Too late for a ten o’clock recitation, Jim went back to Haylow and deposited Clem’s money in a drawer. At twenty minutes to eleven he went to his last class of the day, and when he returned to Number 15 Clem was there ahead of him. Jim took the money from his drawer and laid it on Clem’s chiffonier.

“That’s yours,” he stated.

Clem nodded carelessly. “Yes. Much obliged.” Presently he arose and took the money and placed it back in the suit-case, dropping the bunch of keys back into the chiffonier drawer as before. It is possible that the act was well intended. Perhaps he meant to convey to Jim that, despite what had happened, he still trusted him. But Jim read it differently. To Jim the proceeding announced: “You’ve been caught once, so I guess you won’t try it again!” Since last night the two had not had much to say to each other, and what conversation there had been had sounded lame. Probably in another day or two the feeling of constraint on each side would wear off, but just now it was far easier to remain silent than to make their remarks sound natural. After a few minutes, though, Clem looked at his watch and asked:

“Aren’t you going with the team, Jim?”

Jim started and hurriedly consulted his own timepiece. “Gosh, yes!” he ejaculated. “I’d forgotten!” He hustled about and finally made for the door.

“Good luck,” said Clem. “Hope you trim them.”

“Thanks,” Jim called back.

There was an early dinner, at which Jim was late, and then the squad piled into two buses and were trundled to the station. New Falmouth was not far, but the train was a slow one and, to-day, was twenty minutes behind schedule besides. It was well after two when they reached their destination. Mr. Cade had taken twenty-six players, and these with coaches, managers, trainer and rubber made quite an addition to New Falmouth’s population and caused considerable stir in the little town.

The game started at three o’clock and went the visitors’ way from the kick-off. New Falmouth High School was a team that varied from very good to extremely poor with the seasons. This year it was an aggregation of big, husky youths who seemed to have a lot of football inside them but couldn’t get it out. That, at least, was the way Lowell Woodruff put it to Jim on the way home. Alton confined herself to straight plays and had so little difficulty making ground through the opponent’s line that she was not called on to play an open game. Rolls Roice made the first score when he picked up a fumbled ball and dashed nearly thirty yards with it. Billy Frost added a second touchdown six minutes later. Pep Kinsey, who started the game at quarter, kicked both goals and the first period ended with Alton 14 and New Falmouth 0.

Mr. Cade began substitutions with the beginning of the next quarter. Latham took Pep’s place, Plant went in for Billy Frost and Benning displaced Cheswick at center. A long march put Alton on the home team’s eight yards where a mistake in signals set her back to the fourteen. Two drives by Tennyson, at full-back, netted five and, with ten to go on fourth down, Latham tossed to Levering, left end. But the ball grounded and went to the enemy. It was not until the half was nearly over that the Gray-and-Gold’s next invasion yielded a profit. Then Plant broke through from New Falmouth’s twenty-seven yards and wormed through a crowded field to the twelve. From there it took the visitors just five plays to put the pigskin across, Tennyson making the final plunge straight through center. Whittier missed the goal. By that time Alton’s line was largely composed of second and third string players, and during the few minutes that remained New Falmouth made her second first-down and kept the ball in her possession.

Jim didn’t see service until the third period started. His opponent was a big heavy youth, but he was correspondingly slow, and Jim didn’t have much trouble with him. Yet, somehow, Jim played listlessly to-day. Usually he was surprisingly quick after the ball, and had not infrequently beaten his own ends down the field under punts, but this afternoon he and the pigskin were more like strangers and he was forever running into the interference instead of around it. He was not the only one who failed to show his best form, however, for there was a noticeable let-down in aggressiveness as the score grew. Mr. Cade used every man he had brought along before the end, but re-instated several first-string fellows in the final period. Jim was one of those who retired then. He didn’t much care, for some reason. Perhaps, because when your side is 30 and the other side is 0, some of the zest of playing is lacking.

New Falmouth made her single score while Jim was still in as a result of abandoning her off-tackle and around-the-end plays, which had netted her little, and taking to a passing game. Twice she tried long passes and failed, largely because the thrower waited so long that Alton easily covered the receivers. Finally, though, having caught a short punt on Alton’s forty-seven yards, she changed her tactics and used a short pass across the line from a moving formation by which the pass was well screened. Possibly she would have found less success had the Gray-and-Gold team not been at the time composed largely of substitutes. As it was she managed to fool the opponents very neatly by varying the passes with end runs. Several times Alton’s back-field followed across to the apparently threatened territory only to find that a run had suddenly developed into a forward pass that sent them doubling back, usually too late. Once Smith, who had taken Gus Fingal’s place, saved the day by pulling down the receiver from behind. On three other occasions New Falmouth got the pass to the runner almost unchallenged, and only the fact that the receivers seemed incapable of getting off quickly kept the home team from crossing Alton’s goal-line. As it was, New Falmouth swept from the forty-seven to the fifteen, losing a yard now and then on end plays and gaining from eight to twelve on passes across the line.

On the fifteen-yard line, however, Alton, reinforced by two first-string backs, stopped progress. New Falmouth shot a forward to the left only to have it knocked down by Billy Frost. A plunge off tackle gained less than a yard. Faking a try-at-goal, the invaders tossed over the middle of the line and in the wild scramble that ensued the pigskin again went to earth. With one chance left New Falmouth put it up to the toe of her full-back and, although Alton tried desperately to break through, and although both Jim and Hick Powers actually did succeed in almost reaching the kicker, he made good and sent the pigskin neatly between the uprights for New Falmouth’s single score of the day. In revenge the visiting team took the ball a few minutes later and, strengthened by the return of many of her players who had started the contest, walked down the field for the last tally, sending Steve Whittier over for the fifth touchdown just before time was up. Steve added the 1 to the 6 a moment later, and, since she had previously scored a field-goal, Alton Academy returned home in the November twilight with a 37 to 3 victory.

On the train Lowell Woodruff sat with Jim and was very talkative on the subject of the contest and the lessons to be learned from it. Jim, feeling rather glum, would much rather have watched the gray landscape and thought his thoughts, even if they weren’t very cheering. But he managed to make Lowell think he was attentive, and, since Lowell never demanded too much of his listeners, he had little opportunity to commune either with Nature or with Jim Todd during that forty-minute train ride. “We don’t want to get proud and haughty about this game,” was part of the wisdom imparted by the manager. “Of course, it wasn’t so bad, and if we’d played our best men all through we might easily have scored a couple more times and kept our own slate clean. But the point is that those raw meat eaters back there are slow as cold molasses. And their brains are sort of torpid, too. If they had a chance to make a gain they went into conference, you might say, and by the time they’d reached a decision some one of our crowd spilled the beans. I wouldn’t wonder if they had a pretty fair team by the end of the season, but any fast bunch could tie knots in ’em. That’s one thing we showed ourselves to be to-day, Slim, fast. Yes, sir, we’re plumb sudden the way we get started and move around. And Johnny Cade was mighty pleased, too. I guess there was a whole lot he didn’t like, but the speed we showed had him tickled to death. All we’ve got to do is keep up the speed, work out a nice running and passing game, and walk right away from Kenly Hall.”

“You think we can do it?” asked Jim, who, having heard no more than half of Lowell’s remarks, was driven by compunction to a show of interest. Lowell grunted and looked past Jim into the gathering darkness.

“I think we can beat Kenly, but I don’t think it the way I talked then,” he replied slowly. “That’s the trouble with these easy games. They make you see things that ain’t. Kenly licked the boots off us two years ago and tied us last, and I don’t see why she shouldn’t do it again. That is, if we aren’t a hundred per cent better than we were when she did it before. We’re some better already, but we’re a long way from twice as good. Kenly’s got most of her last year crowd on hand again, and you know we’ve had to build almost a new team. Anyway, I’d rather see Kenly win than tie us. There’s something beastly unsatisfactory about a game that neither side wins. Seems as if all the season’s work and planning had been wasted. It’s like a crazy dream I had once. I dreamed I was climbing up a lot of ladders hitched together at the ends. There were dozens of ’em, and I kept on climbing, rung over rung, scared blue all the time. And then when I finally reached the top of the last ladder I was just where I’d started!”

Jim laughed. Then: “Tie games never come together, though,” he said knowingly. “I noticed that when I was reading the football records the other day.”

“I dare say that’s so,” said Lowell. “I think we’ve only played three of them with Kenly since the fun started. Anyway, I don’t want to see another one this year. How did you get on to-day?”

“All right, I guess,” answered Jim without much conviction in his tones. “Not so well as sometimes, maybe. Guess I didn’t feel very zippy to start with.”

“I dare say. Every fellow has an off-day now and then. Probably ate something. Take it easy to-morrow and be good to yourself. You know, Todd, I’m kind of banking on you to finish the season strong. ‘Slim and Victory’s’ my motto!”

“Shucks,” muttered Jim. “I ain’t much good, I guess.”

“That,” responded Lowell, “is just your modesty. The fact is,” he added benignantly, “you play your position just as I should if I were a football man, Todd. I can think of no greater praise!”

Jim was glad that he had a meeting of the Maine-and-Vermont Society to interest him that evening. Anything was preferable to sitting alone in Number 15, and the companionship of Clem offered even less attraction.

Clem had spent a dull afternoon. When it was too late he wished that he had followed his first impulse and journeyed to New Falmouth for the game. After sitting listlessly in the room a while, trying to write a letter and failing, trying to read and again failing, he started downstairs with the intention of finding some one who, like himself, had the afternoon on his hands. But the sight of Mr. Tarbot’s open door produced a sudden impulse and he stopped and knocked.

The instructor was at his desk, but he greeted Clem cordially and asked him to sit down. Clem seated himself in the attitude of one who has but a moment to spare. “Mr. Tarbot,” he asked, “did you notice a fellow pass your door yesterday afternoon?”

“A fellow?” inquired the instructor, smiling.

“Well, a stranger, sir, sort of a smallish, thin chap in gray, with a cloth cap; awfully seedy-looking.”

“No, I don’t recall him,” replied Mr. Tarbot, “but then so many go in and out, Harland, that I pay very little attention.”

“If you’d seen this fellow I think you’d have remembered him,” said Clem. “I mean you’d have seen he wasn’t one of us, sir.”

“Probably. At least, I trust so. As a matter of fact, Harland, I find myself as I grow older contracting the odd habit of seeing things with my eyes but not with my brain. For instance, had I been facing the door when you went past I should probably have raised my eyes and seen you quite clearly, but if you asked me five minutes later if I had seen you I’d have had to say no. So it isn’t beyond possibility that your friend with the cloth cap did go past here. I assume that my habit of seeing without realizing is a natural and usual symptom of approaching senility.”

Mr. Tarbot, although he looked somewhat older, was still well under forty, and Clem laughed. “Well, I guess you’d have noticed this fellow,” he said. “He probably didn’t come here.”

“There’s nothing wrong, I hope?” said the instructor.

Clem shook his head. Of course there was a good deal wrong, but he couldn’t tell Mr. Tarbot so. Outside, he felt at once disappointed and satisfied; disappointed because, as thoroughly as he disbelieved Jim’s version, he would have been glad to find it true; satisfied because it is human nature to relish confirmation of one’s convictions. He spent the subsequent twenty minutes or so trying to find an acquaintance with whom to cast in his lot for the afternoon, but each room he visited was deserted, and finally he went back to Haylow and tried to make the best of the four empty hours ahead.

Already Jim’s crime looked less heinous to Clem. Of course, he assured himself, he could never feel toward Jim quite as he had before, but his first severity had waned. He even sought excuses for the other. Probably Webb had worked on Jim’s sympathies until the latter had become desperate and on impulse, without sober thought, had taken the only way to satisfy Webb’s demand that was possible. Perhaps, he told himself, even he, placed as Jim had been placed, would have done the same. But he couldn’t convince himself of that. And he was certain that had he stolen that money he could never have sought to escape suspicion by throwing the blame on another. That, in Clem’s eyes, was the deadliest sin.

He determined that so far as was possible he would put the affair out of his mind and behave as though nothing had ever happened. At least for the rest of the term. Perhaps after Christmas recess there would be a chance to move into Lykes. Lykes was the senior dormitory and if there was a vacancy he would be eligible for it. Of course the matter of getting Jim into Janus Society was at an end. Doubtless Jim would understand that. Clem felt a little bit happier—and perhaps a trifle heroic—after his decision, and he was all prepared to carry his plan into effect when Jim returned from the game. But Jim went right from the station to supper and, although Clem waited in Number 15 until nearly eight o’clock, didn’t get back to the room until ten. By that time Clem was feeling somewhat disgruntled, as well as sleepy, and in the few words that were exchanged constraint was as much in evidence as ever.

But the next morning Clem arose in a kindly and even expansive mood. It was Sunday, there was no work to be done and the sun was shining brightly on the best of worlds. So he began promptly to show Jim that everything was to be just as it had been—almost—and sustained a distinct surprise when Jim failed—or refused—to read the signs. Jim was calm and polite, but he was also brief and reserved. In fact, somewhat to Clem’s indignation, Jim appeared to be trying to swipe Clem’s rÔle of Wounded Virtue! Hang it all, Jim sounded as if it were his feelings that had been outraged and hurt! Clem couldn’t make it out, and after a few futile efforts to reËstablish the former entente he relapsed into silence. Oh, well, if the idiot didn’t appreciate his intentions he could—could chase his blind aunt! He, Clem, was through!

So, on the whole Sunday wasn’t a very merry day in Number 15 Haylow, and the days that followed weren’t much better save in so far as that both Jim and Clem became gradually accustomed to the estrangement as time passed. Clem sought other companionship and seldom remained in the room after supper and Jim redoubled his interest in football and the affairs of the Maine-and-Vermont Society. Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that he sought to redouble his interest, for he didn’t really succeed. In fact, he wasn’t getting along so well on the gridiron these days. The process of making a star tackle out of Jim Todd appeared to have reached an end. By the last of the week he seemed to have retired permanently to the substitute status and even Mulford filled in as often as he did. Lowell Woodruff was puzzled and distressed. Lowell liked to believe that he had in a manner discovered Slim Todd; or that, if the actual discovery wasn’t his, he had at least preserved it to the world and established its value. He broached the subject of Jim’s slump to Clem one evening.

“I don’t know what’s happened to the blighter,” he said plaintively. “Up to a week or so ago he was going great and Johnny was building plays around him. But now look at the blamed thing! He’s forgetting everything he ever learned and a babe in arms could make him look like a joke.” This was an exaggeration, but Lowell dealt in exaggerations.

“I fancy,” answered Clem, plainly evasive, “that he’s not feeling very fit, Woodie.”

“Fit my eye! He’s fit but he won’t fight! Something’s taken all the pep out of him. Know what it is?”

Clem shook his head. Lowell eyed him sharply and said in pained tones: “You’re a liar, Clem.”

Clem blustered a little but Lowell refused to retract. “Yes, you are,” he insisted. “But I suppose it’s something you can’t talk about, so I’ll forgive you.”

“Better let it go at that,” said Clem, grinning. “Anyway, I guess the team will survive without Jim.”

“Oh, sure. It would survive without any fellow on the squad; even Gus; but that doesn’t mean we want to lose a good, promising player, you old coot, and if you know of any way of waking Jim up out of his trance I wish to goodness you’d try it. I’ve exhausted all my methods. When I talk to him he just grins and nods and says, ‘Maybe you’re right, Woodruff’ or ‘There’s nothing the matter with me. You’ll see to-morrow.’ Well, I look and I don’t see. Perhaps the chap has a secret sorrow or—or something. Any of his folks ill that you know of?”

Clem shook his head.

“How does he stand with the Office? Hear of any trouble?”

“No, he’s all right there. He always is. He’s a shark.”

“Oh, well, I give it up. Just one more good man gone wrong, I suppose. But if you have any influence—”

“I haven’t,” interrupted Clem shortly. “Let’s drop it.”

So Lowell dropped it, but he wasn’t satisfied. He retired from the conversation firmly convinced that Clem knew a heap more than he would acknowledge and that if Clem was in any way responsible for Jim’s deficiency boiling oil was far too good for him.

On Wednesday Jim received a check for twelve dollars from his father, cashed it at the Office and laid the sum of ten dollars and fifty-nine cents on Clem’s chiffonier. For some inexplicable reason the finding of the money seemed to annoy Clem, for he swept it into one hand and fairly hurled it into the top drawer. Jim, observing the strange action, made no comment. You just couldn’t account for Clem’s behavior and moods any more!