Meanwhile, across on the main gridiron, Mr. Cotting was hammering speed into his teams. The formation used this year for the backfield differed somewhat from that of the previous season and the players were having difficulty with it, simple though it was. The left half, fullback and right half lined up behind quarter in a slanting tandem in the order named, left half being to the left of quarter, the fullback behind him and the right half at his right. From this formation the order to shift—which became “Hep!” in the quarterback’s vernacular—was followed by one or two quick jumps to the right or left as the signal demanded. It was a good “shift formation,” since it allowed the backs to get into position for the play very quickly, and at the same time was capable of all sorts of combinations. A jump to the right by the tandem changed what seemed like an attack on the right of the opposing line to an attack on the left, and, since it was only necessary for the backs to come to momentary pause before the ball was snapped, the enemy had short time in which to change its defence to meet the play at the threatened spot. Even when the shift had taken the backs to the right of their quarter there was, however, no certainty that the play would hit that side of the line. Often enough left half and fullback would plunge around quarter for an attack on the opposing tackle, while the right half caused a diversion by banging straight ahead. Or sometimes it was the left half who faked an attack on the other side, leaving fullback and right half to charge at the enemy’s center. And it lent itself excellently well to end running besides. But it was new as yet and Coach Cotting had much fault to find with the execution of the plays. And he wasn’t over kind that afternoon to the forwards of either team.

“Where were you going that time?” he demanded sharply of Tyson after a line plunge had been smothered by the second.

“Through guard, sir.”

“No, you weren’t! You were over here at tackle. Why didn’t you follow your signal?”

“There was no hole at guard, sir. That man was in the way, and so——”

“I don’t care who was in your way, Tyson! The signal told you to carry that ball through guard. If the hole wasn’t there for you that’s none of your business. That’s up to the linemen. You go where you’re supposed to. Now, then, whose place was it to open up that hole? Yours, Doyle? All right, then it’s up to you. Now try it again. And don’t try to push them back; get down and lift ’em up!”

The play was tried again, and this time a second squad back plunged through and upset the runner in the line. The coach jumped into the mÊlÉe.

“Who got through then? Watson? That’s the way to do it, Watson!” He thumped the second squad man on the back. “That was dandy! You keep on playing like that and I’ll have you over on this side, by jingo! Now, then, you first team, what have you got to say? Who let that man through? That was you, Pounder. Look at him! Weighs half what you do! Now you fellows quit this half hearted playing and get down and work! I want to see that play go and go right! Same signals, Quarter! And make it good!”

“A formation! 34—45—87! Hep!”

Back came the ball to Stacey, away plunged the fullback, the pigskin went to Tyson at a hand pass and, following in the wake of the big fullback, the right half tore through for three full yards, in spite of the fact that the second knew where the attack was coming and had concentrated its secondary defence there. The players scrambled or were pulled to their feet, panting, and Mr. Cotting voiced approval.

“That’s better, fellows! Put some punch into it! All right now! Fourth down and six to go!”

Then, with Gordon back and his arms outstretched for the ball for all the world as though he meant to dropkick it over the crossbars, now only twenty odd yards away, the pigskin went to Tyson again, and that youth skirted the second team’s right end and, with the coach crying “Cut! Cut!” finally found his opening and cut for a good twelve yards and a first down.

And so it went for thirty minutes or so of the hardest sort of work, with no let-ups. When a player showed signs of exhaustion he was sent off and a substitute summoned on from the waiting line at the edge of the field. There was no loafing that afternoon. And all the time the coach’s sharp voice barked criticism or censure or, less frequently, commendation. “Clean up that line, Second! Get under ’em! Put ’em back!” ... “Ball! Ball! Bring it back five yards here, First. Don’t let me catch you doing that again, Watson! All right. Third down and five to go!... Rotten! Rotten, Second! Look where your guards were playing. Spread out your line! Try that again!” ... “Signals! What are you giving ’em, Trowbridge? What? On their twenty yard line? Use your brain, man!... Fuller! Fuller! Come in here and play left tackle! Show these fellows how to hold that side of your line!... Low, low! Play low, Second! That’s better!... Wynant, where were you then? Fall asleep, did you? Start with the ball, man! You were all out of the play!”

And even when finally the scrimmage was ended, the first having earned a touchdown and a field goal and held their opponents scoreless, there was still work for the centers, backs, and ends. The other players trotted breathlessly back to the gymnasium, but a dozen or so unfortunates remained for punting practice, the centers to snap back the ball to the punters, the backs to catch and run the pigskin back, and the ends to get down under the kicks and head off the catchers. It was almost dark when the last thump of boot against ball was heard and Mr. Cotting let them go. In the locker room at the gymnasium fellows grinned tiredly at each other, and shook their heads as if to say, “Don’t ask me what got into him to-day! All I know is I got mine aplenty!”

But an hour or so later, refreshed by showers, trooping into supper, the hard words and hard knocks were all forgotten, or, remembered, had lost their sting. “That was some practice, old man! Say, didn’t he rub it into us for fair? Bet you, though, we learned more than we have all season so far, eh? He’s a little wonder when he gets het up, what?” And bruises were exhibited proudly, vaingloriously, while a wonderful glow of wellbeing encompassed their wearied bodies as they satisfied gigantic appetites, and already they were thinking of the morrow and looking forward eagerly to the next practice, each fellow resolved in his heart to “show him a few things next time!”

It’s a wonderful game, this football; wonderful for what it will do for flabby muscles and hollow chests, but more wonderful still for what it can do for flabby characters. There’s young Jones, for instance, who came to school with a quick and mighty ugly temper, an intolerance of anything savoring of discipline, and no especial ambition beyond doing as he pleased and being as selfish as fourteen years of spoiling at home had taught him to be. And there’s young Smith, fat and flabby and lazy when he came up, with only a sneering laugh for the form of school patriotism that caused other boys to keep their bodies clean and healthy and to toil on gridiron or diamond or cinder path for the glory of the school. Don’t look the same to-day do they? They fought and struggled and matched muscles and wits against each other this afternoon for a solid hour or more, took hard knocks and gave them, sweated and panted for breath, and rolled in the mud of a wet field, lost their tempers perhaps now and then for a brief instant—they’re only youngsters yet, after all. And now, side by side, they’re talking it over, laughing at the mishaps, criticising the misplays, praising each other’s good feats, each feeling for the other the respect—yes, and the affection, too—that every brave warrior has felt for a worthy opponent since the world began. Yes, it’s a wonderful game, this football, a gentleman’s game.

Young Jones learned to accept criticism and submit to authority, to govern his temper and consider the welfare of someone other than his own selfish little self. I fancy it didn’t come very easily, just at first; it was probably something of a shock to him to discover that on the football field he was only one, and an inconsiderable one, of many, and that no one cared a straw if he got a black eye. But he learned and profited, and it did him a heap of good. And should you ask him to-day about the young Jones that he used to be he’d probably tell you frankly and succinctly that that boy was “a selfish little brat!” And Smith worked the flabbiness out of his body and his mind, and got rid of his fat and his laziness together. It didn’t take him long to discover that his fellows had scant sympathy for his views, and that his sneers met only disgust and dislike. Doubtless he would have found himself ultimately without the aid of football, but football turned the trick very expeditiously. Smith, they say, is in line for the captaincy now. Success to him!

The second game of the season was played with Mumford Preparatory School, and in the fourth period, when Maple Hill was two scores to the good, Rodney had his first experience on the firing line. He and two other third string men went in for a few minutes, just before play ended. Rodney was trying for halfback. He was given the ball but once, since Maple Hill was on the defensive most of the time he played, and then managed to get the two yards required for a first down. An instant later the whistle sounded and Maple Hill was the victor by a 15 to 5 score. But if that brief experience in the line up had not especially advanced Rodney’s chance of being retained, although he could not be certain of that, it had left him with a redoubled desire to make the team. Figuratively, he had smelled the smoke of battle, and he wanted to fight again.

And so it was with not a little anxiety that he awaited the next cut in the squad. This had been looked for on Friday but had not come, and it was now whispered about that it would be made Monday. On Sunday Rodney observed to Kitty:

“Well, Kittson, I suppose you and I will get our walking papers to-morrow. For my part it’ll be rather a relief—” There he stopped, realizing that he had been about to say something very far from the truth. Instead he ended: “A relief to know.”

Kitty, engaged on a letter, looked up and blinked through his spectacles. “How do you mean, Merrill?” he asked.

“Why, Cotting’s going to make another cut to-morrow, they say.”

“Cut? You mean he’s going to let some of the football players go?”

“Yes, some of the second squad fellows. He’s got too many, you see.”

“Really? Think he will keep you, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe so. I don’t see why he should. He’s got five perfectly good backs without me.”

“Oh, I hope he will,” said Kitty earnestly. “I—I’d feel a bit lonesome if you weren’t there, you know.”

Rodney stared. Then he laughed. “Well, you seem pretty sure of your place, Kittson! It might just be that we’d both get fired.”

Kitty stared untroubledly and shook his head gently. “I don’t think so. Team needs fellows like me. Too many weak chaps on it. Cotting’s sensible, eh? You’ll see. Maybe I might say a good word for you, what?”

“I don’t think you’d better,” replied Rodney soberly. “I hope he does keep you, Kittson.” And, after a moment spent in reviewing the events of the last week of practice, “I don’t see why he shouldn’t, either,” added Rodney thoughtfully. “You’ve shown up pretty well, by Jove!”

Kitty blinked agreement. “For a beginner, eh? Seems so to me. May be mistaken, though. Hope not. Like the game. Fine for the chest. Fine for the whole body. Surprised me, really, what a lot of exercise there was in it!” Kitty took a long, deep breath that threatened to expand his lungs beyond the capacity of his Sunday waistcoat, and patted his chest approvingly. “Great for the lungs, Merrill!”

Monday afternoon Rodney entered the gymnasium in a funk. He had watched Tracey and two other Vests start along, and then, keeping behind them, had followed. He wanted to be alone when he faced the little black bulletin board in the entrance of the gymnasium. But in spite of his scheming he wasn’t, for when he swung open the big outer door and passed into the little lobby inside, two boys were in front of the board. One was Guy Watson and the other Peterson, the right end. There were so many notices of different kinds posted on the board that Rodney couldn’t see, from where he stood a few feet away, whether the announcement of the cut had been posted. He waited with his heart thumping a little harder than usual, for the others to move away. And then he heard Peterson say, with a laugh:

“Kittson! Well, what do you know about that, Guy?”

“That’s Gordon’s doings,” growled Watson, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. He turned then and saw Rodney, and nodded. “Hello, Merrill. Want to see the list?” he asked. “You’re down. Come on, Jim.”

They went on through the swinging doors, leaving Rodney alone in the lobby. So he and Kittson were both dropped! Well, now that he knew, it wasn’t so bad. And it had been foolish of him to expect anything else. Only—well, he had expected, or at least hoped! There was no especial reason now for reading the list, since Watson had told him, but he felt a desire to see for himself. As he stepped to the board he wondered why Watson had not taken the opportunity to sneer a little. He didn’t read the heading, but began with the names, which were arranged alphabetically. “Anson, Atwell, Browne, Burnham, Doyle——”

“Doyle?” Rodney read it again. How could they drop Doyle? Then his eyes flashed to the top of the sheet and he read:

“Football candidates. The following are retained. Cotting, Coach.”

With a leap of his heart Rodney’s eyes swept down the list. “Johnson, Kittson, Merrill——”

He wasn’t dropped! He still had a chance!

For a full minute he stood there with his eyes on that one word, stood there until the sudden turning of the big latch behind him warned him that others were coming. Then he pushed on through the swinging doors, turned to the stairway, and took the stairs at four bounds, stopping, however, at the foot to pull his features into an expression of becoming calm before he entered the dressing-room. The room was well filled, for most of the thirty-two fellows who had been retained were already there, but the first figure that Rodney’s gaze fell on was Phineas Kittson, Phineas in his new togs, now somewhat soiled, with his ridiculous trousers dropping half way to his feet. Kitty smiled and blinked at his roommate, and as Rodney joined him he said:

“Saw your name on the board up there, Merrill. Awfully glad. Cotting’s sensible, though. Said so right along. Better hurry. Most half past.”

Rodney got into football attire in record time, his heart beating a very happy tune, and raced across to the field. Stacey Trowbridge saw him and walked to meet him.

“Glad you made it, Rodney,” he said kindly. “Good luck to you.”

Then he smiled and walked away. It was the first time Stacey had called him by his first name. Rodney felt happier than ever, and a little bit proud. To-day practice went with a vim. Even tackling the dummy seemed rather good sport, and usually most of them hated it. There was a full twenty minutes of scrimmage later. Rodney and Kitty were on the second team, Kitty as substitute guard and Rodney as substitute left half. Both got into the play in the second ten minutes and both performed acceptably if not brilliantly. The coach seemed to take a good deal of notice of Phineas, and more than once instructed him. Slowness, Rodney gathered, was Kitty’s failing. Had he but known it, lack of initiativeness was his own trouble. More than once he was stopped with the ball for the simple reason that, finding himself unable to gain where the signals indicated, he slowed up, at a loss, and was brought down.

“Why don’t you fight, Merrill?” demanded the second team quarter once. “Hang it, what do you stop for? This isn’t a game of tag!”

And Rodney, returning to his position, would make up his mind to do better the next time. And when the next time came he would fail in just the same way.

The first team ran away with the scrimmage game that afternoon, piling up four touchdowns and kicking three goals after them, while the second failed to get nearer to the other goal than the twelve yard line. Two days later the tables were turned, for the second kept the first from crossing their goal line, and then in the last two or three minutes of play sent a neat kick from the field over the cross-bar. Rodney played fifteen minutes that day, but I can’t honestly say that much of his team’s success was due to his presence. Rodney had a whole lot to learn yet. But “old Kitty” was making good.