriflamme. In the last period it was Walsh who wore down the defense and allowed Storer to rip through for Alton’s third score and second touchdown.

On the whole that was a dull contest, with Oak Grove never threatening and Alton using some eight or nine straight plays and relying on superior kicking to keep her out of tight places. Only two forward-passes were tried by Alton, and both grounded. On her part, Oak Grove kept away from the aerial game as far as her opponent until, in the last period, desperation drove her to it. But she had nothing in that line that deserved notice. Usually her receiver failed to reach position and the pass was incompleted, but once Savell took the ball out of the air and got off a nice run of twenty yards or so. Coach Cade made several changes during the course of the contest and ran in a handful of substitutes towards the end, and altogether twenty-one players took part in administering a 17 to 0 defeat to the visitor.

The School chose to regard the event as a notable victory, and, although the pleas of the cheer leaders during the game had elicited but little cheering, there was a most flattering salvo of applause to greet the players when they entered Lawrence that evening. Perhaps the School was glad of an opportunity to applaud and so made the most of it. Coach Cade, breaking his usual custom of returning to his home over Sunday, received a lot of clapping and fervid “A-a-ays!” when he appeared for supper, and must have been slightly surprised thereby since it had been no secret to him that the student body was somewhat critical of his conduct of the team. Chick’s appetite was small that evening, and he had little to say. He appeared to have settled on cynical dignity as the proper attitude, and maintained it throughout the meal. Afterwards he disappeared with startling abruptness, and Bert’s efforts to discover him in any one of several rooms failed. Bert’s last port of call was Number 5 Lykes, and there he remained until late, in company with Ted Ball and Coles Wistar and Nip Storer and Captain Jonas Lowe, while the recent events were discussed fully and with a frankness that would have interested Coach Cade. The consensus of opinion was that Johnny had done a brave if dastardly deed and that, pending results, judgment should be reserved. And Captain Jonas said stolidly: “’S long’s we beat Kenly ’s all right with me!”

“You,” quoth Coles, “might be expected to view the—er—affair philosophically, Jonas. You’re not out of a job.”

Jonas grinned, but made no reply. Perhaps an answer was brewing in his mind, but just then Hop Meecham and Pete Ness stopped in with the cheering news that Kenly Hall had been beaten by Trinity Freshmen that afternoon, 14 to 6. “Just came over the radio in Borden,” said Hop. “And Yale beat the Army, and Notre Dame beat— Who was it, Pete?”

“Canal Zone Polytechnic Institute, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up! Anyhow—”

“Sure about Kenly, though?” asked Nip Storer. “I don’t know how good Trinity Freshmen are, but I hope they’re rotten!”

“They sang off a lot of other scores, and I told Pete to remember them, but I’ll bet he hasn’t,” said Hop. “What were they, Dumb-bell?”

Pete shrugged. “All I remember is Mount Millard and Banning, Mt. Millard won. I forget the score: 26 to something, I think; maybe it was 26 to 14.”

“Who cares?” asked Ted Ball. “The question interesting me is what’ll the score be next Saturday?”

“Oh, we’ll win,” said Nip. “We can’t have any more rotten luck!”

“I’d like to believe it,” answered Coles.

“Say,” asked Hop, “heard about the new club just started? Called the Garbage Pail. Very exclusive. Only five members so far. I’m president and Pete’s secretary, or something. I’d be glad to propose you guys only you’re not rotten enough—yet!”

“Johnny,” said Pete, “has just been elected to Ornery Membership. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for some of you chaps to fill out your applications soon. You might be eligible in a day or two.”

“And that’s no Mother Goose tale!” said Nip. “Every time Johnny looks my way I start to pull my head guard off and write out my resignation. Keep a place in the Pail for me, Hop!”

“Say, what about it, Cap?” asked Pete. “Are we down-and-out, or is Johnny just having a joke with us?”

“Guess he means it,” answered Jonas soberly. “You fellows want to hump yourselves.”

“You watch me,” said Hop. “If Nat Wick gets my job for keeps that lad’s got to go some! Mind you, I’m not blaming Johnny, either. I’m free to confess that our side of the line’s been pretty punk, and Andy Dozier and I had it coming to us. Joe, too, I guess. As for Pete, every one knows how rotten he’s been!”

“Is that so?” growled Pete.

“I thought I was playing a pretty nice game,” went on Hop reflectively, “but I guess I wasn’t. Anyhow, something was sure loose on that side and maybe it was me. I’d hate like the deuce to think I was dumped for good, though.”

“Pshaw,” said Coles, “Johnny means to have you back there, Hop. As Jonas says, get out and hump, son!”

“Oh, I’m going to hump,” Hop assured him. “You won’t know me from a dromedary by Monday!”

Bert got back to Number 21 well before ten o’clock and found an empty room. What time Chick returned Bert never knew, but it was certainly well after ten.

Sunday’s paper corroborated the radio announcement of Kenly’s defeat, but since one of the opponent’s touchdowns had been due to an intercepted forward-pass in midfield and the other scored in the last minute or two of the game, when the Kenly Hall team had contained numerous substitutes, there was less encouragement to be derived from it. According to the correspondent’s account of the affair Kenly had played better football; although, as Chick pointed out when Bert drew his attention to the statement, the correspondent was naturally prejudiced.

Living with Chick that Sunday was a good deal like being holed up with a disgruntled bear, Bert secretly thought. And since it rained hard from early dawn to darkness, there wasn’t much chance of getting out of the hole for long. Church attendance was canceled in the forenoon, at which time the rain was descending in torrents and the streets were rivers, and even at one o’clock nothing save hunger would have taken Bert to Lawrence Hall. Chick was a pessimist to-day. Not an ordinary pessimist, either, but something exceptional, a sort of hyper-super-pessimist. Nothing was right for Chick. The weather was a personal affront, the newspaper was dull, his fountain pen was execrable, letter writing was a task invented by the devil and having to go out for dinner in the rain was a crime. Chick was pretty certain that he would catch cold and die within a few days, or so Bert gathered. Chick didn’t flare up over any of the sorry tricks Fate was playing on him. He was just morose and hopeless, abjectly, profoundly hopeless. He didn’t seem to want to talk on any subject that Bert could think of. And when he wasn’t talking he managed to give Bert the idea that as a companion for a rainy day, he, Bert, was a total loss!

Bert was heartily glad when Homer Johnson came in after dinner and made a third. Homer was Captain of the Baseball Team, and just at first he made it appear that it was in that capacity he had called, for he tried to get Chick to agree to join the early season squad. As a member of last season’s team, Chick was exempt from the first two weeks of indoor practice, but Homer spoke movingly of needing coaching assistance and Chick, perhaps because he didn’t expect to be alive in February, grudgingly consented. Homer was also Editor-in-Chief of the Doubleay, and the real motive for his visit became apparent when, the baseball business being concluded, he introduced the subject of football. Did Chick consider that Mr. Cade had made a success of his work this season? Bert expected animation from Chick at last, but he was disappointed. Even the opportunity to discuss Johnny failed to arouse him from the depths of his despair. He said he guessed Johnny was doing as well as any one could.

“There’s a good deal of talk about the changes he made for yesterday’s game, Chick,” said Homer. “A lot of the fellows think he has sort of lost his grip this fall. It does look as if he was a bit panicky, doesn’t it? I mean changing the team this way in the middle of the season.”

“Maybe,” said Chick gloomily. “Better ask him, hadn’t you?”

Homer laughed lightly. “That’s not a bad idea. But I was curious to know how the players themselves felt about it, you see. We try, in the Doubleay, to reflect School opinion, Chick, and of course you fellows on the team have a far better notion of how things are going than the rest of us. We don’t mean to quote any one’s opinions personally, you understand. What we’re after is to find out how the players themselves size up the present situation, what their reaction is to this sudden and apparently high-handed displacing of so many veteran members of the Team. There’s no question but what the coach is doing what he considers best, Chick, but is it best? Doesn’t a thing like this play hob with the Team’s esprit de corps? Isn’t it disorganizing? You see what I mean?”

Chick viewed him balefully. “Sure, I see what you mean. You want me to grouch and throw Johnny down. Nothing doing, Homer. You go see Johnny himself and ask him if he’s cuckoo. I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re not very helpful,” laughed Homer. “What do you say, Hollins?”

“I say it’s poor policy for the Flubdub to criticize the coach in the middle of the season,” answered Bert. “Mr. Cade’s done mighty well since he’s been here, hasn’t he? What’s the idea in jumping to the conclusion that he’s going to make a mess of it this year?”

“No one suggests that he’s making a mess of it,” Homer protested. “And as for criticism, why, if it’s helpful Coach Cade is the last one to resent it. A football coach is only human, Hollins, and he’s liable to make mistakes of judgment. In that case he ought to be glad to find it out in time to make—er—correction. Gosh, the Doubleay isn’t trying to ride John Cade, Hollins. All we’re trying to do is deal truthfully with affairs of the School and—and present, when we can, wise counsel. Now—”

“Applesauce,” moaned Chick.

“Oh, all right!” Homer arose and prepared for departure. “I don’t see why you’re so blamed grouchy, Chick. If you had to get out this confounded paper each week you’d be a bit more—more sympathetic. But if you don’t want to talk, don’t.”

“Don’t,” muttered Chick.

Homer retreated in good form, and after the door had closed Chick said: “Got a lot, didn’t he?”

“I’m glad you didn’t bite,” answered Bert. “After all, whether Johnny is right or wrong, trying to make a sensation of it in the Flubdub isn’t going to help. And naturally a chap who was dropped from the line-up Saturday isn’t going to talk about it!”

“Huh! I could have given him an earful if I’d wanted to,” muttered Chick. “I’ve got an opinion, all right!”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t spill it to Johnson.”

“Yeah, he gives me a pain,” said Chick sadly.