Bus Lovell provided what in stage parlance is termed the “comic relief” that week. Bus had made three fumbles in Saturday’s game, and, although he had recovered two of them, Coach Cade decided that Bus needed discipline. So, when a light practice was over on Monday, Johnny requisitioned a scarred and battered ball from Jake and gravely handed it to Bus. “Lovell,” he said, “if you recall the talk we had in the gymnasium one afternoon awhile back you’ll understand why I’m giving you this. Fumbling, Lovell, is a bad habit for a quarter-back. Keep this with you as a reminder of that fact.”

Bus tried to grin, got rather red and finally stammered: “You mean I’ve got to keep it around, sir? Carry it with me like you said?”

A dozen interested spectators wore very broad smiles and there were chuckles when Mr. Cade replied: “Exactly, Lovell. You’re not to part with it for a moment except when you’re asleep. Then the ball rests beside you. You might put it on a chair at the head of your bed. You see, Lovell, the idea is to accustom yourself to the sight and feel of it so that you’ll know what to do with it if you run across it in a game.”

Conscious of the joyous amusement of those who had lingered for the ceremony, Bus put on a good face. “Very well, sir,” he answered as seriously as Mr. Cade had spoken, “I’ll certainly hang on to it.” He put it under an arm and strode off, followed by the group of hilarious team-mates.

His appearance in dining hall that evening was the signal for a deal of razzing. Warned of his approach, the fellows clapped enthusiastically as he stepped through the door with the football swinging in one hand from the lacing. For an instant Bus was nonplused, but then, composing his countenance, he placed the ball under an arm and made his way gravely along the aisle. The honors might have been his if some wag hadn’t started patting a foot in time to Bus’s tread. That set them all going, and poor Bus paced the length of the hall to the rhythmic tramp-tramp of hundreds of feet. After that every one gave way to laughter and the commotion continued until Mr. Kincaid, in charge, arose and calmed it. Bus’s troubles hadn’t ended, though, for it at once became a matter of duty on the part of his companions to deprive him of his treasure. If Bus laid the football beside his plate some one reached around behind him and sent it wobbling among the viands. If he placed it in his lap it was instantly bobbing around under the table, being kicked this way and that, or was out in the aisle endangering the safety of passing trays. If he held on to it with both hands he couldn’t eat! Bus began to suspect that the thing was less of a joke than he had surmised. At least so far as he was concerned. During the evening, if he laid the ball down for an instant it mysteriously disappeared, and he learned that eternal vigilance was the price of peace. He finally solved the difficulty by tying a cord through the lacing and hanging the pesky thing around his neck.

By morning it had occurred to some one of Bus’s intimates that the humorous possibilities of the football had not been nearly exhausted. His appearance at breakfast had fallen rather flat, and the fun of knocking the ball off his lap had somewhat palled. Hence a new way of adding to the joy of life must be devised. The plan evolved required Bus’s consent and participation, and, since Bus was not one to deprive a friend of a little innocent amusement, he gave the first and promised the latter. At quarter to eleven, Bus, who was a member of the Junior Class, repaired to Room C, wherein had already gathered Mr. Kincaid and some forty youths. Mr. Kincaid, on the small platform at the end of the room, snapped his watch shut and nodded toward the door. One of the class, awaiting the signal, arose and proceeded to close it. As though he had waited outside for that moment—as in reality he had—Bus entered, the faithful football snuggled in one arm, his book and pad in hand and an earnest, detached look on his face. There were empty seats, a very few, near the door, but Bus for once chose to sit close to the preceptor and went sedately down the aisle to the very first row, observed by the class with breathless interest and by the instructor with interest which, if not exactly breathless, was quite as earnest. Bus seated himself, placed the football—still attached to his person by the cord—in his lap, folded his hands and raised an expectant gaze to Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid leveled a pencil at the ball and asked mildly: “What have you there, Lovell?”

“A football, sir,” replied Bus innocently.

“Ah, a football!” The instructor seemed gratified, as though he had suspected the object of being a football and was pleased to have the accuracy of his surmise confirmed. The class maintained a silence quite unusual, anxious to miss no whit of the fun. “You appear,” said Mr. Kincaid, “to be quite attached to it.”

Bus recognized the jest with a polite smile and fingered the cord as a further indication that he had “got” it. “Yes, sir,” he replied, “I am.”

“And”—Mr. Kincaid blinked, a method used to indicate guilelessness which fooled nobody—“and the football seems to be quite as attached to you. A truly beautiful friendship, Lovell.”

“Yes, sir.” Bus spoke more doubtfully.

“Yes, indeed,” went on the instructor musingly, “quite—ah—affecting. Just what was it, Lovell, that drew you together, besides a similarity of mental equipment?”

“Sir?” Repressed snickers from about him confirmed his suspicion that Mr. Kincaid had scored. The instructor was affably patient.

“I asked what first drew you to each other, Lovell, but never mind that. Instead, tell me whether you would be willing to part with your, shall I say alter ego? during a brief period which I propose to devote to the subject of Greek history.”

Bus was back on solid ground again. He had been waiting for that question. He shook his head, sadly yet emphatically.

“Sorry, sir, but that’s impossible,” said Bus firmly.

“Impossible!” Mr. Kincaid clicked his tongue. “Dear, dear! And may I ask—” He paused and peered intently. “Just hold the football up a moment, please, Lovell. Ah, thank you. For the instant I had you confused. Yes, I see. The football is the one with the look of intelligence. As I was saying—”

But what he was saying was lost in the laughter, laughter in which Bus joined only half-heartedly. Mr. Kincaid looked over the class and blinked in gentle reproof. “As I was saying,” he continued, “I am curious to know why you find it impossible to do without your affinity for a mere half-hour or so, Lovell. I hope I am not too inquisitive.”

“Mr. Cade’s orders, sir,” answered Bus with relief. “I have to take it everywhere, sir.”

“Ah, really? An extension course in Football, I presume. Remarkable what strides that game is making, isn’t it? Is there more to your story?”

Bus explained the situation and Mr. Kincaid listened with undisguised interest. And at the end he settled back and said: “Well, well, what a very clever idea of Mr. Cade’s! I shall be anxious to hear how it succeeds, Lovell. And now, having exhausted, not unprofitably I’m sure, some seven minutes of our allotted time, we will turn our attention to less weighty matters.”

Whether or not it was due to the football and its accompanying complications, the fact is that Bus was but illy prepared on the subject of Greek History and, as Mr. Kincaid was flatteringly attentive and called on him very frequently, made a poor showing. Just before the gong rang the instructor stepped down from the platform. He held a book in his hand and he stopped in front of Bus. “Lovell,” he announced, “I regret to say that out of six questions sent your way you fumbled four. To be sure, you may fairly be said to have recovered one, but nevertheless the loss of ground was considerable. On one occasion, if you recall, you lost almost a third of Greece! Fumbling, Lovell, is a—ah—most reprehensible failing, and we must do our utmost to correct it. Taking a leaf from the book of a greater master, certainly a more successful instructor, than myself, Lovell, I intrust this volume to you. It is, as you will observe, my own copy of West’s Ancient World, Part One. You will find my name on the fly-leaf. I should dislike having anything happen to it, so please guard it tenderly. Don’t let it out of your sight, Lovell. Take it with you to recitations and reflections, let it accompany you wherever you go, Lovell, especially to the football field. At night place it beside you while you slumber. Constant companionship, continued proximity, Lovell, will, I sincerely trust, cure you of your lamentable habit of fumbling the facts of Greek History. Class dismissed.”

Bus remained behind for a minute after his convulsed class-mates had hurried forth, but it was no use. Mr. Kincaid meant just what he had said, as absolutely ridiculous as it all was! Bus departed with the football bobbing from his neck and West’s Ancient World clutched desperately in one hand. He tried putting it into a pocket, but it was just too large for that. In the corridor the news was already circulating, and Bus was made to pause and exhibit his latest incubus until, patience exhausted, he tore himself from detaining hands and fled. In his room he flung the book distastefully away from him, only to rescue it in a panic, fearful that he had harmed it. Then he put it on the table and glowered at it until, presently, a sense of humor came to his aid and he gave a chuckle. Somewhere, he recollected, his room-mate had a canvas haversack, and he searched until he unearthed it. In it he placed Mr. West’s masterpiece and adjusted the straps to his shoulders. Finally he surveyed himself in the mirror. Just what he resembled, with the haversack on his back and the football against his stomach, he couldn’t decide, but, at least, he looked different! Fortunately, perhaps, he had but one more recitation before dinner and one after, and at neither of them was he asked to explain his singular likeness to a peddler, for the story had reached even to the ears of the faculty. At dinner his arrival in hall was even a greater personal triumph than last evening, but he didn’t mind the razzing a bit. Being the sensation of the hour was compensation enough!

To Mr. Cade, who dwelt outside the campus, the tidings had not reached, and so at three-thirty, when Bus paraded onto the field, trailed by a throng of expectant team-mates, the coach was not prepared for the spectacle. Bus was appropriately attired in gray canvas pants, gray jersey, gray-and-gold striped stockings, scuffed shoes and hip pads, and he swung a black leather head guard. But he also wore a battered football in front and a mildewed canvas bag at his back, a bag on which appeared in faded black characters the inscription “Troop II, B.S.A.” Bus invited notice and won it instantly.

“Lovell, you might rid yourself of that football during practice,” said Mr. Cade, laughing a little.

“Yes, sir.” Bus moved toward the wheelbarrow, where the balls awaited distribution in a big canvas sack, thereby presenting a rear view to the coach. Mr. Cade stared. Wide grins overspread the faces of the players.

“What’s he got on his back?” the coach demanded in puzzled tones of Coles Wistar. Coles choked and turned aside. The coach looked more puzzled, and then suspicious. “Lovell!” he called.

“Yes, sir?” Bus returned, freed of the football.

“What”—Mr. Cade pointed—“is that contraption?”

“Haversack, sir. The Ancient World is inside.”

“The ancient—what?”

“World, sir,” answered Bus gravely. Every one else was shouting with laughter by now. Mr. Cade laughed, too, suspecting that Bus had contrived a joke to turn the tables.

“The ancient world, eh? So you’re Atlas. Is that it? Come clean, Lovell. What’s the point?”

“I didn’t do very well in Greek History class this morning, Mr. Cade, and Mr. Kincaid said I was to carry West’s Ancient World around with me, sir. Just like the football, you know. He said I fumbled too many questions.” Bus was grinning now. Mr. Cade’s face was a study for a moment. Then he chuckled, and then he laughed, and laughed until the tears came.

“He wins, Lovell,” he gasped finally. “Take it off. That’s a good one!”

“Think I’d better, sir?” asked Bus doubtfully. “He said—”

Mr. Cade wiped his eyes. “I think it’s safe,” he answered. “I—I’ll assume responsibility, Lovell. And, Lovell.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Just so that Mr. Peghorn doesn’t follow suit and hang a glass retort about your neck, we’ll say no more about the football. I—I know when I’m beaten, Lovell!”

Bus removed the haversack with a sigh of relief. “I guess the football’s done its bit, anyway, sir,” he said earnestly. “If I fumble again, Mr. Cade, I—I’ll eat the fool thing!”

They set about preparing for the Kenly game that afternoon. Only one contest intervened, that with Alton High School next Saturday, and that was frankly only a practice engagement. From now on every minute of the daily sessions on the gridiron and of the nightly “skull-drills” in the gymnasium would be devoted to the laudable ambition of defeating Kenly Hall. There was a twenty-minute encounter with the long-suffering tackling dummy and much punting and running back of punts before the formation drill began. Bert found himself opposite Storer on the squad that followed Ted Ball up and down the field. Walsh was on Bus Lovell’s squad, where, too, at his old position at the tip of the right wing, Chick was holding forth. Chick and Shelfer were dividing that honor of late, with Chick showing far more of finished playing and Shelfer impressing the coaches by his sheer determination. I say coaches, because a former Alton player named Lake had arrived and was giving his serious attention to the linemen, the guards and tackles especially. Still later that week two other graduates showed up, but they remained only a few days and spent more time exchanging reminiscences on the side-lines than in actual coaching. However, their counsel was valuable to Mr. Cade, and they really did help in the evenings, when the blackboard was hauled out on the gymnasium floor and the plays were drawn thereon and the players, rubber-soled, walked and trotted through them. The new signals were being learned, and that alone was a very fair task, especially for two or three of the squad whose memories were not of the best. There were eleven line plays inside the ends, six outside, three forward-passes and one punt. These were numbered from 2 to 25, inclusive, omitting 10, 11, 20 and 21. Any number ending in 0 signified a punt. Two series, one of two plays and one of three, were indicated by the numbers 11 and 21. To commit these to memory was a task that called for real concentration.

This Tuesday there were many mistakes made, and Bert made his share. Twice he confused Number 8 and Number 13. The former play was left half through left tackle and the latter was left end around right end, and there was no similarity either in the numbers or the plays. Yet Bert for some, perhaps psychological, reason got mixed badly. It was well toward the end of the week before he rid himself of the haunting fear that he would forever confuse 8 and 13!

However, quarter-backs and coaches were lenient to-day; the former, perhaps, because they were none too certain themselves of the new signals. Even Ted Ball, who had won the reputation of being a shark at calling signals, faltered more than once. Mr. McFadden, who had scouted Kenly Hall several times during the season, came over at four-fifteen with a team drilled in Kenly plays, and most of the rest of the session was given over by the First to defensive work. Whether the Second had really perfected itself in the rival’s style and methods was problematical, but certain it is that the First experienced no great difficulty in stopping the Scrub, even when Mr. Cade gave the ball to the latter on the First’s ten-yard line. Bert played through one ten-minute period of the scrimmage and comported himself well enough to win a word of commendation from Mr. Lake, who, with Mr. Cade, hovered about the team like a sternly anxious hen over a brood of young chicks.

“That’s the game, What’s-your-name! Don’t start off blind, but wait till you see where the play’s coming. You stopped that nicely, fellow!”

Bert stopped more than one ambitious Scrub back during his ten minutes of service, or helped stop them, and suffered painful if honorable wounds in consequence. But he didn’t mind while he was in. Only after he had been relegated to the bench to make way for Walsh, did he fully appreciate his injuries. Then he went over to Jake and had two fingers taped together above a splint and a nice square of plaster applied to his left cheek. The Scrub in its imitation of Kenly was doing a conscientious job!

Walsh stayed in only some four minutes and then yielded to Keys. Walsh was plainly proving rather a disappointment to the coach. He had weight and was a hard fellow to stop when he got well started, but he was almost phenomenally slow and, to-day at least, mixed signals badly. Bert wasn’t afraid of Walsh nowadays, but he was afraid of Keys. It seemed to Bert that Keys was bound to have the call for right half-back position by Saturday; and it was a fair assumption that whoever played on the first-string against Alton High would start the game against Kenly. Of course Keys wouldn’t play the big game through, and sooner or later, Bert assured himself, he, Bert, would get in. But sometimes a back had the good fortune to stick it out right to the end, or to within a few minutes of it, and Bert wasn’t going to be satisfied with merely saying, “How do you do? Good-by!” to the referee. He watched rather glumly while Keys performed the duties of a half-back and credited Larry with doing considerably better than he really did.

Chick played a full period and showed himself superior to Fitz Savell as a defensive end. Unfortunately, though, he erased whatever good impression he may have made on the coaches when he failed miserably just at the end of the scrimmage to get into position for Galvin’s long throw down the field. Chick confessed later that he mistook the signal.

Neither side scored that afternoon and the battle ended with honors fairly even when it was almost too dark to see the ball ten yards away. Jake fussed and grumbled a good deal during the succeeding half hour, for it seemed that about every other man on the two teams had managed to get himself hurt in some fashion. The injuries were only casual and to be expected, but Jake, swashing iodine around and snipping tape, was a growling pessimist. At this rate, he confided to his grinning patients, there wouldn’t be a whole team left by a week from Saturday!

The evening sessions for the First Team interfered badly with Chick’s pool program. Mr. Cade generally dismissed them by eight-thirty, although you couldn’t count on it, but that left Chick only an hour in which to subjugate Mr. Devore and retrieve his losses, and an hour wasn’t nearly enough. So Chick, by Wednesday of that week, was tiptoeing into Number 21 around eleven o’clock, which was a very risky proceeding and one not calculated to sending him leaping out of bed, bright-eyed and refreshed, at seven o’clock the next morning. But getting even with Lester Devore had become almost an obsession with Chick, and school laws and training rules were forgotten. Bert was always fast asleep long before the truant returned, although he sometimes awoke enough to realize that his room-mate was moving about and to wonder what time it was.

It was on Thursday that Bert, finding mail in the box downstairs, tossed a letter across the table to Chick with the remark: “If you’re expecting any freight, Charles, it has arrove.” Chick looked at the corner of the buff envelope, which bore the name of the railroad followed by the legend “Freight Department,” and scowled. Bert busied himself with a letter of his own until an indignant exclamation from the other caught his attention.

“What a nerve!” growled Chick. “Wants me to pay him ten dollars right away because he’s ‘got use for the money’! Maybe I haven’t got use for it, too; or would if I had it! Why didn’t he say something about it last night?”

“Oh, that’s Devore writing to you, eh?” said Bert. “Well, see here, Chick, can’t you pay what you owe him and then keep away from him for a while? How much is it, anyway? Only ten?”

Chick shrugged, hesitated and answered: “No, it’s more than that, counting last night. It’s—it’s sixteen-twenty-five now.”

Bert whistled. “How much have you got?” he asked.

“About three and a half. And I owe you—”

“Never mind what you owe me. I’ve got five—no, about four-fifty. That’ll make eight. Borrow a couple somewhere and get it to him. After all, he’s got a right to it, I suppose.”

“You lend me a couple and I’ll pay him five,” said Chick. “That’s enough for him. He knows he’ll get it all when I have it. I wouldn’t be owing him so much if he didn’t always say, ‘Oh, that’s all right. Pay when you get ready!’ I tried to get ten from the old man, but he’s as tight as a bow-string, hang it. Wrote back that I was thirty dollars overdrawn already! Gosh, he keeps track of every sou he lets go of! Next dad I have won’t be a banker, I’ll bet!”

“Well, here’s two,” said Bert, “and for goodness’ sake put some more with it and hush him up. And for Pete’s sake, Chick, stop playing pool with him until you get yourself squared. What time did you come wandering in last night, anyway? It seemed like the middle of the night to me.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” said Chick. “Thanks for this, Bert. That makes six fifty, doesn’t it? You’ll have to remember because I’m likely to forget. I’ll slip over to Mooney’s after dinner and leave it for him.”

“Doesn’t he have any home?” inquired Bert. “Doesn’t sleep at Mooney’s, too, does he?”

“He says leave it at Mooney’s,” answered Chick, “so that’s what I’ll do. I hope he chokes!”

“Well,” murmured Bert, “I won’t go that far, but hanged if I’d loosen the knot if he was choking!”