On Sunday Rodney had returned from church by way of River Street and the sight of Doolittle’s Pharmacy had reminded him that he had not yet kept his promise to Jack Billings. So on Monday he slipped down the hill between Latin and English recitations to settle his indebtedness. Young Mr. Doolittle didn’t remember him until Rodney recalled the circumstances and informed him that he wanted to pay for the four ice-cream sodas.

“Oh, you were the fellow that played the trick on Watson, eh?” asked the clerk with a chuckle. “Say, maybe he wasn’t peeved about it!”

“Was he? Well, he got them anyway.”

“Yes, he made believe he was going to pay for them himself, and then when he and his friends had drank ’em he said I was to charge ’em to you.”

“That’s all right. Forty cents, wasn’t it?”

“He’s all the time doing things like that,” continued the clerk grievedly. “Did I tell you about the time he got a bottle of liniment off the shelf and emptied it into the sarsaparilla tank when I wasn’t looking? Well, he did. And Deacon Whittier and Si Moon——”

“What?” laughed Rodney. “Who’d you say?”

“Si Moon; keeps the livery stable,” replied the other, puzzled by the boy’s amusement. “Know him?”

“No, but I’m going to start a list of names. You’ve got some corkers around here! What do they call Mr. Moon for short? Sirocer?”

“They call him Si,” replied the clerk with the hauteur of one who discovers that he has made a humorous remark and doesn’t know what it was. “Don’t know what you mean about Si Rocker.”

“Never mind. What happened to old Si-moon?”

“He was sick as a horse, he and the Deacon, too. And——”

“Perhaps it was horse liniment?” suggested Rodney gravely.

“No, ’twa’n’t, it was Hipplepot’s Embrocation. I know because I found the bottle behind the fountain there. ’Most half empty it was, too. Might have killed ’em!”

“How did you find out Watson did it?”

“Why, he’d been in here a while before, and I just naturally suspected him. And when I asked him he owned right up.”

“Well that was honest anyway, wasn’t it? He might have told a lie about it.”

“Watson wouldn’t,” said the clerk grudgingly. “I’ll say that for him. He’s a terror, all right, but he owns up to things. I nearly lost my job that time, though.”

“Too bad. Well, here’s the money. Just cross off that bill, will you?” and Rodney laid a half dollar on the counter. The clerk looked at it doubtfully.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“Why, to pay for those sodas.”

“Oh! They’re paid for. Thought you knew. Watson came down Saturday and paid for ’em.”

“He did!” Rodney stared and thoughtfully returned the money to his pocket. “I wonder what he did that for?”

“I don’t know. Said something about only being in fun the other time. I just took the money and was glad to get it. There’s lots of fellows up to school don’t pay up as well as he does.”

Hurrying back up the hill Rodney wondered why Watson had changed his mind, and debated whether to speak to him about it. He finally decided to let the matter drop. Whatever Watson’s motive might have been, Rodney had an idea that the older boy wouldn’t care to be thanked.

It was two days after that that Phineas Kittson startled the school and provided several days of amusement by announcing his candidacy for a position on the football team. Rodney learned of it first. He found Kitty frowning over a book of football rules that afternoon after practice. Kitty looked up as Rodney came into the room, nodded, and went back to his study. Rodney observed the blue covered book curiously, until in a moment Kitty asked:

“Merrill, what do you mean when you say a ball is ‘dead’?”

“Why, that it isn’t—isn’t playable. Like when the fellow who has it is tackled, you know, or when it goes over the goal line.”

“Oh. Seems to me the person who wrote these rules tried to make them as difficult as possible. All mixed up, I call them. Silly.”

“Aren’t thinking of playing, are you?” asked Rodney smilingly.

Kitty turned down the corner of a leaf and nodded slowly. “Yes, I’ve decided that I’ll have to try,” he replied calmly. “Got more time this year. Reading in a paper yesterday that football is great developer of the lungs. Don’t see why it shouldn’t be, eh? Course, a fellow couldn’t rely on football alone. Have to take regular exercises, too. It follows. But in its way, don’t see why football wouldn’t be—er—beneficial. Would it seem so to you, Merrill?”

“Yes.” Rodney struggled to keep from laughing. “Yes, I’d say football might develop the lungs beautifully.”

“Shall try it. Been trying to get the sense of that.” He nodded at the rule book. “Guess you have to play the game to learn what it’s all about though. Complicated. Contradictory. Can’t make heads nor tails of it. What do you wear?”

“Oh, you wear canvas breeches and a canvas jacket thing that laces up the front. And a jersey underneath. And long stockings and shoes with cleats.”

“Cost much?”

“Mm, that depends. Twelve dollars will do it, I guess.”

“Buy them in the village?”

“I think so. Yes, Tad told me I could get most everything here. I forget what the name of the shop was.”

“Porgan’s, I guess.”

“Or Humpernickle’s,” suggested Rodney with a grin.

“Don’t know that. Think I’ve seen footballs and such things in Porgan’s. Where’s Humpernickle’s?”

“Search me,” laughed Rodney, “but I’ll bet there’s a place of that name here somewhere. When you going to start, Kittson?”

“Me? Oh, tomorrow, I guess. What do you do? Any—er—formalities?”

“N-no, just—just go over to the field dressed for play and tell—” Rodney’s grin wouldn’t be suppressed any longer—“tell Mr. Cotting you want to try for the team.”

“I see. All right. Much obliged. Mind going down to Porgan’s after school and helping me buy things?”

“Glad to,” replied Rodney gravely. “I say, do you mind if I tell the fellows about it?”

Kitty stared across in mild surprise. “About me? No.” The tone implied that Kitty didn’t see why he should mind! “Tell ’em if you want to. Not important though, is it?”

“Oh, well, I only thought that—that they’d like to know.”

“Suppose they would. What time is it? Half past five! I’m late this evening!” And Kitty gravely threw aside his jacket, pulled his faded brown sweater over his head, attached his pedometer to his belt, and set forth on his final stunt of the day, which was a little jaunt down to the river and back up the hill at top speed.

Rodney left the room close on the heels of Kitty and burst into Jack Billings’s room. Only Tom Trainor was there, Tom bending over a book with both hands clutching desperately at his hair.

“Busy,” grunted Tom, without looking around.

“Don’t care if you are,” answered Rodney. “You aren’t too busy to hear some news.”

“Yes, I am. Don’t want to hear any news. Get out, Rod!”

“It’s about Kitty.”

“Nothing is news about Kitty,” scoffed Tom. But he stopped tearing his hair and looked around. “What is it?”

“He’s going out for the team!”

“What team?”

“Football!”

“Never!”

“He is! Honest injun, Tom!”

“Not Kitty!”

“Kitty!”

“Whoops!” Tom’s chair went over with a crash and he flew to the hall. “Fellows! Pete! Stacey! Everybody this way!”

“Shut up!” came a wail from the closed door of Pete Greenough’s room. But Stacey answered, and he and Tad tumbled into the hall. “What’s up? Where’s the fire?” asked Tad.

“News, fellows! Glorious news! Kitty——”

Pete, who had opened his door and stuck his head out, groaned and started back.

“Hold on, Pete! Wait till you hear it! Kitty’s going to play football!”

There was a moment of intense silence. Then shrieks of delight broke forth, and Tom and Tad clasped each other ecstatically and danced along the hall. At that moment Jack Billings and Warren Hoyt appeared on the stairs, and the news was broken to them very gently by five voices shouting in unison. After that they piled into Jack’s room and laughed and joked to their heart’s content.

“I know where I’m going to be to-morrow afternoon at three-thirty,” announced Tad. “Right on the sideline, fellows, where I can see it all!”

“That’s where we’ll all be!” gurgled Tom. “And he’s going down to Porgan’s after school to-morrow to buy an outfit. Let’s all go along and help, fellows!”

But Jack demurred. “That would be too strong,” he said. “It is funny, but we don’t want to hurt old Kitty’s feelings. It’s going to be funny enough anyway, without that.”

“That’s so,” Stacey agreed. “Besides,” and he smiled in his quiet way, “he might take offence and quit then and there.”

Further discussion was halted by the sound of steps on the stairway. The fellows grinned at each other and Warren Hoyt called: “Is that you, Kitty? What’s this Merrill’s telling us?”

Kitty appeared at the doorway, breathing deeply and perspiring freely, and observed them anxiously through his spectacles.

“About football?” he inquired. “Yes, I’m going to try it. I’ve read that it is fine for the lungs. May be wrong though. What do you think, Stacey?”

“Nothing better,” replied Stacey gravely.

“I think it’s fine of you,” said Tad earnestly. “Cotting will be so pleased, Kitty!”

“Think so?” Kitty looked modest. “Of course I don’t know much about it. Learn, though, I guess. Understand strength and stamina are requisites of football. Got ’em. You fellows know that.”

“You bet we do, Kitty! I’d back you against Sandow any old day,” declared Tom. “My word, but it’s a bully thing for the team!”

“Don’t know about that. Afraid it’ll take me a while to learn the—er—fine points, eh?”

“Pshaw!” said Warren. “A fellow of your ability can learn the game in a day, Kitty!”

“Suppose you’re kidding me,” replied Kitty good-naturedly. “Don’t mind. May be an ass, but I’ll have a try at it.”

And Kitty, nodding with a final owl-like stare, took himself off.