Very little was said on the way back to Upton, partly because there was little time remaining before eleven o’clock and it was necessary to hurry, and partly because both boys were busy with their thoughts. Once Bert said in puzzled tones: “Funny Devore wrote to you in a railroad envelope if he got fired a year ago, Chick.”

“Probably took a supply of them home,” answered Chick. “Just about what he would do, swipe the office stationery. He must have run out of letter-heads, though, because he wrote on a sheet of plain paper. Did you hear what Johnny said? That Devore made his living shooting pool? Gosh, he played me for an easy mark, all right! I’m going to find that guy and push his face in if it’s the last thing I do.”

Nearing the dormitory Bert spoke again. “I didn’t mention it to Johnny, Chick, but the day Devore came up to the room after his money, you know, he tried to pump me. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but I guess he was after some dope on our plays.”

“And you didn’t tell him a blamed thing, I’ll bet,” replied Chick bitterly. “It took me to spill the beans. You wait till I see that rat!”

There was an explanation to be made to Mr. Peghorn before they could climb the stairs to Number 21. “Peg” didn’t seem to consider the excuse sufficient, in view of Chick’s disreputable appearance, and promised suspiciously to take the matter up with Mr. Cade, but he released them presently and they were in the room when eleven struck. Bert went to sleep soon after his head touched the pillow, but in the opposite bed Chick lay and stared into the dark until long after midnight.

Bert went off to church the next morning without his room-mate, for Chick’s head was badly swollen and he had no difficulty in getting excused. After dinner the latter disappeared and Bert surmised that he had gone over to see Mr. Cade. He returned about four, looking more cheerful than Bert had seen him look for many days. Bert brushed the Sunday paper away and sat up on the window-seat.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

Chick nodded, shied his cap to the bed and sat down. “Yes,” he said. He stared thoughtfully at his shoes a minute and then raised his gaze to Bert and announced earnestly: “He’s a mighty good chap, Bert.” He waited, as though expecting contradiction, and when Bert only nodded, he went on. “Say, he’s going to be married. He told me all about it and showed me the girl’s picture. She’s a corker, Bert. He’s got it bad, but I don’t blame him.”

“When’s it going to happen?”

“December, if it does happen.”

“Well, I thought you just said—”

“It’s like this. We had a long talk and he told me all about it. He says it all depends on whether we beat Kenly, Bert. If we do he’s going to quit here and give all his time to his business. He’s got a sort of a law practice at home, it seems. Then he will get married around Christmas time. But he says he won’t quit if we’re licked. Not unless faculty asks him to, and I guess that isn’t likely after what he’s done other years, eh? He says if this season turns out to be a failure he will hang on until he comes through right. Wants to retire as a success and not a failure. Something like that.”

“Still,” objected Bert, “I don’t see why he can’t get married just the same. I fancy the girl isn’t going to mind if Kenly licks us!”

“No, but it’s something about money. As I understood it he doesn’t want to marry until he’s settled down in his law practice and can stay at home and attend to things. Anyway, that’s the dope. Of course I said I hoped we’d beat Saturday, and—well, what do you suppose he said?”

“Said he hoped so, too, probably.”

“He said, ‘How hard do you hope it, Burton?’ I said that I hoped it a whole lot, or something like that. ‘Well, do you hope it hard enough to pitch in and help us?’ he asked. I said I sure did. Then—well, he talked a lot. Made me feel sort of small, Bert. You know, when you come right down to it, I’ve been an awful fizzle this fall!”

“What I want to know is, is he going to let you play?”

“I don’t know. I think so. He didn’t promise it, though. What he said was that I was to start in to-morrow and forget everything but football and beating Kenly and show what I could do. I guess he doesn’t feel like sticking me in ahead of Fitz, and I don’t blame him, because, say what you like, Fitz is a mighty good end, Bert.”

Bert suppressed a grin. “Then all he agreed to was letting you show what you can do, eh?”

“He didn’t agree to anything,” responded Chick a trifle warmly. “He made me see what a blamed poor piece of cheese I’ve been this season and asked me to help him come through with a win. And that on top of all this other business! I’ll say that’s fair enough, and I’m ready to do everything I can so he can get married like he wants to. Of course I want to beat Kenly, too, but I’m in it now so that girl won’t have to wait another year. So he won’t, either. What’s wrong with that?”

“Not a thing,” replied Bert. “Only the girl must be a peach, Chick, to get you all het up like this!”

“She is,” replied Chick stoutly. “But I’m not het up, you blamed cynic. I’m just mighty grateful to Johnny for not raising the old Ned about Les Devore. He might have been nasty, for I certainly did a lot of fool talking with my mouth.”

“What about that? Could you remember saying anything to Devore that would matter?”

“I said plenty,” answered Chick grimly. “I told him about two or three plays; drew them out for him with a piece of billiard chalk on the table one night. I remembered it last night after I got to bed. That Number 14 was one of them. He insisted that we didn’t have anything but old stuff and wouldn’t let me tell him anything different and I drew the plays out so he could get them. Of course it was a perfectly idiotic thing to do, but I never suspected that he was anything but the dumb-bell he seemed to be.”

“Wow!” muttered Bert. “What did Johnny say to that?”

“Well, he took it mighty nice, like I’ve been trying to tell you. He said he guessed we could get along without Number 14 if we had to, and that a couple of other plays didn’t amount to anything anyway. He says he thinks Devore’s game is mostly bluff; that Devore will come around about next Saturday and pretend to be hep to our whole line of offense and show that Number 14 and a couple of other plays to prove it. His idea is that we’ll get cold feet and shove a lot of good plays into the discard and get rattled generally. Johnny says Devore couldn’t get the Kenly folks to touch his dope with a pair of tongs, and probably doesn’t mean to try.”

“I can’t just see him going to Johnny with that line of talk,” mused Bert. “I guess he’d be afraid to.”

“No, but he’d write a letter, maybe, or send some one else. Anyhow, Johnny doesn’t seem worried much, and that makes me feel a heap better than I did last night. There’s one thing, though, that’s not so good,” he added glumly.

“What’s that?”

“He made me promise to keep away from Devore. Anyway, until after the game. And I suppose by that time I’ll get over my mad and the little rat never will get what’s coming to him!”

“Hard lines,” laughed Bert. “Maybe Johnny has something in mind for Devore, though. I wouldn’t be surprised, Chick.”

Chick brightened. “Say, I never thought of that! I wonder! I hope he has!”

Chick had a lot more to say, much of it repetition of what had gone before, and talked until darkness settled in Number 21. Bert encouraged him, heartily glad that the old enthusiastic Chick had returned. Chick was all for self-sacrifice and service, eager to make amends, filled with a new fervor of loyalty. It might not last, but Bert hoped it would. The loyalty seemed to be more toward Mr. Cade than toward the Team or the School, but that was not important. Results were what counted.

There was a long, rather halting period of practice on Monday, with most of the time given to smoothing out the plays to be used against the ancient enemy. Bert shared the backfield with Ted Ball, Nip Storer and Jim Galvin during the drill and during a large part of the scrimmage with the Second. He discovered that he felt more at home there than before, that he seemed to fit in better. Perhaps he only imagined it, but it did appear as though Nip and he worked together particularly well, and he had a feeling that Nip thought so too. He began to suspect that Ted had known what he was talking about Saturday evening and that it was possible after all that Mr. Cade meant to start him against Kenly.

Chick was a revelation that day, and continued as such right through the week, or at least until the end of practice on Thursday. Thursday saw the last hard work of the season. Chick was like the player who had held down the right end position last fall; into everything hard, fighting every minute, taking knocks and giving them with a laugh, tackling like a demon and tackling for keeps, pulling down passes even when it seemed they couldn’t be reached and comporting himself generally during those four last days like the brilliant player that he really was. Fitz Savell fought him desperately, performing great deeds himself in a despairing effort to hold his place, and the Team and the School talked and marveled and credited a miracle. It was Tommy Parish who advanced the theory, based on the two-inch wound that decorated Chick’s forehead, that Chick had had an operation performed on his brain!

Tommy didn’t accept Chick’s come-back with any enthusiasm. To Tommy the rejuvenation was too good to be true; at least too good to be permanent. He stated to all and sundry that it was merely a flash in the pan, a grand-stand play that wasn’t to be taken seriously. He wandered into Number 21 Thursday morning between recitations, when the open door revealed Bert alone over a book, and eased himself against the closed portal and lugubriously munched nuts until the host took cognizance of his presence.

“Get out of here, Tommy, you and your everlasting peanuts,” said Bert sternly. “I’ve got a recitation in fifteen minutes and two more pages of this stuff to go over. Fade away, son!”

“These aren’t peanuts,” replied Tommy with funereal gravity, “they’re pecans. Have some?”

“No, and you heard what I said.”

“Sure.” But Tommy didn’t move. “Say, tell me this, will you, Bert? Is Chick going to get into that game day after to-morrow? First-off, I mean.”

“How the dickens do I know? But why shouldn’t he? Hasn’t he been playing corking good football lately?”

“Lately? Three or four days, yes. That doesn’t mean anything. Put him in against Kenly and he’ll play as rotten as ever.”

“Oh, forget it, Tommy. And get out of here before I lam you with a book.”

“I’m going. Don’t be so jumpy. Say, you want to look after your nerves for a couple of days, Bert, or you’ll be shot to pieces by Saturday. You ought to take long walks and—”

“I’m going to take a short walk in just about three seconds,” answered Bert grimly, “and it’s going to end where you’re standing, Tommy.”

“No, but honest, Bert. Long walks are what you need.” Bert pushed back his chair and Tommy moved with a celerity no one would have suspected him capable of. “All right, all right! Keep your dickey on! But, say, let me tell you something, will you?”

“Yes, if you make it mighty short.”

“Well, it’s this. I don’t approve of Johnny starting Chick next Saturday and I’m going to see that he doesn’t.”

“You are! You are! Don’t make me laugh, Tommy! How are you going to do it?”

“I know a way. I warned you a week ago that I didn’t intend to see the Team beaten, when it doesn’t need to be, by playing second-raters. You tell Chick for me that I’m out to get him. I don’t want to tell tales, but when it’s a duty—”

“Tommy, you’re sickening,” said Bert. “You’ve got it in for Chick for no reason at all and you’re making an ass of yourself about it. You take my advice and shut up, or—”

“I have not got it in for Chick,” declared Tommy emphatically. “Maybe I don’t like him much, but that’s got nothing to do with this. This is something between me and—and my conscience! I—I’ve got feelings. Just because I can’t play football, or much of anything, fellows think I don’t know about such things. I’m just a joke because I’m sort of stumpy and have boils on my neck! Well, I’ve got more—more patriotism than most of ’em, doggone ’em!” Tommy actually choked and a tear trickled from the corner of one eye. “I’m for the School and the Team, Bert, and I want to see Kenly everlastingly licked. And that’s why I say Johnny hasn’t any right to take risks by playing Chick Burton or any other fellow who isn’t a topnotcher. If he wants to put Chick in for a little while after the game’s cinched, all right. I’m not kicking about that. But Chick’s just soldiered all season, and you know it, and Johnny knows it, and what he’s been doing the last two or three days can’t make up for a whole two months of rotten playing!”

“Well, for Heaven’s sake!” gasped Bert.

“Shut up!” said Tommy, blinking hard. “I tell you I’ve got feelings! And that’s why I’m going to tell Johnny what I know about Chick, even if it is low-down. I’m thinking about the Team, I tell you, and Chick and Johnny—and you, too—can go to the dickens!”

“What do you know about Chick?” demanded Bert, not certain whether he wanted to laugh or get mad.

“I know that he hasn’t been keeping hours more than a third of the time. You said Mooney was a friend of Chick’s in the village. Well, I found out about Mooney’s, and I’ve seen Chick shooting pool there many a night long after ten o’clock. And that’s why he’s been so rotten all season. One reason, anyway. I’ve got as much interest in the Football Team as any one else, and I’m not going to see a fellow who won’t even keep in training get placed on—”

“Johnny knows all about that, Tommy,” interrupted Bert, “and so you can save your breath.”

“Yes, he does! That’s likely, isn’t it?”

“It’s true nevertheless. He’s known it all the season. Don’t go and tell tales when there’s nothing to be gained by it, Tommy.”

“I don’t believe it! He’s your chum and you’re just trying to save him. But you can’t fool me like that, Bert. I’ve warned you, mind! You tell Chick what I say, because I don’t want to do him dirt.”

“Sounds like it,” laughed Bert. “What do you call it then?”

“I’m working for the Team, I tell you! I’d do the same thing if it was you, or Ted Ball, or Jonas Lowe! Chick’s double-crossed Johnny and the rest of us all the fall and he can’t pull any grand-stand stuff now and get away with it while I’ve got a tongue. He’s cheated, and he’s got to take his medicine!”

“Tommy, I tell you that Johnny knows all you’re going to tell him. I give you my word. You’ll just make yourself look silly if you go to him with—”

“You’re lying, Bert.” Tommy shook his head gently. “It’s all right, though. He’s your friend.” Tommy’s hand wandered toward a pocket mechanically. “I’m sorry I’ve got to do this.” He stuffed a few nut kernels in his mouth and opened the door behind him. “Tell you what I’ll do, Bert. I’ll give Chick until after dinner to think it over. That’s fair. You tell him I say he’s got to keep off the team Saturday. If he agrees to that I’m satisfied. But you let me know, see? If I don’t hear from you by half-past one I’m going to Johnny and spill the whole thing.”

“Oh, go to the dickens,” fumed Bert. “Get out of here, you crazy nut! Beat it!”

“One-thirty,” said Tommy hopefully as he disappeared. “You talk to him, Bert. Tell him I say it’ll be all right—”

The door slammed shut just before a copy of “EugÉnie Grandet” reached it.