When he thought about it afterwards, and he did think about it a good deal during the next day or two, it seemed to Bert that it had been absurdly simple, that dash from the enemy’s twenty-four to the goal line and over. To be sure, just at the last the Mt. Millard quarter had forced him well toward the boundary, but he had never been seriously challenged after he had cut through and he had crossed the last streak of lime with his head up and a watchful eye on the approaching safety man; crossed it, indeed, with an unconscious unconcern that had added to the joy of the already ecstatic Alton watchers. It had been very easy, and, while he was human enough to like the applause he had won, and the enthusiastic pummelings of his team-mates, and all the nice things that had been said to him since, he was convinced that any of his fellow players would have turned the trick just as neatly as he had and that, when all was considered, he had mighty little title to the rÔle of hero. Of course he had done his best, had used his head and his speed, but there was no getting around the fact that it was perfect interference that had won that touchdown and the Mt. Millard game. If Jim Galvin had missed the end, if Fitz Savell hadn’t taken out that back, if, in short, the whole team of eleven players hadn’t each performed his part perfectly, the play would have fizzled. Where then, reflected Bert, was the glory? Surely the credit should be equally apportioned amongst the team and not given all to him. He was dimly regretful that this was so and wished that he might have somehow really earned the honor that had been accorded him; wished that he might have got away without the help of an army of interferers and made the run on his own. He could have been proud of that. As it was he felt apologetic toward the other fellows of the team and wondered if they were not secretly amused, perhaps nettled, at the praise he was receiving. They didn’t appear to be, though. In fact, they had behaved quite as if that touchdown had been a one-man job, a personal triumph for Bert. He couldn’t understand that at first.

He would have liked to talk the affair over at length with Chick that Saturday evening, but Chick, while he was about, was not an inviting recipient of confidences. Chick was steaming mad. He had remained on the bench all during the game. Even after Bert had pulled the contest out of the fire with that dash for a touchdown and Coach Cade had strengthened the team here and there with fresh material in order to hold the enemy during the succeeding three minutes, Chick had not been called on. Shelfer had relieved Savell, and Chick had looked on incredulously. Afterwards he had been bitter toward the coach, declaring that Johnny was trying to humiliate him, threatening to go over to the other’s lodgings and have it out with him, on the verge of quitting the team. Bert had tried to pour oil on the troubled waters and the oil had ignited. Chick had sneered that of course Bert couldn’t see anything wrong because Johnny was treating him decently; even better than he deserved, Chick seemed to intimate. Bert had frozen up at that and a little later Chick, still hectic with anger, had taken himself away. Bert had hoped that he wasn’t off to Coach Cade’s to carry out his threatened intention of informing Johnny what he thought of him, and had been half inclined to follow and prevent such a break, but reflection reassured him. Chick was angrier than Bert had known him to be for a long time, and when he was angry he was capable of extremes, but it wasn’t likely that he would do anything as suicidal as that. He hadn’t seen Chick again that evening, but on Sunday Chick let out that he had played pool with Lester Devore, and borrowed all of Bert’s available funds, amounting to four dollars and a half, to pay for his fun.

“For the love of Pete!” exclaimed Bert. “How much did you lose?”

“Oh, this is some I’ve been owing him,” replied Chick evasively. “He always wins, the lucky stiff! I’ll pay you back next week.”

“I’m not worrying about getting it back,” said Bert, frowning. “But—but, great Scott, Chick, that’s a pile of money to lose!”

“Don’t I know it?” demanded the other peevishly. “That’s what I’m sore about. He gets all the breaks, hang him, and I haven’t had a stroke of luck at that game for two weeks!”

“Why not quit?” asked Bert.

“And let him get away with nearly—with a whole bunch of my coin?” inquired Chick amazedly. “That’s a swell idea! I’m going to keep after that bird till I pluck him, and pluck him good and close!”

“It’s my hunch that he’s a tough bird,” said Bert wryly.

“Tough? He’s just a fool for luck, that’s all he is. By the way, he’s coming up this afternoon after this money. If you’re here and I’m not slip it to him, will you? I’ll leave it here on the corner of the table.”

“How much?” asked Bert from the window-seat.

“Eight,” answered Chick. “Tell him that’s all— No, never mind. Don’t tell him anything. I’ll probably be in, anyhow.”

“Try to, will you?” said Bert. “You know, Charles, I don’t warm to that Mr. Devore much.”

“Oh, he’s all right except for being a lot luckier than the law allows.”

“Maybe, but I don’t crave to entertain him. I’ll be over in Lykes around five o’clock, so—”

“What are you going over there for?” interrupted Chick.

“I told Ted Ball I’d be over. He seemed to think my presence would add to his happiness. Better come along.”

“I’m going to play some golf with Dozier at three. I suppose Ted’s going to tell you how good you are, eh?”

“If he does I promise not to believe him,” answered Bert good-humoredly.

“Oh, yes, you will! You’ll get a swelled head like all the rest of the heroes; like Ted himself for that matter. What’s become of the sports section?”

“Here you are.” Bert pulled a portion of the Sunday paper from beneath him and tossed it across. “That was some game at Lakeville yesterday. Have you read it? Kenly fairly mowed ’em down, eh?”

“Just as she’ll mow us down a couple of weeks from now,” growled Chick. “If you want to make a killing, Bert, put up some money on her. I know where you’ll be able to place it when the time comes.”

“Bet against my own team?” asked Bert. “I’d be likely to, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t risk a dollar either way,” said Chick pityingly. “When it comes to betting, old scout, one team looks just like another to me. I’d as soon pull down a ten dollar bill on Kenly as on Alton.”

“I don’t believe it. Anyhow, you’re not thinking of doing it, I hope.”

“Why not?” demanded Chick impatiently. “You bet to win, don’t you? Think I’d back Alton if she was certain to get licked?” Then, as he caught the troubled expression on the other’s face, he added: “Oh, well, I’m not likely to have much money to bet on football games, I guess, the way the luck’s running.”

“I hope you don’t have a blamed cent,” replied Bert shortly, “if you’d use it that way!”

“Well, I guess you’ll get your wish,” Chick grunted.

As it turned out, it was, after all, Bert who received Lester Devore when that gentleman came to Number 21 about half-past four. Chick had predicted his return before that hour, but he was still absent. Mr. Devore was attired most becomingly for Sunday afternoon in a suit of gray plaid, a purplish-gray felt hat, a violet shirt and a burnt-orange—or possibly henna—scarf pierced by a pearl stickpin. Mr. Devore was what you might call a tasty dresser. Still, Bert wondered if he hadn’t perhaps done the chap an injustice, for he had a likable look and his manners were not at all bad as he accepted Bert’s invitation to sit down and await Chick’s return. Perhaps it would have been better had he pulled his sharply-creased trousers up at the knees less impressively, but that was a very little thing after all. Bert offered the weather as a subject of discourse and Devore’s conversation was worthy of polite society. He didn’t swear once. He admired the room and expressed curiosity about some of its features, a curiosity which Bert courteously gratified. Then Devore said, smiling: “Guess you feel pretty good to-day, eh, Hollins? You won that game, and no error!”

“Oh, did you see it?” asked Bert.

“No, I couldn’t get away, but I was talking with a fellow who was over to it. He said you made a sweet run. Right through the other team, he said, and never hurried!”

“He was slightly mistaken, though,” said Bert dryly, “for I certainly did hurry.”

“Yeah, I guess you had to! But this guy—this fellow said you fooled ’em all pretty clever. Good game, eh?”

“We think so,” answered the host, aware that his dislike of Devore was returning. “We naturally would.”

“Sure.” Devore chuckled. “Make anything?”

“Make anything?” Bert looked puzzled. “Only that touchdown.”

Devore laughed. “I meant did you have any money up. But I guess those Mt. Millard kids aren’t very sporty. Say, what do you think of our chances in the scrap with Kenly, eh?”

“Our chances?”

“Yeah, Alton’s. Who’s going to win that, would you say?”

“I wouldn’t say,” replied Bert. “Kenly’s got a pretty good team, I guess, and seems to be getting better every day. What we’ve got no one seems to know yet.”

“That’s right. It’s no cinch either way, I figure. Only thing is, Hollins, Kenly has the science, if you get me. Look at last year. Lots of guys said you fellows had ought to had that game. But it seemed like the other guys had the sign on you. That’s science, ain’t it? Sure. Well, I figure it might be like that again. Over at Lakeville they think pretty good of that team. I know because I’ve got friends over there and I hear ’em talk. Still, that ain’t saying we mightn’t spring a surprise on ’em, is it? Some play they don’t know about, or something, eh? I wouldn’t want to bet you fellows haven’t got something sweet up your sleeve, Hollins.”

Devore smiled engagingly, inviting confidence. Bert shrugged. “Maybe. A team usually saves something for the final game.”

“Of course. And if it’s good it turns the trick, don’t it? I heard you fellows were working up a pretty sweet forward-passing game and sort of keeping it under cover, but maybe that isn’t a fact.”

“I don’t think it is a fact. So far our forward-passing isn’t anything to boast of, Devore.”

“That so? I haven’t been able to see you fellows in action yet, so I don’t know much about your game. What do you think Cade means to spring on those Kenly bozos?”

“Really, I can’t say. Probably he will just trust to good, hard football.”

“He might do worse,” said Devore thoughtfully, his gaze returning again to the folded bills on the corner of the table. The money left by Chick appeared to interest him a great deal. Bert wished that Chick would return. So, perhaps, did Devore, for after a moment he said: “Looks like he wasn’t coming back, eh? Maybe I’d better beat it. He didn’t say anything about some money he owed me, did he?”

Bert nodded. “Right at your elbow.”

Devore took it with elaborate hesitancy, but his eyes lighted as he did so. He counted the notes and then turned a swift, frowning look on Bert. “What’s the idea?” he asked sharply. “There’s only eight here!”

“So he told me,” said Bert. “Possibly that’s all he had handy. Should there be more?”

Devore laughed wryly. “I’ll say there should! Why, that guy owes me eighteen-seventy-five, and he’s been pushing me back for a week. Say, what’s the idea, eh? Ain’t he got plenty of it, or what? He talked like he was filthy with the stuff; about his father being a banker and how he had his own private billiard table at home and all that. Stringing me, eh?”

“No, I don’t think so,” answered Bert coldly. “Chick’s father is a banker, all right enough, but if you know anything about bankers, Devore, you know that they have a pretty good idea of the value of money. Which is probably why Chick has an allowance of five dollars a week and no more.”

Mr. Devore whistled expressively. “Five dollars a week!” he marveled. “Say, the Old Man’s a regular spendthrift, ain’t he?” There was a cold sparkle in his eye that informed Bert that his statement had not been accepted at face value. But Devore smiled as he arose and added casually: “Well, no use pushing a guy when he ain’t got it, is there? Tell him I’ll see him to-morrow night, will you?”

“Look here, Devore,” said Bert, “I wish you’d discourage Chick about this pool playing. At least until after the football season’s through. He isn’t getting any good out of it. He’s supposed to be in bed at ten o’clock and he almost never is. And it’s taking his thoughts off his game. You seem to be interested in having us win the Kenly game, and I presume you call yourself Chick’s friend. Well, if so call off the pool for a couple of weeks, won’t you?”

“I’m willing, sure, Hollins, but if he shows up down at Mooney’s and wants a game, what about it? I might as well play him as any one else, eh? Best thing’s for you to keep him at home, I guess.”

“It would be,” answered Bert, “but it’s not so easy.”

“Sort of wants his own way, don’t he? I noticed that myself. Well, anyhow, I’ll do what I can. I guess you’re right about it’s interfering with football, for I heard he wasn’t going so good lately; and last night he was sure sore as a pup on that Cade guy. Well, see you later!”

Mr. Devore departed, jaunty and cheerful, eight dollars richer than on his arrival, and Bert, discovering that there was no time at present to worry about Chick’s finances, hurried away to Lykes.

In Number 5, Ted Ball was in sole possession when Bert entered. Ted arose from under a rustling burden of newspapers and kicked a chair toward the radiator. “Sit low and roost your feet,” he invited. “Sort of coolish, isn’t it? Well, how’s the hero feeling to-day?”

“Shut up,” said Bert, grinning. “I’m no hero, and you know it. Listen here, Ted. I want to know something. What’s the idea of pretending that I pulled a big stunt yesterday when you know well enough, and every one else knows, too, that it was the rest of you chaps who did the hard work?”

Ted looked mildly surprised. “Hard work? How do you acquire that condition, Bert? The rest of us did our parts, of course, but you carried the old prolate spheroid, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but what of it? I couldn’t help getting through that line with about six of you going ahead and behind. You see, Ted, I have a funny feeling that all you others are sort of laughing in your sleeve when fellows give me the credit.”

“Oh, that’s it; I get you now, Bert.” Ted observed the caller speculatively for a moment and then shook his head. “You’re too modest, old chap. If you don’t watch your step you’ll never make a football player; a real ne plus ultra one, I mean. You’ve got to get rid of your modesty first.”

“Quit talking rot,” grumbled Bert.

“All right. Let me tell you something that, maybe, hasn’t occurred to you. When you read in the paper that some fellow has raced forty or sixty or eighty or something yards and scored a touchdown and has thereby become a hero and a—a popular idol, you—if you’re like most folks—don’t stop to ask how come that fellow was able to do it. Sometimes, but not often, he did it because he was a remarkable runner and dodger and because Lady Luck paced him most of the way, but most times—about nine times out of ten—he did it because ten other fellows got him started and, say, four other fellows helped him past the secondary defense and, maybe, two others went with him most of the way and upset tacklers and saw him through. All that, old chap, is what generally happens. Can’t be any other way—often, for it stands to reason that one man, no matter how gosh-awful good he is, can’t attack eleven opponents and get away with it.”

“I suppose that’s so,” said Bert thoughtfully. “And that’s what I meant, too. Take yesterday—”

“All right, take yesterday. You made that touchdown because Jake looked after you all season and Johnny Cade taught you how to play and I gave you the signals and the whole team did its part and four or five of us helped you along. So, you see, if you count in Jimmy, the rubber, and a couple of the managers, all of whom did their bit, Bert, quite a few of us had a hand in your stunt. But the point is that you were the big cheese. If you hadn’t been good, mighty good, all our stuff wouldn’t have amounted to anything at all. Sort of like firing a rifle, old chap. I aimed and pulled the trigger. Jim and Tyron and Wick and the others were the cap and the powder. Without us there wouldn’t have been any explosion and you’d still be in the cartridge. But the cap and the powder did their parts and the bullet shot out. You were the bullet, Bert, and the bullet’s what does the execution and brings down the game!”

“Carrying out your simile,” laughed Bert, “it’s the fellow who aims and shoots who gets the credit, isn’t it?”

“Similes,” replied Ted, “are like practical jokes. They can be carried too far. It’s this way about individual stunts on the football field. Every fellow deserves a certain amount of credit for what the one member of the team perfects, just how much depending on how close to the play he was. That’s understood. But they don’t all take off their head guards and bow when the stand cheers the hero.”

“But why don’t they? They have a right to.”

“Because—well, I suppose it’s because they recognize the fact that, no matter how much they helped, individually and collectively, it was Mr. Hero who brought home the bacon. No fellow, Bert, can pull off a big stunt in a football game unaided, but, oh, boy, he can sure do himself proud if he makes good use of what help he gets and knows what to do when the interference peters out! Some backs don’t know how to use their interference, Bert. You’ll see everything set for a big act, and then the runner takes it into his head to break away from interference, or he gets ahead of it or drops too far behind it, and, bingo, some one slips in and nabs him! And there are lots of good backs who can deliver the goods just as long as they can keep their heads down and butt and push and fight. Let them get free, though, with a safety man ahead and a few fellows coming along behind and they don’t know where they’re at. And only one back in ten ever turns out to be a good broken-field runner, Bert. When he does he’s usually a wonder. Either a fellow is poor at it or he’s mighty good. So, after you give every fellow on the team his rightful share of credit, the fellow who pulls off the fine long run deserves all the cheering he gets. And that’s why you can rest easy about the other chaps laughing in their sleeves at you, Bert. They just aren’t doing it!”

“Well,” muttered Bert doubtfully. “Anyhow what I did yesterday wasn’t worth all the fuss that was made. Why, hang it, a baby could have made that goal line! There wasn’t a soul in the way!”

“Well, why wasn’t there? If you hadn’t slipped around Tyron and then cut over the end you’d have been stopped for sure. I saw you do that, old chap, and do it yourself with no help from any one else. And how about that Mt. Millard quarter? You had to get by him, didn’t you?”

“Sure, but he didn’t bother me any.”

“Of course he didn’t,” laughed Ted, “because instead of heading for the goal you swung to the right first and made him think you were making for the other side and then swung back to the left and beat him to the corner.”

“Did I?” asked Bert. “I don’t remember doing that!”

“Maybe so, but that’s what you did. You held that safety man just long enough on the wrong slant to queer his act. Of course it was the fact that you were faster than he was that won for you, but you fooled him besides. I tried to work over to get him but I couldn’t make it. Anyway, you didn’t need me.”

“I wish I had more weight, Ted,” said Bert thoughtfully.

“Well, I don’t know. Yes, you could stand another ten or twelve pounds, Bert, but I don’t see that you need it yet. You see, what helps you is your speed and your blamed elusiveness, and if you had more weight you mightn’t carry it so well. And that reminds me that I asked you over here at Johnny’s suggestion. I fancy he means to use you more from now on. He seemed to think that it would be a good idea for you and I to get together and sort of talk over some of the plays that we’ll use against Kenly. Sometimes a chap gets a better grip on a play if he kind of pulls it apart and puts it together again and understands just what it’s all about; when it’s to be used and what’s to be expected of it and that sort of thing. Got half an hour before supper?”