“House Eleven: Practice at 3:45 sharp today. No cuts. Brooks, Captain.”

“Sounds like business, what?” asked Spud of Cal as he read the notice in School Building Monday morning. “Say, I hope Brooksie won’t take it out on The Fungus for that beastly fumble. Wasn’t that the meanest luck ever? Between you and me, Cal, Fungus ought to have recovered that ball. He had lots of time. It looked like a case of stage-fright. I guess Fungus was so horrified at what he’d done he couldn’t move for a second. But he will make good all right if Brooksie doesn’t take him off today. But I don’t believe he will. Cap has got a whole lot of common-sense. I guess that’s one thing that makes him such a dandy captain.”

Spud was right in his surmise. The Fungus went back to his place at left half-back that afternoon just as though there hadn’t been any fumble. The only change made was in the substitution of Folsom for Boyle at full. It was the hardest practice of the season and lasted until it was almost too dark to see the ball with any certainty. Brooks was trying to make his machine run smoother. All the parts were there and they represented plenty of power, but so far the full power hadn’t materialized. A football team is like, we will say, an engine which is rated at twenty horse-power. If the engine runs smoothly it will develop its twenty, but if the parts aren’t assembled just right, if each one isn’t timed exactly with the others, there’s a loss of power and the twenty is perhaps no better than a fifteen. So it was with the House Team. Brooks, who had, as Spud said, a lot of common-sense—and a good deal of football sense added to it—realized that his team represented the best of the material at hand and that if it was to develop the power of which it was capable it must be perfectly adjusted. So that afternoon and every other afternoon that week the constant cry was “Get together!” The back-field was the chief offender. Play after play was pulled off—the team had a repertoire of fourteen at this stage—and always someone was too early or too late. Brooks argued and explained and pleaded and scolded. Ned gave way to H. Westlake at right half and Morris took M’Crae’s place at quarter, and still things went wrong. Hoop went into the line for Brooks so that the captain might coach from back of the team. A thing that exasperated Brooks was that over on the Hall gridiron the rival team was running through its signals with all the smoothness that the House eleven lacked. But Rome wasn’t built in a day and Brooks told himself that it was something accomplished if he had only made the fellows understand what was wanted. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day they would put his preaching into practice. It was a very tired group of players and substitutes that trailed back to the gymnasium at dusk. The Hall Team had long since disappeared and they had the gymnasium to themselves. Brooks, attired scantily in a generous bath towel, spoke a few words to his weary team-mates on his way to the shower.

“You fellows can play this game the way it ought to be played,” he said, “play it well enough to lick Hall. But you won’t until you can get it into your heads that a football team isn’t made up of eleven fellows each acting for himself but of eleven fellows acting like one. You know your plays but you don’t know how to use them. That’s what the trouble is. Hall hasn’t any better material than we have in spite of the fact that she has more fellows to draw from. But Hall gets together. The line and the ends and the backs work like so many different parts of a watch, and the result is nice smooth football. You fellows in the line are doing pretty well, but the backs aren’t helping you along. Now tomorrow I want to see this team take hold and run through its plays like clock-work. If it doesn’t there’s going to be another victory for Hall on Saturday. I’m doing all I can. Now it’s up to you fellows.”

Brooks disappeared into the bath and there was a sound of rushing water beyond the canvas curtain. That’s all the sound there was for a minute. Then Brad Miller whistled a tune softly and stole bathward and one after another the rest followed, as many as there was room for, while the balance waited, subdued and chastened.

On Tuesday practice was no less vigorous, but Brooks let them off after an hour and a quarter. There was some improvement noticeable. Cal got in at left tackle for a while and did very well; so well that Dutch, relegated to the substitutes, looked distinctly anxious. It was almost supper time when West House reached home. On the steps sat Molly, a red ribbon pinned to the front of her gown in honor of the Houses. Mrs. Linn had been talking to her from the doorway but hurried kitchenward when the boys appeared.

“Didn’t see you at practice, Molly,” said Ned, throwing himself down wearily on the steps.

“No, I didn’t go today,” answered Molly. “I was teaching Clara tennis.”

“What? Well, you must be getting on!”

“I don’t play very well, of course, Ned, but I know what you have to do. And that’s what I was showing Clara.”

“Oh, I see. Where is he?” Ned looked about him.

“He—he went upstairs.” Molly hesitated and looked troubled. “He got hit with a ball.”

“How awful!” laughed Spud. “Did it kill him?”

“N-no, but it made his nose bleed. It hit him right square on the nose.”

“Why, Molly!” said Spud in shocked tones. “Is that the way you treat your opponents? You ought to be playing football instead of tennis.”

“I didn’t mean to, Spud. I just hit a ball across and he was leaning over the net quite near and didn’t see it coming. It—it bled horribly.”

“Well, he will be all right,” Sandy said comfortingly. “Accidents will happen on the best regulated courts.”

“Just the same,” observed Spud, “it isn’t considered sportsmanlike to maim your enemy, Molly.” But Molly looked so troubled that Spud stopped his efforts at teasing. “I see you’re wearing the right color, Molly.”

“So is Clara,” murmured Ned.

“Yes, but if you don’t beat the Hall next Saturday I’m going to wear blue,” she answered. There was a groan of protest at that.

“We’re going to win, though,” said Spud sturdily, “aren’t we, Cal?”

“I cal’late we’ll put up a good fight,” was the cautious reply.

“We’re going to win,” said The Fungus vehemently as he got up. “That’s what we’re going to do. Now I’ll go up and see how Clara’s nose is behaving. I hope it isn’t damaged. It’s a nice little nose.”

It wasn’t damaged, but it presented a reddened and swollen appearance when Clara brought it to the supper table a few minutes later. He had to put up with a good deal of ragging from the others.

“I shall have to tell Molly to be more careful with you,” said Spud. “You’re not used to the gentle ways of women, Clara.”

The incident, however, brought about more trouble for Molly than for her victim, for the following noon, when Cal returned from morning school, Molly called to him from beyond the lilac hedge that separated the two houses.

“Hello,” he said as he went over, “what’s the matter with you?” For Molly looked extremely depressed.

“They won’t let me go out of the yard today,” she said mournfully. “And Hoop was going to play tennis with me after dinner.”

“Why won’t they?” Cal demanded.

“Because I told them about Clara’s nose and Aunt Matilda said I was to stay at home until I had learned to be more careful and lady-like. And I told her I didn’t mean to do it, too!”

“That’s a shame,” said Cal warmly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Aunt Matilda says I’m harum-scarum,” sighed Molly. “Do you think I am, Cal?”

“I—I cal—I guess I don’t just know what that is,” he answered. “How long have you got to stay in the yard?”

“I don’t know. All of today, anyhow. Why, what have you done to your coat, Cal Boland?”

“That? That’s just a tear,” replied Cal. “Hoop and I were tussling this morning.”

“You must have it mended or it will get worse. Haven’t you another suit you can put on?”

“Only my Sunday one.”

“Then you’d better buy one at once,” she said severely. “That isn’t fit to be seen in, Cal. All the other boys look so nice, too.”

Cal viewed as much of his suit as was in sight to him and shook his head ruefully.

“I cal’late I’ve got to,” he said. “Seems like I get into a lot of trouble with my clothes. This was a perfectly good suit when I came here.” Molly laughed.

“Well, it’s perfectly good for nothing now. Get a dark suit, Cal, won’t you? You’d look so much nicer in dark clothes.”

“That’s what Ned said. Dark clothes show dirt, though, don’t they?”

“They couldn’t show much more dirt than those do,” replied Molly scornfully. “Just look at them! You ought to be ashamed to be seen in them.”

Cal looked a trifle surprised and a little ashamed.

“I guess they are pretty bad,” he muttered. “I can have them cleaned, though, can’t I?”

“I suppose so, but they’ll never be real nice again. You could wear them as a sort of second-best, Cal.”

“Y-yes. It’s sort of a bother, though, having two suits, I guess. You’d always have to be changing.”

But when he left her, bearing a message to Hoop, he went up to his room and composed a letter to his mother in which he explained the necessity for new clothes and asked her to send him twelve dollars. Cal had been to the village but once since his arrival at school and consequently he still retained most of his two dollars and eighty-five cents, and some of this, he calculated, could be added to the twelve dollars if necessary. In the matter of shoes he had been lucky. His own were showing signs of giving out, and when Dutch had offered him the loan of a pair of baseball shoes, with cleated soles, Cal had thankfully accepted. These he wore when he played football, so saving his own shoes a deal of hard usage. The reply to his letter came promptly two days later.

“You’ll be wanting other things besides a suit,” wrote his mother, “and so I send you fifteen dollars instead of the twelve you asked for. Don’t forget to have your hair cut every three weeks. It will soon be time for winter underwear and you are to put on the old ribbed ones first. They are very warm but won’t last long. When you come home at Christmas time I will get you another suit of them. Does Mrs. Linn keep your socks darned up for you? And do you need more socks yet, I wonder. There are some gray wool ones here that belonged to your father but maybe they would be too thick for you. Are your shoes holding out? You were always hard on shoes. Have them mended before they go to pieces. I am glad you are getting on so well with your studies and like your school so much. I wouldn’t play football very often. The papers are full of accidents to boys playing football. It must be a very rough game. Nancy is well except for a cold on her chest and sends love to you....”

There was no practice Friday afternoon, and Cal went shopping. He wanted to ask Ned where to look for his suit, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He did ask Spud, but Spud had never purchased clothing other than boots and stockings and ties in Woodfield and his advice was vague.

“I guess I’d go to the big store opposite the Post Office,” he said. “I forget the name, but you’ll find it all right.”

Cal was hoping that Spud would offer to accompany him, but Spud was looking over a few rusty golf clubs and waiting for Brad Miller to call and take him over to the links. So Cal went off by himself. He had never bought a suit of clothes unassisted and was filled with misgivings. But they were extraordinarily polite and attentive at Simmons’s Boston Store and it was all over before he knew it and he was trudging back to West House with a big pasteboard box under his arm. The clerk had offered to deliver it for him in the morning, but Cal, now that he had made the purchase, was eager to get it home and have a good look at himself in the mirror. The house was empty when he reached it, although Hoop and Clara and Molly were playing tennis outside. He tried the new suit on and looked it over. It was necessary to get on to a chair in order to see the bottoms of the trousers and when he saw them Cal had a vague suspicion that they terminated with far too many wrinkles. He wished he might have Ned’s opinion on them. At least, though, he had followed advice and bought a dark suit, and one, too, that wouldn’t easily show dirt. The goods was a strange mixture of black and white, the white consisting of faint lines forming a double plaid. In effect the suit was dark gray, almost an Oxford at a distance. The surface was quite rough and seemed to contain more than an ordinary share of tiny splinters of wood.

“I cal’late,” he told himself, “this sheep must have lived in a lumber yard!”

The clothes didn’t look nearly as natty as they had at the store and the coat had a perverse way of settling away from his neck at the back. Also, the vest—waistcoat, the man had called it—was decidedly tight across his chest. He wondered whether Marm couldn’t set the top button over a little for him. No, on the whole, he wasn’t nearly so satisfied with his purchase as he had been at the Boston Store, but he cal’lated it would do. He guessed it would have to! He got out of it and hung it up in the closet and stowed the box on a shelf. Tomorrow he would put it on and have Marm mend the suit he was wearing. Then he would have it cleaned, if they didn’t ask too much, and perhaps it would last him until Christmas. There was one thing to be said for his new clothes, he reflected as he made his way downstairs, and that was that they had cost him even less than he had dared hope for. Nine dollars and eighty-five cents wasn’t much for a whole suit. And he had almost eight dollars left! He cal’lated—no, he guessed he wasn’t such a poor shopper after all!

Downstairs he found that most of West House had returned and were watching the tennis. Only Dutch and Spud were absent.

“Hello, Cal,” was the greeting of The Fungus. “What you been doing? Grinding?”

“I’ve been down town,” answered Cal.

“Thunder! Wish I could go. But what’s the use when you haven’t any coin? Did you bring anything home with you? Any peanuts or chocolate, Cal?” But Cal shook his head.

“I just bought a suit of clothes,” he said.

“Really?” The news seemed to affect them all, The Fungus, Ned and Sandy, with lively interest and surprise. “Think of that! Why, Cal, you’ll be a regular Beau Brummel.”

Cal didn’t know what that was, but he smiled good-naturedly. “It’s just a cheap suit,” he explained. “This one’s getting sort of shabby.”

“Now that you speak of it,” laughed Sandy, “it does seem a bit worn about the edges.”

“Where’d you buy it?” asked Ned gruffly.

“Simmons’s.”

“Rotten hole,” Ned grunted. “I told you where to go.”

“I forgot where you said,” answered Cal meekly.

“Could have asked, couldn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to.” Sandy and The Fungus exchanged glances. That something was very wrong between Ned and Cal had been apparent for some time, but what it was no one could guess.

“Bet you you got stung,” said Ned with more than a trace of satisfaction in his tones.

“I don’t cal’late I did,” answered Cal calmly. “I only paid nine eighty-five.”

Further discussion of the subject was stopped by Molly, Hoop and Clara, who had finished their set and now joined the others on the steps.

“He only beat us six to three,” announced Molly triumphantly, nodding at Hoop. “Don’t you think we did pretty well?”

“I guess it would have been closer if I hadn’t been in it,” said Clara.

“You did splendidly! Didn’t he, Hoop?”

“He will learn all right, Molly.”

“Didn’t hit you on the nose again, did they?” asked Ned. Clara reddened and shook his head.

“I guess I never will,” Molly laughed. “It cost me two days in jail.”

“It was a pretty big jail,” said Cal.

“Yes, but it seems pretty small when you know you can’t get out of it!”

“By the way, Molly,” asked The Fungus, “did you ever dream what had become of Ned’s money?” Molly’s face fell and she sighed.

“N-no, not exactly. I tried three times, too. The first time—that was Sunday night, you know—I did dream something but I couldn’t quite remember it in the morning.” She wrinkled her forehead. “It was something, though, about apples; and Cal was in it, too. But I don’t seem to remember dreaming about the money.”

“Funny you should have dreamed of apples,” laughed Sandy.

“Not half as funny as dreaming about Cal,” said Hoop. “What you had was a nightmare, Molly.”

“Produced by too many pippins,” added The Fungus.

“I’m going to try again,” she said cheerfully. “I’m sure that was a perfectly good dream—if I only could have remembered it.”

“Sure,” agreed Ned soothingly. “Like the Irishman’s horse. It was a perfectly good horse, only it was dead.”