Only a week remained before the first league game—that with Newbury. Having already had experience in the position, and being a lad who used his eyes and ears more than his lips, Hardie needed very little coaching to fit well into the game at left end. Though he lacked Harrison’s sureness in play, as well as the instinctive readiness in translating signals into action which is to be expected of one who has practiced long in a single position, he was better than Harrison in making holes and quite as fast in getting down the field. Each showed a fine keenness of scent after the ball in the enemy’s hands; each was master of the art which belongs especially to a good end, of appearing where he is most useful, and not somewhere else. Deprived of the support of the first team and handicapped by the weakness of the second, Dunn made an inconspicuous figure in the practice. When on the first, he had at times, under favorable conditions, shown effective dash and vigor; degraded to the second, he became sulky and listless. Little remained of the aggressiveness of the early days but a chronic ugliness which manifested itself in fault-finding and in the practice of certain mean tricks which he had learned at a former school.

Sumner’s conduct stood out in strong contrast. Having undertaken to furnish the school a quarter-back better than himself, he pushed his sacrifice to its full limit. He drilled Mac in signals, schooled him in receiving and passing—a part of the play in which Sumner himself excelled—and put him in possession, as far as was possible, of such facts respecting likely plays and dangers to be avoided as his own experience had furnished. Harrison immediately made him captain of the second eleven, and in this capacity he went energetically to work to build up a team which should give the first the best possible practice. By this course, it is safe to say, he gained more respect among the boys whose opinion was worth having than if he had kept his place and won a game. When kid-brother Dick, who, imp-like, found amusement in his elder’s misfortune, referred slightingly to Jack as having been “fired,” Mike McKay threatened to lick him on the spot.

“You’re a big fool, Dick Sumner, or you’d know that it’s a lot harder thing to get off a team of your own accord when you’re on it, than to get put on when you’re off. I’d be proud of him if he was my brother. Besides, he’ll get back.”

“The team’s playing a lot better since he’s off; everybody says so,” answered Dick, bound to maintain his position, yet secretly pleased at this authoritative recognition of his brother’s merits.

“It isn’t because he’s off, it’s because Jason Dunn’s off. He never was any good. I knew it all the time. He’s afraid of any fellow his size.”

Dick had nothing to say in favor of Jason Dunn, so he took another tack.

“Newbury’ll beat ’em anyway, so what difference does it make?”

“It may make a lot of difference,” answered the oracle of the fifth. “Newbury may beat us, and they may not. If big Bumpus doesn’t bust, we’re going to have a solid line, and the ends are great! It’ll be a corking game all right, whichever wins. And you don’t want to go around saying we’re going to be licked!”

“I don’t say it to anybody but you,” Dick interposed hastily.

“You don’t want to say it to any one,” continued Mike, with a severity quite judicial. “Just try to make everybody think we’re going to win. You know how Phillips had us all scared when the fourth played Suffolk, with his talk about how big and strong they were, and how we couldn’t possibly down ’em, and all that, till we lost our nerve and almost let ’em beat us?”

Dick remembered.

“It’s the same with the big team; they’ve got to be encouraged. Harrison deserves it, too, for firing Jason.”

This principle Mike had an opportunity to put into practice the next morning when he passed a knot of older boys gathered at the corner of the school building, where they waited for the nine o’clock bell to ring and meantime swapped news and jokes and covertly watched the girls who by twos and threes and fours passed on the other side of the street on the way to Miss Wheeler’s school. Eaton reached out and seized the boy by the shoulder. “Ticket for the game?” he demanded.

“Got one,” said Mike, coolly, shaking himself free.

“What do you say, Mike,” asked Wilmot; “are we going to beat Newbury?”

“Sure thing, only they’ve got to get those forward passes down better.”

“Do you hear that?” called Wilmot, as the boy trotted away. “Mike says we’re going to win. That settles it. No use to practice any more. It’s all up with Newbury.”

“He’s trying to make us win; that’s more than can be said of you,” spoke Talbot, disapprovingly.

“What’s the matter with me?” protested Wilmot. “Don’t I spend half my time tagging round after you fellows as manager?”

“A bum manager!” grumbled Horr. “Where are those W sweaters?”

“Mike is doing his little best to build up a school sentiment behind us,” continued Talbot, “and you—well, you’re laughing at us most of the time. Mike knows what he’s talking about, too, when it comes to football.”

Wilmot assumed an indignant manner. “That’s a base libel. I’m trying to keep you from being over-confident.”

The bell rang and the group began to move. “I’d like to see a few signs of over-confidence,” said Harrison. “Everything seems to me to be going the other way.”

For the mid-week practice Yards brought out a team of Westcott graduates from college, who could furnish to the reorganized school eleven something sturdy on which to try their plays. Mac ran his game with few errors and handled punts like a veteran; the ends got three out of four forward passes; Bumpus wrestled valiantly against a big sophomore in the line, puffing and blowing and perspiring, but fully holding his own. The result was in the main encouraging.

Dunn stood on the side-lines, dressed for play and ready to be called in if necessary. While he waited and observed the game, jesting aloud with Stover to show the bystanders how little his spirits were affected by his retirement from the team, Dunn noticed a stoutly built, showily dressed man, with a square face darkened by a heavy, close-shaven beard, who, while following the play, seemed at the same time to be interested in the conversation around him. Presently the stranger, having apparently made inquiries concerning Dunn from some of the smaller boys, called him aside and talked with him a few minutes out of earshot of the spectators. At the close of the conversation he put a slip of paper into Dunn’s hand and disappeared.

Some time later, as Harrison trotted from the field across toward the locker house, he passed Stover and Dunn going in the same direction.

“What do you think of Bumpus now?” he called over his shoulder as he went by.

“You can make a football player out of ’most any fat old thing,” returned Stover. “It’s different in baseball. I say, stop a minute, Harry!”

Harrison turned round. “What is it?”

“We want to see you as soon as you get dressed about something important, very important! We’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

Before the allotted time was up, the captain emerged from the locker house, pulling on his coat as he came. Dunn followed him. Stover drew them both into a corner. “Do you know Jake Callahan?” he asked.

“The Newbury coach? I know who he is.”

“He isn’t coach any longer, they’ve fired him,” said Stover. “He was here this afternoon for a little while watching the game. He picked Jason out of the crowd and made him a proposition. Go ahead, Jason!”

“He’s terribly sore on Newbury because they haven’t treated him right,” explained Dunn, eagerly. “He says he can let us have the diagrams of all their best plays and the signals for ’em. He doesn’t mean to sell ’em, he’s just going to give ’em to us; but all the same if they help us, and we want to make him up a purse of a few dollars on the quiet, he’ll take it. He left his address with me.”

Harrison looked from one face to the other, but said nothing.

“You see, if you had the signals,” continued Dunn, “and knew what the play was going to be, you could stop ’em wherever you wanted to. Of course you wouldn’t want to do it too often, or you’d give yourselves away. It might be better to let only four or five good fellows in on the thing, and then there wouldn’t be so much danger of getting caught at it.”

“We could raise ten or twenty dollars for Callahan among a few fellows who’d keep their mouths shut,” said Stover. “I’ll attend to that. Yards needn’t know a thing about it.”

“Do you think it’s quite—honorable?” asked Harrison, hesitatingly. He needed no lessons from either Stover or Dunn to appreciate the advantages to be derived from knowing an opponent’s signals.

Stover grinned. “Honorable? Sure! Why not? Ain’t it their business to have signals we can’t discover? Wouldn’t you play for the right side if some one came and told you the Newbury right tackle was weak? Don’t we always try to find out what kind of a ball a batter can’t hit?”

“The cases aren’t similar,” returned Harrison.

“There’s no use in arguing about it,” said Stover. “It’s nothing to me. We give you a chance to get the game. You can take it or leave it. I thought you wanted to win.”

Wanted to win! Was there anything Harrison at that moment wanted more? He looked up and caught sight of Talbot and Hardie sauntering past the corner on their way to Hardie’s room. “Here’s Pete,” said the captain; “let’s see what he says.” And before the emissaries of the disgruntled coach could interpose an objection, he had called the pair over and was bidding Dunn repeat Callahan’s offer.

Dunn obeyed with alacrity, happy in the conviction that by the service which he was now rendering, he was taking a long step forward to the recovery of his lost popularity. As he spoke, growing more and more eager in the unfolding of the advantages to be gained and the best method of using the new information, Hardie dropped his gaze to the ground, where he kicked away impatiently at a stubby tuft of grass, while Talbot held his eyes fixed on the narrator’s face, his cheeks darkening and swelling with rising emotion. Slowly Dunn became aware that the impression which he was making was not the one intended. His eloquence wavered; his speech dwindled to an abrupt and confused end.

“Well, what do you think of it, Pete?” asked Harrison, quietly, swinging round upon his friend.

“I think it would be a dirty, mean trick!” Talbot burst out in wrathful staccato. “A hundred victories couldn’t wipe out the disgrace of it!”

“That’s just my opinion,” declared Harrison. “As you have the man’s address, Dunn, you’d better write him what we think of his offer.”

Harrison turned back into the locker house; Talbot and Hardie went off toward the dormitory. Stover watched the retreating figures for a few seconds in silence, then emitted a loud, mocking laugh.

“Have it your own way, you angels, you nice boys, and get slaughtered,” exclaimed Dunn, in deep disgust. “I’m through with the thing.”

He crumpled the envelope on which was written Callahan’s address and threw it on the ground. Several minutes later, when the coast was clear, a strange boy who had been watching from the outer fence, strolled across the yard, picked up the twisted scrap of paper, and thrust it into his pocket.