News travels fast in school, and by ten o’clock the next morning it was known from one end of the campus to the other that Kittson was going to report that afternoon for football practice. The result was that every fellow who could possibly get to the field was on hand long before the fateful hour of three-thirty. Tad, who had the effrontery to walk to a point of observation some ten feet away, declared later that it was worth a thousand mile journey to see the expression on Coach Cotting’s face when Kitty informed him that he would like to try for the team, please. Kitty, in brand new football togs, with his trousers at least six inches too long for his short legs—there had been no time to alter them—and his knotty calves incased in green stockings, was a sight to behold. And yet there was no suggestion of self-consciousness about him. Had you attired Kitty in the uniform of a Scotch Highlander or a Turkish bashi bazouk he would have shown no awkwardness. Kitty had a mind above clothes.

Coach Cotting, maintaining his composure with the utmost difficulty, entered Phineas Kittson in his red book and consigned him to the awkward squad. Rodney, who had just been promoted from that aggregation, mourned the fact. He wanted so much to be near when Kitty fell on his first ball.

The school at large cheered when Kitty followed his companions down the gridiron, and after that, flocking closely along the side line, they watched his every performance and offered him enthusiastic applause and encouragement. Kitty knew well enough that he was being joshed, but he didn’t mind. Fellows were always poking fun at him for one thing or another. Let them! Kitty had his own ideals and pursued them, his own views and held to them. No, Kitty didn’t mind much. Not nearly so much as Gordon. The fullback stood the ribald shouts and laughter and cheers as long as he could, and then walked over to the throng and informed them that this was football practice and not a funny show, and that if they didn’t shut up he’d have Cotting put them out and close the gates. After that practice proceeded more decorously.

Meanwhile Kitty was having his troubles. But the queer thing about Kitty was that he had a funny notion that troubles were things you could get the better of if you put your head down and worked hard. So Kitty did as he was instructed to do to the best of his ability, using up a good deal of unnecessary strength in the doing, and was perhaps after all no more awkward than half a dozen others in the squad. And Gordon, who had smiled for a while at first, soon came to admire the fellow’s dogged courage and perseverance, and was extraordinarily patient and gentle with him toward the last. By that time the novelty had worn away for the spectators and the crowd had thinned out, and Kitty’s return to the gymnasium in the wake of the others was unattended by any demonstration. On the next day he was again the cynosure of all eyes, as Tad so aptly put it, and again on the day following. But after that the school decided that the fun had worn thin.

On Friday Coach Cotting made the first cut, and some dozen youths abandoned aspirations for that season. Strange to say, however, Kitty, at the good-natured solicitation of Gordon, was retained and became a fragment, a rather weighty fragment, of the third squad. Rodney, too, was retained, and whether he was glad or sorry he couldn’t make up his mind. He was confident that he would never survive the next cut, and he begrudged the time that practice took from his studies, although for that matter he couldn’t honestly say that his class standing was suffering any. On the other hand, he had discovered to his surprise that he was getting not a little interested in football. He rather liked the camaraderie of it, and the feeling of well-being that followed a hard afternoon out there on the yellow turf and—yes, and he would have been less than human otherwise—he liked the knowledge that less fortunate fellows observed him with respect as one who had succeeded where they had failed, and as one chosen to uphold the gridiron honor of Maple Hill. And all the time he was growing to like it better he was telling himself that no matter how hard he tried or how hard Coach Cotting tried he would never become anything more than an indifferent player. But meanwhile he did as best he could, and Cotting and Captain Doyle puzzled over him considerably.

“He knows football,” said Doyle one day when he and the coach were discussing Rodney, amongst other candidates, “but he doesn’t seem to get beyond a certain point. He plays as well and not much better than he did the first day, as far as I can see.”

“I can’t make him out,” acknowledged the coach. “He seems willing enough to learn, and he seems to try hard enough, but he gets no—no ‘forrader.’ Why?”

Doyle shook his head. “Blessed if I know. Guess he lacks football instinct.”

“‘Football instinct,’” echoed the coach smilingly. “You’ve been reading stories, Terry. ‘There ain’t no such critter’ as football instinct. Instinct is a natural impulse. You may say that a boy has a natural impulse toward athletics and, if he happened to come of athletic parents, you’re probably right. But football hasn’t been played long enough in this country to generate instinct, if you see what I mean. Perhaps in another hundred or two hundred years boys may be born with football instinct, but not now, Terry.”

“Well, it’s something,” replied the other vaguely, “and Merrill doesn’t seem to have it.”

“Call it football sense,” said the coach. “He does as he is told and as he has been taught, but he appears to have no initiative. In other words, if he found himself during a game suddenly in a position where he had to depend on his own resources, mental and physical, he’d likely fail right there. Strange, too, that I was speaking to Mr. Howe about Merrill yesterday. Howe has him in two classes, I think. He said he’d never found a boy with a greater aptitude for learning nor one with a more retentive memory. But then perhaps that proves my contention. Merrill, I dare say, lacks imagination. Well, we’ll keep him along for another week or so and see what happens.”

Maple Hill went down the river a few miles on Saturday and played her first game of the season. Her opponent was Phoenixville High School, an aggregation not at all formidable. In fact the contest was looked upon as nothing more than a slightly glorified practice, and for that reason Coach Cotting took along two complete elevens and used every player at some time during the game. Phoenixville managed to score a touchdown as the result of a fumble by a Maple Hill substitute near the end of the last period, but the Green-and-Gray ran up twenty-eight points and was well enough satisfied. Neither Rodney nor Phineas was taken along that day. How Kitty spent his afternoon I don’t know; probably, however, in taking a little ten mile jaunt around the country; but Rodney, after declining the invitation of Tom and Pete to follow the team as a rooter, remained at home and joined Tad and the twins at tennis. Rodney had Matty for a partner, and there were two hard fought sets. For some reason Rodney’s strokes were less certain than usual and, although he played perhaps as well as Tad, the opponents won each set, the first 7–5 and the second 9–7. Matty was not up to her sister on the tennis court, and May’s better playing accounted for the double victory. They had a jolly time, however, and afterwards Tad played host at Doolittle’s and they consumed ice-cream sodas and talked over the contests. Tad insisted that playing football had injured Rodney’s tennis.

“It always does,” he said. “Your arm gets sort of stiff and set, you see. A fellow has to keep his wrist pretty supple to do good backhand work.”

Rodney agreed that possibly football was to blame. “As soon as they let me go, I’ll try you again,” he said.

“Don’t worry. They won’t let you go, Rod. Why, you’re doing finely, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I’m playing about as poorly as the rest of the duffers in the second squad, I suppose. I guess another week will settle me.”

At this there were lamentations from the twins. They had, it seemed, made up their minds that Rodney was to be a football star like his famous brother. “You oughtn’t to talk like that,” Matty protested earnestly. “You—you must think you’re going to do well, mustn’t he May?”

“Yes, indeed. What we think we are,” replied May gravely.

“I think,” laughed Rodney, “that I’m full of soda.” He pushed his glass away.

“Don’t you like it?” asked Matty, viewing his unemptied glass.

“Yes, but I’ve got to walk up that hill yet. I’m thinking about that.”

“You don’t have to go back yet, do you? Let’s you and I play against them at croquet. It’s only fair we should beat them at something!”

So presently they toiled up the street to the little side gate in the hedge, and after recovering from their exertion—for thirty games of tennis leaves one rather disinclined for further effort for awhile—they played three fairly hard games of croquet, of which Rodney and Matty managed to win two.

A week later autumn announced her arrival. Rodney awoke one morning to find a brisk wind blowing and the trees nearly bare of foliage. Yellow and red and russet-brown leaves frolicked along the roads and there was a keen nip in the air that lent zest to living. After that football practice was less like hard labor, and the players didn’t come off the field bathed in perspiration and feeling as though they had emerged from a particularly strenuous Turkish bath. That afternoon Coach Cotting drove his charges hard. As soon as the candidates reached the field they were put to work punting or catching, all, that is, save Stacey Trowbridge and Roger Tyson, who put in the time trying goals from the field. At last, when all the players were out, there was one lap around the track at a fast jog, the pace being set by Mr. Cotting, who, clad in a faded green jersey and an old pair of gray flannel trousers, trotted at the head of the bunch. For several minutes one heard only the fall of many feet on the cinders, the swish-swish of rasping canvas, and the breathing of the runners. When the circuit was complete the several squads assembled quickly and, under the direction of shrill-voiced quarterbacks, went through twenty minutes of signal work. Then:

“All right!” called the coach. “Get your head guards!”

That was the signal for scrimmage, and the fellows hurried to the sidelines and donned the black leather helmets. Somehow, everything to-day was done on the jump. The brisk weather was incentive enough, and the coach’s perfunctory “Look alive, fellows!” was quite unnecessary. Later, though, when the second squad backs appeared to have lost some of their snap, the coach’s voice rang out harshly enough.

“Stop loafing, you backs! If I catch you at it again out you come! And you don’t go back! Now get into it!”

The warning had the desired effect, for Coach Cotting kept his word and every fellow knew it.

The third squad went over to the practice gridiron and played the Third Form Team, and both Rodney and Kitty got into the game and enjoyed it thoroughly. The Third Form Team had had only a few days of practice under the direction of one of the submasters and so were not formidable opponents. The third squad scored almost at will, and in some fifty minutes of actual playing ran up forty-nine points against their opponents, who, taking a long chance on a forward pass that ought not to have worked but did, crossed the third squad’s goal line for a solitary touchdown.