Thursday afternoon saw a slight let-up on the field. Preliminary work was lighter and so much time was spent on signal drill that there was only enough daylight left for one scrimmage period. That, however, went to fifteen minutes. Coach Cade used all his second-string players before the fracas was over, which means that both Bert and Keys served as right, or Number 2, half-back. Chick, also, saw service and did better than he had done before that week. The Second Team stuck to what they fondly believed were Kenly formations and plays and, while these went fairly well in midfield they petered out nearer the goal line. Second got a nice placement kick over, but failed to score a touchdown. First, using a more diversified attack than it had shown all season, twice crossed the adversary’s line. There were several forward-passes that went smoothly for short gains, two of them received by Chick; one long heave, Galvin to Kruger, that was good for twenty-two yards; some well-placed punts by Nip Storer and some good gains by the backs. The most startling performance by the First, however, was an end-around play featuring Fitz Savell. Fitz shot outside left end and reeled off thirty-four yards before he was stopped by the Scrub’s safety man. Bert made two gains of seven and eleven yards respectively on off-tackle plays and once made a shorter though timely romp to a first down outside end. Galvin and Storer first, and then Ness and Couch, accounted for many advances through the line. On the whole the First showed power, speed and smoothness of execution; although it must be confessed that Bus Lovell, who followed Ted as general, had much difficulty with his signals and slowed up the playing considerably on occasions. What Bus did not do, however, was fumble!

There was a cheer meeting that evening in Assembly Hall—there had been two or three previously—and Bert and Chick joined the throng and sang and shouted as heartily as any. Mr. Fowler, the English instructor and head of the Faculty Committee on Athletics, addressed the meeting and kept it laughing for twenty minutes. (“Gee,” murmured Chick, “why can’t he be like this in class?”) Mr. Cade said a few words and was followed by Captain Jonas Lowe. Jonas was just as much at home on a platform, just as much at ease addressing an audience, as a cow on a tight-rope. He arose in painful embarrassment and lurched to the front with the enthusiasm of a malefactor approaching the electric chair. Then he put his large hands in the pockets of his capacious trousers, cleared his throat and took his hands out again. By that time the applause had dwindled to comparative silence, a silence punctured by chuckles and snickers of amusement. Jonas clasped his hands tightly behind him, rocked backward on his heels and frowned furiously. Then he spoke. Fearful, perhaps, that he wouldn’t make himself heard, he opened his remarks in a voice that, as husky as it was, might easily have been heard on the far side of Haylow Hall.

“Fellows! And gentlemen! You know why you’re here—why I’m here. I’ve got to say something about the Team and about licking Kenly Hall. Well, that’s all right. We’ll do it. [Enthusiastic applause mingled with laughter.] We’ll lick Kenly. We’ve got a pretty good bunch this year and—and we’ve been well coached. Mr. Cade is a great guy. [More applause.] Of course Kenly’s got a pretty good bunch, too. That’s what they tell us, anyway. But we’ve got a pretty good—I mean, our team’s all right, too. Got a good, strong line and a bunch of clever backs. Fellows like Jim Galvin and Nip Storer and—and others. Got a center you can’t beat, Lum Patten. Lum’s a great guy. [Cheers and laughter.] Got a pair of fine tackles. Got good ends. Got some corking plays. And we’re all fit. Got to thank Jake for that. Jake’s a great trainer. [Cheers for Jake.] So we’re all set, like I told you, to play the best game we know how, and if Kenly beats us it’s going to be a big surprise to them, I guess. It will be to me, anyway. But she won’t do it. You guys—you fellows do your part and we’ll do ours. That’s fair enough. Got to have the support of the School. Got to know we have it. Helps a lot. Plenty of cheering, you know. Everybody in line for a victory. That’s the idea. All together in the right spirit. Lots of it, too. Well, that’s all. We’ve got a pretty good bunch and we’ll do the best we know how. Much obliged.”

Jonas, perspiring freely, retired to his seat amidst loud acclaim and Freeman Naughton called for “a cheer for Captain Lowe, fellows, and make it good!” After that they sang a few more songs, cheered the Team vociferously and departed.

Bert and Chick joined forces with “Judge” Anstruther, Billy Haines and Hank Howard and wandered into Upton and up to the assistant manager’s room. Judge could do weird and wonderful things on a strange looking contraption that was about half-way between a guitar and a mandolin—with leanings toward several other instruments—and they had a musical evening. Hank Howard proclaimed his ability to play beautifully on a harmonica and Billy Haines disappeared and returned with one a minute or two later. After that, although Billy knew almost none of the tunes that Judge knew, the program took on an added interest. About the only thing the two performers could thoroughly get together on was that ribald composition, “Oh, Doctor!” This was a rimed insult set to music which Alton had once sung at the football games with Kenly. Of late it had become taboo, however, and when it sometimes threatened to break out it was quickly suppressed by the cheer leaders. On such occasions as this, though, “Oh, Doctor!” might be sung to the heart’s content without frantic “shushings.” So with Judge Anstruther beating the strings of his exotic instrument and Billy swaying ecstatically with his hands cupped about the borrowed harmonica the others sang loudly:

By the end of the first verse reËnforcements had appeared from neighboring rooms, and when the song had been concluded the applause was so hearty and insistent that the musicians had to begin again. As the room was now filled to capacity the encore completely drowned the music. A rumor that Mr. Offerman was on his way upstairs finally reduced the chorus to its original number and sent Judge Anstruther into the gentle strains of an Hawaiian melody. Mr. Offerman, however, didn’t materialize and the party broke up in a disappointed mood.

The weather, which had been on the whole particularly obnoxious for a fortnight, changed during Thursday night, and when Friday dawned the world was drenched in a gray mist, the air was balmy and one rather expected to hear bluebirds cheeping or cawing or whatever it is that bluebirds do. Chill, cloudy days, cold, blustery days were no more for the while and Indian summer had returned from over the purple hills. By the time breakfast was over the haze had vanished under the warmth of an ardent sun and brick walks and stone walls were steaming gently. Groups of boys crowded the dormitory steps, windows were open, with curtains aflutter, and the campus grass seemed to have grown a full shade greener under its sere and yellow tips. Of course no one wanted to do any work. That’s the trouble with such days. A fellow just wants to stick his hands deep into his pockets and lean against something—if he can’t sit down—and think long and lazy thoughts, thoughts on any subject save study and recitations and English themes due at noon and letters postponed since Sunday. It’s an effort even to yawn!

Fortunately practice was light that afternoon, for even the most ambitious were unable to move out of a walk unless driven to it by the sharp voice of authority. Footballs had a way of coming down yards distant from their expected landing places and of slipping out of nerveless fingers, and cleated football shoes had apparently added several pounds of weight since yesterday. There was no scrimmage, and after a signal drill of half an hour the squad was released. Most of the First Team repaired to the second gridiron after getting back into mufti and watched the Scrub play its one outside game of the season. Southport Second was the opponent. Bert, his feet over the back of the seat in front of him, basked in the warmth and took much pleasure in watching his recent opponents in practice pant and perspire as they charged over the gridiron. For once at least he was content to sit in idleness and watch others gain the glory. Beyond him, widely spaced since there was plenty of room on the stand to-day and the idea of contact with another was obnoxious in such weather, sat other members of the First, lazily, even somnolently. Occasional words of approval aimed at the Second seldom reached the field. You might have all the will in the world to shout loudly, yet what resulted was merely a sleepy murmur. Into Bert’s paradise of contentment crept the serpent.

Well, he didn’t exactly creep, either; stumble would be a better word. And for a serpent he was undeniably rotund. Perhaps likening him to a boa constrictor after a hearty meal might go unchallenged, but the simile is inapt. And this particular serpent, even if he had had a hearty meal, was still eating as he flopped down to a seat beside Bert with a muttered: “Saluer, mon brave!”

“’Lo, Tommy,” responded Bert weakly. “That’s rotten French.”

“Sure. Have a peanut?” Tommy extended a sack and Bert managed to raise his hand and dip into it. “Some weather, eh? Feel like a lotus eater. Couldn’t find any lotuses—or is it lotii?—and had to get peanuts.”

“Penii,” corrected Bert.

Tommy grinned and tried to hit Watkins, of the Scrub, on the head with a shell. His effort fell short and he sighed. “Who’s ahead?” he inquired.

“Second. Two quarts.”

“Two quarts of what?”

“Perspiration. Scrubs just claimed a foul on Southport, but the referee wouldn’t allow it.”

“Go ahead,” said Tommy. “I’ll bite. What was the foul, Mister Johnsing?”

“Southport trainer gave them sweet spirits of nitre to increase their—er—humidity. Clearly against the rules.”

Tommy viewed him anxiously. “Better move back into the shade,” he advised. “Gee, I didn’t realize the sun was so hot! No scoring yet, eh?”

“No. Where’s your hat, Tommy?”

“Ate it.” That was Tommy’s invariable answer to the pesky question. “Help yourself.”

Bert groaned and dipped again. “Do you ever stop eating?” he inquired.

“Frequently. No practice for you guys to-day?”

“How do you mean, no practice?” said Bert indignantly. “We were at it four hours. Anyway, it seemed that long. How come you weren’t on hand with your invaluable advice, Tommy?”

“I was doing a composition and fell asleep. Woke up with my fountain pen stuck in my left ear. Dreamed I was being hung.”

“I don’t get the relationship between the dream and the—whatyoucallit—actuality,” sighed Bert.

“Nor I—at first. Guess the pen sticking into said ear suggested hangman’s knot. Don’t they put the knot against the left ear?”

“Honest, I forget. Seems, to me, though, the last time I was hung it was under my chin, but maybe it slipped. Here goes for a touchdown.”

“Bet you!”

“You’re on for a bag of peanuts.”

Bert lost, for Southport got her back up and selfishly refused to let the Alton Scrub left tackle through the center, although all the latter asked was a scant two yards. After Southport had punted from behind her goal line the whistle blew, faintly as though exhausted, and the half was at an end. The shadow of the roof crept over the front of the stand and Bert perked up a bit.

“How are you betting on the Kenly game, Tommy?” he asked. “Still bearish?”

“No, and never was. I said right along that we’d beat ’em if Johnny Cade tumbled to himself and you fellows humped yourselves a bit. We’ll win by a couple of scores next week.”

“What? I thought you were predicting total ruination, Tommy. What’s changed the colossal mind?”

“Well, for one thing Johnny went and got rid of a lot of stiffs like Tate and Meecham and your babyhood friend, Chick Burton.”

“Wrong, Tommy. Chick’s got a good chance to play, I guess.”

“You’re a rotten guesser, Bert. Oh, he might get in for a little old minute or deux.”

“No, I mean for the whole soixante, young chap; anyway for la plupart.”

“Tant s’en faut,” responded Tommy, “meaning you’re talking foolishment. Chick’s no use this year, Bert, and Johnny’s discovered it. You know it, too, just as well as I do.”

“Oh, come, why pick on Chick? Of course he’s had his bad days, but so have all of them.”

“Not so mal as Chick’s,” said Tommy decidedly. “If I thought there was any chance of Johnny using Chick Burton against Kenly I’d—”

“What would you do, son?” asked Bert amusedly.

“Put a stop to it.”

Bert laughed. “Tommy, you’re delicious! Pass the peanuts. How would you go about it, young fellow?”

Tommy wagged his head knowingly and screwed up his eyes as one who could tell but wouldn’t. “Never you mind,” he murmured. “I could do it.”

“Who’s had a touch of the sun now?” jeered Bert. “Sounds like you and Johnny are pretty thick. Does everything you say, eh?”

“That’s all right, Monsieur Alexandre l’habile!” (Bert groaned in protest.) “I’m not talking through my hat—”

“That is to be seen,” murmured Bert. “Though why you didn’t say chapeau—”

“And if I had to, if it was necessary for the—the success of the Team, I could put a spoke in Burton’s wheel all right, all right!”

Bert frowned. “Don’t talk silly, Tommy! Just what are you getting at, anyway?”

But Tommy shook his head again, filled his mouth with peanuts and looked suddenly extremely secretive, even stupid. Bert grunted. “That sort of talk isn’t nice, Tommy. Better lay off.”

“All right.” Tommy used a superior tone that made the other frown again. “’Nough said. Have a peanut. Go on. I’ve got another bag coming to me.”

Bert declined, and after a minute he asked: “What other reason have you for changing the old mind? Besides the changes in the team, I mean.”

“Well, I’ve seen Kenly play, for another thing.”

“You have? When?”

“Last Saturday. Goodall and I went over.”

“How were they?” asked Bert eagerly.

“Good. They’ve got a nice-looking gang.”

“Well, then—”

“But we can beat them if we play lively football. They’re sort of—well, not exactly slow, but—now what’s the word?”

“Use your French,” advised Bert.

“Don’t have to. Uninspired’s what I wanted. That’s how they struck me. They looked like a team that could drag a heavy load all day but wouldn’t have sense—no, imagination enough to run away!”

“Run away! Why should they run away?”

“I was speaking metaphorically,” said Tommy with dignity. “What I mean is, those guys will do what the coach tells them to do all right, but they haven’t—aren’t— Now, look here, you know as well as I do that there’s such a thing as football sense—or something. When a team hasn’t got it and runs against something that isn’t—er—provided for, if you see what I’m trying to get at—”

“You’re talking about self-reliance, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean those guys aren’t the sort to rise to the occasion. They lack football—football—”

“Instinct!”

“That’s it,” said Tommy relievedly. “Instinct. And initiative, too. I guess initiative’s what I’ve been trying to think of.”

“And you think we have those things?”

“Yes, most of you have. You have, for one. So has Ted Ball and Nip Storer and Galvin and Kruger and—”

“Gosh, I don’t believe I have, Tommy! Ted, yes; and maybe those others. But me—” Bert shook his head doubtfully. “Anyway, how can you tell by seeing a team in action once whether it’s got initiative, Tommy?”

“I can,” answered the other stoutly. “It shows in the way they go about things, the way they handle themselves. You can’t fool me. Say, did I tell you that you were good and that you’d make the team or didn’t I?”

“You did,” acknowledged Bert.

“Yes, and I said you’d do most of the scoring against Kenly, too, didn’t I?”

“Something of the sort. Don’t you wish you hadn’t?”

“No. Things generally come out the way I say they’re going to, Bert. You wait until a week from to-morrow and then tell me if I was right or wrong.”

“I will, Tommy. And I’ll do this, too. If you prove right I’ll buy you enough peanuts to last you to Christmas!”

Tommy chuckled. “Better not get rash, mon demi-derriÈre. I get awfully hungry when cold weather comes. Besides, you might pay that bet first!”

“Shut up! Here’s a dime. Go eat yourself to death.”

“Better give me another and be on the safe side,” laughed Tommy. “Here they come again. Go on in there, you mutts, and do something!” Tommy’s voice arose to something approaching its wonted penetration and vehemence, and the stand spoke approval and encouragement.

“That’s the stuff, Tommy! You tell ’em, boy!”

Tommy looked over his shoulder, grinned and shot a peanut at the nearest speaker. “Fermer votre trap, Hink!” he admonished.

Possibly Mr. McFadden had talked like a Dutch uncle during intermission. At all events, the Second Team came back strong and played a rather different brand of football during the third and most of the fourth quarter. The stand woke up and cheered encouragement and Tommy offered caustic criticism, and the Alton Scrub marched on to glory. Glory was represented by a single touchdown, minus the point which should have followed, and one field-goal. The touchdown came soon after the resumption of hostilities in the third period and the field-goal closed the ceremonies in the fourth. Between the two events Southport made a determined but fruitless effort to score and hurled passes to all points of the compass. Tommy observed disgustedly that they’d wear out the sod, throwing the ball around on it like that. From which you are to understand that the passes were usually not completed.

Chick had gone to the room directly after practice, announcing a virtuous resolve to do some studying that football—and other interests—had interfered with, but when Bert reached Number 21 he found the student sound asleep on the window-seat, an open book astride his chest.