The Houses celebrated that night. There was no telling what might happen a week hence and it was well to make the most of the opportunity. There was a bonfire down in the corner of the field, a place sacred to such occasions, and West House and East House cheered themselves hoarse, while Hall, standing apart, jeered and tried to drown the sounds of triumph. Heroes had been made that day and their names were William L. M’Crae and Otto Zoller. Brooks made a speech. He said he didn’t want to throw cold water on the joyous occasion but wanted to remind them that there was another game coming.

“Cheer and shout all you want to, fellows, but while you’re doing it make up your minds to go into the next game and do a whole lot better. If you do we’ll have a celebration here next Saturday night that will make this look like a flash in the pan. Remember that there’s something hanging in the living-room at the Hall that must come down from there. Play for the Silver Shield, fellows, and the Houses!”

Even after West House was home again nobody was able to quiet down, and when bedtime came the boys went down in a body and secured an extension of time from Mrs. Linn. “Just a half-hour more, Marm,” pleaded Sandy. “You know we don’t win every day, and I dare say we won’t again for a while.”

“Well,” said Marm. “But I declare I don’t know what the Doctor would say!”

“If you behave very nicely, Marm, we’ll never tell him,” Spud assured her.

So they went back to the Ice Chest and talked it all over again for the twentieth time and were very excited and jubilant. And Cal, who had played in his first game, was football-mad and couldn’t hear enough of it. And the next day, even had they been ready to talk of something else, which they were not, Molly wouldn’t have let them. The Pippin Club met in the club house on Apple Avenue after dinner and Molly had to hear the personal experiences of each of the players.

“And, oh, Dutch,” she exclaimed rapturously, “how did you ever manage to get that ball so wonderfully.”

Dutch shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

“I didn’t,” he said. “The ball was bobbing around on the ground there and someone came along and gave me a shove that sent me sprawling on my nose. Then I happened to see Mr. Ball rolling along near-by and a Hall chap trying to snuggle up to it. So I reached out and got it just in time. He didn’t want to let go, but I pulled it away somehow and worked it under me. Then they began falling on my head and back and I didn’t know much more until they turned me over.”

“Modest youth!” murmured Spud admiringly.

“Anyhow, you saved the day,” insisted Molly beamingly. “And Ned made a beautiful run, didn’t he?”

“I’d have made it beautifuller,” grunted Ned, “if I hadn’t turned my ankle when I started. That lost time, you see.”

“It was a very good run,” said Spud judicially. “I’ll say that, Ned. But you all realize, of course, that it was only made possible by my excellent assistance.”

“Why, Spud,” said Molly, “I didn’t know you helped.”

“You didn’t? Why, I was the interference. It was this way, Molly. ‘Spud,’ said Brooksie, ‘what shall we do now?’ ‘Give the ball to Ned,’ said I, ‘for an end run. I’ll look after him.’ ‘Good stuff,’ said Brooksie. ‘I wish you would.’ So Ned took the ball. ‘This way, Ned,’ I called, and started off around the end. ‘Just a moment,’ said Ned. ‘I’ve turned my ankle.’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t stop too long,’ I told him, ‘for I think I see the enemy in the offing.’ So Ned rubbed his ankle a bit and then we started off again. ‘Bear to the right, Ned,’ I called, and Ned bore. About that time a few of the Hall team sauntered madly up. The first one I gave the straight-arm to and he turned over twice—no, thrice. It was thrice, wasn’t it, Ned?”

“Oh, dry up,” laughed Ned. “How about the apple crop, Molly?”

“Ned,” went on Spud, getting warmed up to his narrative, “was now running strong at my heels. The enemy surrounded us. One—two—three! I pushed them aside. ‘Come on!’ I shouted in a clarion voice. ‘Never say die!’ So Ned came on. The enemy fell about us like ten-pins. We crossed the thirty yard-line, the twenty-five. The goal was in sight. But poor Ned’s strength was ebbing fast. Finally he called to me faintly. ‘I can go no further—farther!’ Did you say further or farther, Ned? Anyway, defeat stared us in the face. The hungry horde of Hall desperadoes snapped at our heels. What to do? There was not a minute to spare. Seizing Ned in my arms I staggered on and fell fainting across the goal-line. The day was won!”

“I don’t see,” laughed Ned, “that there was anyone on that team but you and I, Spud.”

“They didn’t count,” said Spud. “Who said apples?”

“I’ve got something lots nicer,” said Molly. “Do you like cookies? I got cook to make a whole panful yesterday. Shall I get them?”

“Shall you get them!” cried Hoop. “What an absurd question.”

“Cookies for mine,” said Spud, smacking his lips. “What kind of cookies are they, Molly? Have they got sugar sprinkled on top of them?”

“Of course. Cookies always have sugar on them. I’ll get them. And there are plenty of apples if you want them.”

“I think,” said Sandy, as Molly disappeared, “that the—the cuisine at our club is very satisfactory, fellows.”

“Yes,” drawled Spud, “the new French chef is doing very well. I think the house committee should be complimented. Oh, see who’s here!”

Molly returned with a big yellow bowl filled with golden brown cookies and passed them around.

“I can smell the granilla,” said Spud. “Granilla’s my favorite scent. Say, they’re simply swell, Molly. You tell that cook that she’s the best cookie cook I ever listened to.”

“Cut it out, Spud,” commanded Sandy. “You talk too much.”

“All right. You talk for a while. I’m going to be too busy.”

The club continued in session until the last cookie had vanished and the afternoon shadows were slanting across the lawn outside. Then West House, surfeited with cakes and apples, said good-by to their hostess and went home to supper!

Neither Cal nor Ned were very demonstrative and so their reconciliation was a seemingly matter-of-course event attended by no outward manifestations of satisfaction. Boys of their age haven’t much use for what they call “gush,” and the nearest approach to this occurred on Sunday night when, returning to their room after the usual Sunday night concert in the Tomb, Ned “squared off” at Cal, feinted and then landed a vigorous punch on his chest that sent him reeling backward on to his bed.

“You old chump,” said Ned affectionately.

But the next instant he evidently concluded that even that might be construed as “gush” and so thrust his hands into his pockets, turned his back and whistled carelessly. Cal grinned and picked himself up.

“Remember the night you woke me up, Ned, and I thought you were a robber?” he asked.

“Yes, you nearly killed me. Bet you knew it was me all the time!”

There was no lack of conversation nowadays, and instead of avoiding each other they seemed hardly satisfied out of each other’s sight. West House saw and marvelled.

“They’re like the Siamese Twins,” commented Spud, “sort of stuck on each other, what?”

But if they hadn’t much to say about their quarrel or their renewal of friendship the mystery of the missing money was often discussed. Monday night they went to work systematically and ransacked the Den from end to end. But they found nothing; or, at least, nothing they were searching for. They did discover what Ned called “a disgraceful state of affairs.” In his lower bureau drawer, under a top covering of underwear, lay about a half-bushel of apples of which many were in the last stages of decay.

“Gee,” said Ned, “I’d forgotten all about them. Don’t they smell awful? I’ve thought for a week or so that this place smelled a good deal like a cider mill. Roll the waste basket over here, Cal, and I’ll throw out the rotten ones.”

“You’d better not do that, Ned. Marm’ll see them and wonder.”

“That’s so. What’ll we do with them?”

Cal smiled wickedly. “Don’t ask me. They aren’t my apples!”

“You’ve got a disposition just like that,” said Ned, holding up one far-gone apple. “I guess I’ll leave these until tomorrow and then lug them outside somewhere. Have one?”

“Not one like that,” answered Cal. “If you’ve got a good one—”

“Oh, there are plenty of good ones left. I wonder how long they’ve been here. I guess it’s too warm for them.”

“Yes. Why don’t you take them over and let Spud keep them for you? They wouldn’t be too warm in the Ice Chest.”

“Oh, I don’t want them frozen,” laughed Ned. He closed the drawer again and they went on with their search. In the end they had to acknowledge defeat, although as Ned pointed out, their search had not been fruitless.

“I’ve got over five dollars myself,” said Cal. “I cal’late I’d better hide it somewhere or it may disappear too.”

“You can put it in my collar-box,” suggested Ned with a grin.

But Cal declined. “That box is a hoodoo,” he said. “There’s something wrong with it, Ned. I don’t want my money collared too.”

Ned laughed, but Cal didn’t see the joke until his unintentional pun had been explained to him.

“I’ve got it in my trunk now,” he went on, “but it isn’t locked because I’ve lost the key somewhere.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” said Ned. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, they say.”

There had been only light practice that afternoon, but on Tuesday Brooks held their noses to the grindstone with a vengeance. He had decided to discard two plays which had been tried and found wanting and to substitute two others which, he believed, were more likely to succeed against Hall. Besides this, several of the players were sent back to the dummy for some needed eleventh-hour instruction in tackling, and the effort to perfect team-play went on unceasingly. The weather turned suddenly cold Tuesday night and when Wednesday dawned there was a heavy white frost on the ground. After breakfast that morning Cal found Sandy standing in the Tomb gazing at the wall over the mantel.

“I was looking for a place to hang the Silver Shield,” Sandy explained, “that is, if we get it.”

“Do you mean,” Cal asked, “that it will come here to West House if we win it?” Sandy nodded.

“Yes, East House had it last time we won and now it’s our turn. I guess I’d get Marm to take down that picture there. I never did like it, anyway. Maybe she’d let you have it for your room, Cal.”

“Thanks,” Cal laughed. “That’s thoughtful of you, Sandy. I’ll take it, though, if it’s to make room for the shield.”

If Oak Park had been football-mad before, it was hopelessly and violently afflicted with the mania this final week. Excitement succeeded excitement. Now rumor had it that Pete Grow was very ill with tonsilitis or something and wouldn’t be able to play. Now it was said that Andy Westlake, the House Team center, was in trouble over studies and had a week’s work to make up. Another day Will M’Crae had sprained his ankle, if reports were to be credited. As it happened none of these direful things had really taken place, but the news of them served to add frenzy to the excitement. The nearest approach to a catastrophe affecting either team came when Barnes, a substitute back for Hall, hurt his knee in practice on Wednesday and said farewell to football for the rest of the season. But Barnes was hardly necessary to Hall’s success and so his accident didn’t create the commotion it might have. Even Molly became hysterical and talked football whenever she could find someone to listen to her. She spent several days making a House flag. She could easily have bought one in the village but she preferred to fashion it herself. It was of white silk with a red W. H. on it. She worked madly, but on Thursday it looked very much as though the flag would be still unfinished when the game began on Saturday.

“It’s a perfectly lovely affair,” said Spud when she exhibited it to him that noon, “but why does the W look so rakish?”

“It doesn’t, does it?” she asked anxiously, holding the banner at arm’s length and observing it critically. “Well, maybe it is a little crooked. But the H is all right, Spud?”

“Yes, it’s a dandy H. I wish, though, the two hadn’t quarrelled, Molly. It seems so sad. Aren’t you going to—what do you call it—hem it around the edges?”

“Of course, but I wanted to see how the letters were going to look first. I ought to have a stick for it, oughtn’t I?”

“I’ve got one you can have. It’s got a flag on it now but I can take that off. I say, if we win Saturday I think you ought to give us that for a trophy.”

“I will!” Molly clapped her hands delightedly. “And you must put it over the Silver Shield. Will you? Hoop says the shield will hang in the parlor.”

“All right. Now I have something to fight for. What I’ve needed right along, Molly, was an incentive. ’Tis there! Consider the game won!”

Oddly enough it was Cal, practical, matter-of-fact Cal, who had entertained a vast contempt and hearty dislike of football a few weeks before, who, of all the West House fellows, lost his appetite toward the end of the week and had what Spud called “the jumps.” Cal’s short taste of battle had left him with a wild, impatient desire to return to the ranks and match his strength and skill with the enemy once more. He pestered Ned for days asking whether the latter thought he would get a chance in the last game.

“I wish Brooks would put me in,” he said wistfully. “I guess, though, he won’t while Dutch or Griffin hold out. Gee, I’d like to get in and do something fine, Ned; make a run such as you made or kick a goal like M’Crae did!”

“You’ll get in for a while, anyway,” Ned assured him on Thursday for the twentieth time. “Griffin’s the fellow who’ll come out, though, and not Dutch. You’d have to kill Dutch to make him quit. Of course he might get sick, I suppose.”

“He—he’s looking pretty well, isn’t he?” asked Cal.

“Fine,” laughed Ned. “So you needn’t hope for that, Cal.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want him to be sick,” said the other hurriedly. “Only—if he was—”

“Just so; you’d get his place. I’m going to tell Dutch to watch out carefully. You may try putting poison in his food.”

Cal laughed apologetically. Then, “I suppose you couldn’t say anything to Brooks, Ned?” he asked. “Just sort of mention my name to him. You see, I sometimes think he forgets about me!”

“No, he doesn’t. Don’t worry, you old chump. You’ll get a show. But you mustn’t expect to make a blooming hero of yourself, ’cause when you play in the line you don’t have much chance at that sort of thing, Cal. You just plug away and do your little best and then after it’s over you read about how wonderful the backs were. Perhaps you might read that ‘Boland at left tackle proved steady and effective, and held his own with his opponent.’ The only way a line player ever breaks into the hero class is when he blocks a kick, I guess. And that’s more luck than science.”

“How do you block a kick?” asked Cal thoughtfully. Ned grinned.

“I’ve never heard any receipt for it,” he answered. “I guess it’s by playing your level best and getting through on defense. Thinking of trying it?”

“Yes, if I get a chance,” said Cal seriously. “I cal’late I could get by that fellow Dixon, Ned. Anyway, I’d try mighty hard!”