But life wasn’t all football, nor all play, nor all thrilling rescues from danger. They believed in hard work at Maple Hill, and shirking study was a thing severely frowned upon. Since the system followed showed at the end of each week the class standing of every student, it wasn’t possible to get very far in arrears with lessons. More than one football aspirant was forced to retire from practice, temporarily at least, during the season. Rodney was not one of these, however, for in spite of the demands made on his time by gridiron work he managed to keep well up with his studies. But it meant bending over his books lots of times when the other Vests were at play, and it wasn’t long before the word went around that Ginger Merrill’s brother was a good deal more of a noser than a football player. Not, though, that the school in general thought less of him for that reason, for Maple Hill fellows held studiousness in respect and honored the student who stood high in class. But I think they were a little bit disappointed, nevertheless. Perhaps they reasoned that there were plenty of fellows to maintain the school’s prestige for brains, while Ginger Merrills were few and far between.

But Rodney got on. He made new friends day by day and when, toward the last of October, a boy named White, who had been elected secretary and treasurer of the entering class, was forced to leave school because of illness, Rodney was the unanimous choice of his classmates for the vacant office. As the position was largely honorary and entailed very little labor, Rodney accepted. More than one boy told him that had it been known prior to the class election that he was Ginger Merrill’s brother he would have been made president. Whereupon Rodney smilingly declared that in that case he was glad it hadn’t been known. And meant it, too.

October sped quickly. Maple Hill met rival after rival on succeeding Saturday afternoons, marked up three victories and one defeat, and fixed her gaze on the final contest of the season, the game with Bursley, now only a matter of three weeks away. Rodney found time to play a little tennis, sometimes with Tad alone on the school courts and sometimes with the twins, joined in several diversions of the Vests, and so did not want for recreation. For, to be quite truthful, being a member of the football team, even if only a substitute on the second, is not by any means all recreation. There’s pleasure in it, but the hard work outweighs the fun. There were discouraging moments when even Rodney almost wished he were out of it. Almost, but never, I think, quite. At such times it was Matty who bolstered his failing hopes and supplied encouragement. Both the twins were determined that Rodney should win glory on the gridiron, and enjoyed in anticipation the prestige to be theirs when, having snatched his team from defeat by some brilliant run through a tangled field or some mighty plunge through a close defense—you see the twins read their football stories—they might proudly lay claim to his friendship. The twins were properly romantic, in spite of a big leaven of practicality, and hero worshippers of the most enthusiastic sort.

Meanwhile Rodney tried very hard. There was no one on either team more willing to learn, more anxious to listen to instruction and profit by it. And there was no one who seemed to fail as sadly. Cotting still had hopes of him, and gave him plenty of opportunities to show that he had the making of a football player. Sometimes Rodney did things that almost justified the coach’s belief in him. More often, however, he stopped just short of fulfillment.

“If he’d only think for himself!” grumbled Mr. Cotting.

“If he’d only fight!” responded Terry Doyle.

“It isn’t that. He can fight. But he doesn’t seem to know when it’s time to.” Cotting shook his head for the twentieth time over Rodney’s shortcomings, and then, as always, added leniently, “Well, we’ll give him a little more time. He may find himself yet.”

But if Rodney had his times of discouragement, not so Phineas Kittson. Kitty went serenely ahead, overcoming all obstacles in much the same way as a strong-headed bull might walk through a fence by the simple expedient of putting his head down and not thinking of splinters. Kitty put his head down and kept going. In the middle of the month he ousted Farnham from his place at left guard on the second, and the school, which had begun by laughing, now regarded him with awed delight. He made a good guard. His weight, and there was lots of it, was set low, and an opponent could no more put Kitty off his feet than he could upset one of the pyramids. And Kitty developed what Cotting had called football sense. He played his own position nicely, was as firm as a rock on defense and as relentless as a freight engine on attack, and he helped his center wonderfully. Slow he was, and the coach despaired of his ever being otherwise, but it was the slowness of one who performs thoroughly. Kitty as a football player was no longer a joke.

And he took it all with a lack of either modesty or conceit that was delightful. To Kitty it was a matter of course. To sum up the situation in his own words, Cotting was sensible, what? The word serene best describes Kitty’s course and Kitty’s attitude, and only two things disturbed that serenity in the least. One was the fact that he could not wear his spectacles when playing—he had tried it with disastrous results—and the other that practice seriously interfered with his walks. The fact that football was proving a very good lung developer, though, partly reconciled him to the latter objection. But having to go without his spectacles was a more serious matter, for Kitty was lamentably near sighted and for a while felt quite helpless. Tad’s suggestion that he wear automobile goggles that strapped around his head was not accepted seriously.

Maple Hill played Dudley Academy to a standstill the last Saturday in October, and as Dudley had a strong team that had proved hitherto well nigh impregnable the Green-and-Gray was well pleased. After battling for three ten-minute periods and struggling through six minutes of the final quarter, holding her opponent scoreless during that time, Maple Hill at last worked her way down to Dudley’s eight yard line, and then sent Gordon plunging through the much-boasted Dudley line for the only touchdown of the game. The fact that Tyson, who was called on to kick goal, failed miserably in the attempt, took away none of the glory of the hardest fought contest of the season. So Maple Hill saw November come in and the Bursley game approach with confidence.

But Fortune is always playing tricks, and football teams are seldom exempt from them. Four days after Dudley turned homeward with trailing banners, Wynant, right halfback on the first team, developed a fine case of water on the knee. That meant the substitution of Fuller and the withdrawal of Anson from the second team to the first. It also meant the promotion of Rodney from substitute to regular on the second. As Fuller was almost as good a back as Wynant, save in the matter of punting, the first team had not suffered a great deal by the latter’s loss. But it would be idle to say that Rodney acceptably filled the place left vacant by Anson. He had the weight and the strength, in short all the physical attributes necessary for his position, and he was fast on his feet, dodged cleverly, seldom fumbled a pass and possessed about everything he should have possessed for the making of a good halfback. But he lacked one thing, and even Cotting couldn’t put a name to it. The second team quarterback railed and stormed, begged and pleaded, and Rodney tried his level best. But his level best didn’t carry him far enough, and soon it was a settled custom to give the ball to the other half or to the fullback, or to draw one of the tackles back, when it was a case of, “Fourth down, Second! You’ve got to do it!”

But Fortune, presumably giggling to herself, wasn’t through even yet. After the Meadowdale game, which was lost by Maple Hill, strictly according to precedent and prophecy, Terry Doyle neglected his studies just once too often—he had an excuse if any boy did—and Nemesis in the shape of an outraged faculty reached out and seized upon him. Terry was off the team pending faculty consideration of his case.

The school received the news with consternation. Terry received it with, or so some said at least, bitter tears. But he did the only sensible thing. He handed over the temporary captaincy to Guy Watson, retired from the scene, and tried his best to get square again with his studies and the faculty. It was not believed that Terry’s banishment would be for long, but meanwhile it took another player from the second team and that player was Phineas Kittson. Kitty’s advance to the position of first substitute on the school team had been predicted weeks before. So there was nothing startling about it. But his withdrawal left the second badly off for players, and after struggling along for several days with six men in the line the team was dissolved a whole week earlier than usual, to be exact, on the eve of the game with St. Matthew’s, the next to the last contest of the season. Several of the second team were retained by Coach Cotting for the first, and among the several was Rodney. Perhaps Cotting still had hopes of the boy, or perhaps he felt it best to be prepared for future whims of Fortune by having plenty of backfield players. In any case, Rodney, who had never dared hope to reach the first team that year, now suddenly found himself a second substitute on it.