Two days later the third squad ceased to be and all but four of its members retired to private life. Of those four, one was Steve. Steve went on to the second team as substitute end. With him went Carmine, Peters and Saunders, while from the second a batch of half-a-dozen youths disappeared. That was the eighteenth of October. The candidates who had survived this final cut were safe to finish the season out. Of them some twenty-four were on the 'varsity and sixteen on the second. The preliminary season was ended, and with the next game, that with Benton Military College, which was to be played at Hastings-on-Sound, the serious work might be said to begin.

The second, under Brownell, became a separate aggregation, moved to its own training table in the dining-hall, had its own signals and practised on its own gridiron. It even had its own coach, for a graduate named Boutelle—soon shortened to "Boots"—appeared on the scene and took command. "Boots" was a rather large man of thirty-odd years who had graduated from Brimfield before the days of football there. He had learned the game very thoroughly, however, at college, and was enthusiastically eager to impart his knowledge. He was a friend of Mr. Robey, and it was understood that he was giving his services as a favour to the head coach. But it was soon evident that he was thoroughly enjoying it, and he entered into his task with heart and soul. In fact he was so anxious to develop a good team that one of the first things he did was to unwittingly fall foul of the faculty. The third day there he announced that until further notice there would be morning practice between ten and twelve for all who could attend it. Morning practice lasted one day. Then faculty drew the attention of Mr. Boutelle to the rule which forbade the use of the athletic field to students during recitation hours. Mr. Boutelle was disgusted and tried to argue about it with the principal, but had to give in finally. But in spite of being required to limit practice to the afternoon hours, the second came fast and there were some very pretty games between it and the 'varsity in those days.

Steve started in as a second choice right end, a chap named Sherrard having first claim to the position. Tom was plugging along at right guard and doing well. He was a trifle light for the place, but he was a steady player and a heady one and it took him less than a fortnight to oust his rival from the position. Tom was a surprise both to himself and to Steve. Steve had never taken his chum very seriously as a football player, probably because Tom was not the spectacular sort, but he was forced to acknowledge now that the latter had beaten him at his own game!

The members of the second didn't see the Benton game for the reason that "Boots" wouldn't consider it at all. What, waste an afternoon looking on when they might be holding practice? Not if he knew it! But the absence of some sixteen members of the second team didn't keep Brimfield from being well represented at that contest, for most every other fellow in school journeyed across to Hastings-on-Sound with the 'varsity and witnessed a very good, if in one way unsatisfactory, game. For Brimfield and Benton tussled with each other through four ten-minute periods without a score. Perhaps Benton had slightly the better of the argument, although not many Brimfieldians would acknowledge it. At least, it is true that Benton came nearer to scoring than her adversary when, on Brimfield's five-yard line, she lost possession of the ball by a fumble. On the other hand, Brimfield tried one field-goal from an impossible angle and missed.

The next Monday, with several of the regulars out of the 'varsity line-up, the second won a 6 to 0 victory, and "Boots," choosing to ignore the 'varsity's weakness on that occasion, requested the second to observe what could be accomplished by making the most of their opportunities to practice! The fellows, quite as well pleased as their coach, although not taking to themselves so much credit as he accorded them, smiled, and said, "Yes, sir," very politely and winked amongst themselves. But they liked "Boots"; liked him for his enthusiasm and for the tireless energy he displayed in their behalf. If you can't make the 'varsity it is at least something to be able to help develop it, and that is what the second was doing, very loyally and gladly. And when in the process of aiding in its development it was possible to beat it, the second shook hands with itself and was cock-o'-the-walk for days after!

Steve, like most others on the second, had relinquished hope of getting on the 'varsity. A month ago he would have scornfully refused to consider anything less than a position on the first team, but Steve had had his eyes opened not a little. There was a difference between the sort of football played by Brimfield and the kind played by the Tannersville High School team, and Steve now recognised the fact. Perhaps he secretly still thought himself deserving of a place on the 'varsity—frankly, I think he did—but whereas a month ago he would not have hesitated to make the fact known, he had since learned that at Brimfield it was not considered good form to blow your own horn, as the saying is.

But if he was disappointed at falling short of the final goal of his ambition, he was nevertheless having a very good time on the second. There was a lot of fine fellows there and the spirit of camaraderie was strong, and grew stronger as the season progressed. The second was perhaps almost as proud of their organisation as was the 'varsity of theirs, and when, the week after the Benton game, they once defeated and twice tied the other team, you might have thought they had vanquished Claflin, so haughty and stuck-up did they become!

Steve played under a severe handicap that week, for once more he and "Uncle Sim" were at outs. With Mr. Daley's assistance and encouragement, and by a really earnest period of application on his own part, he had successfully weathered the previous storm and had even been taken into Mr. Simkins' good graces. But football is a severe taskmaster, if one allows it to become such, and what with a strong desire to distinguish himself on the second—animated to some extent by the wish to show Mr. Robey what he had missed for the 'varsity—and a commendable effort to profit by Marvin's teaching, he had soon begun to ease up on his Greek and Latin, which were for him the most difficult of his courses. And now "Uncle Sim" was down on him again, as Steve put it, and on the eve of the Cherry Valley contest he was in a fair way to have trouble with the Office. Mr. Simkins' patience, perhaps never very long, was about exhausted. He had reason on his side, however, for Steve was by no means the only student who was in difficulties at that time. On Friday morning Mr. Simkins had indulged in sarcasm.

"Well, well," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands, "I dare say it is too much to require you young gentlemen to study when it is such fine weather for football. What a pity it is that lessons and play conflict, is it not, Wilson?"

Wilson was too canny to make audible reply, however, and the instructor proceeded blandly.

"I wonder if Mr. Fernald would postpone recitations until after you have finished football for the year. I think I'll suggest it to him. For, really, you know, this sort of thing is only wasting my time; and yours too, young gentlemen, for you might be out kicking a leather-covered bag of wind around the ground instead of sitting here cudgelling your poor brains—eh? Let us say heads, rather. The evidence is too slight to warrant the use of the first word—cudgelling your heads, then, trying to 'fake' lessons you've never looked at. I sympathise with you deeply. I commiserate. I—I am almost moved to tears. My heart goes out to you, young gentlemen."

Mr. Simkins looked so sad and woebegone that the older boys, who knew him well, trembled in their shoes. The room was very silent. With Mr. Simkins the storm was always in proportion to the calm, and the present calm was indeed portentous. The instructor fought for a moment with his emotions. Then he sighed.

"Well, until we have permission to discard recitations, I presume we must go on with them, such as they are." His gaze roved sympathetically over the class, most of whom showed a strong desire to escape his attention. Finally, "Edwards," he said softly and, as it seemed to Steve, maliciously, "let us proceed with the dull and untimely lesson. Kindly translate the tiresome utterances of this ignorant man who preferred wisdom and eloquence to athletics and football, Edwards. You may begin where your—hm—brilliant predecessor regretfully left off. For the moment, pray, detach your thoughts from the verdant meadows and the sprightly football, Edwards. And—ah—don't, please don't tell me that you are not prepared. Somehow that phrase afflicts my ears, Edwards, and were you to make use of it I should, I fear, be driven to—ah—strong measures. Now, Edwards, if you will be so kind."

Well, Steve was not prepared, as it happened, but he knew better than to say so, and, putting on an expression of confidence and pleasure as though Mr. Simkins had offered him the rarest of privileges, he plunged bravely into a paragraph of Cicero's Orations. But it was hard going and he was soon stumbling and hesitating, casting about desperately for words. A long, deep sigh travelled from the platform.

"That will do, Edwards," said Mr. Simkins sorrowfully. "Your rendering is novel and interesting. It is, possibly, an improvement on the original matter, but the question very naturally arises, Edwards, whether we have the right to improve on Cicero. Of course he had his limitations, Edwards, and his faults, and yet"—Mr. Simkins shook his head slowly and thoughtfully—"on the whole, Edwards, I think perhaps we should accept him as we find him, viewing his faults with a leniency becoming great minds, tolerating much, Edwards, for the sake of the—ah—occasional golden kernel to be detected in his mass of chaff by such giant intellects as yours. You do detect an occasional kernel of sense, Edwards?"

Steve, miserably pretending a huge interest in the cover of his book, forebore to reply.

"You don't?" Mr. Simkins seemed both pained and surprised. "But I assure you they are there, Edwards, few in number perchance, but really to be found. Perhaps—hm—perhaps it would be a pleasant, at all events a profitable, occupation for you to make an earnest search for them. If you will see me after class, Edwards, I shall esteem it a pleasure to indicate a few pages of chaff for you to winnow. Thank you. Pray be seated."

That was why Steve was in anything but an enviable frame of mind that Friday evening. Mr. Simkins had pointed out exactly four pages of chaff for his winnowing, and the winnowing was to be done with pen and ink and the "occasional golden kernels" indicated by Steve on the margin of his paper. Steve was angry and depressed.

"What's the use of trying to get along with him?" he demanded of Tom. "He has it in for me, and even if I had every lesson down pat he'd be after me all the time just the same. If it wasn't for—for the team I'd quit right now."

"Don't be a chump," replied Tom good-naturedly. "You know yourself, Steve, you haven't been studying lately."

"Well, where's a fellow to get time to study?" asked Steve. "Look at what I have to do this evening!"

"You won't do it if you don't sit down and get started," said his chum soothingly. "You tackle the other stuff and then I'll help you with that Latin. I guess we can get through it together."

"It'll take me an hour to do those six pages," grumbled Steve. "I wish Simkins would choke!"

Steve got by on Saturday, with difficulty, but had a hard time of it when the instructor requested him to give his reasons for selecting certain passages of the immortal Cicero as being worthy of especial commendation. The rest of the class found it very amusing, but Steve failed to discern any humour in the proceedings. Fortunately, Mr. Simkins was merciful and Steve's martyrdom was of short duration. After that, for a few days at least, Steve's Latin was much better, if not the best.

The game with Cherry Valley deserves only passing mention. Viewed beforehand as a severe test of the Brimfield team's defence, the contest proved a walkover for the Maroon-and-Grey, the final score standing 27 to 6. Cherry Valley was weak in all departments of the game, and her single score, a touchdown made in the fourth period, was hammered out when all but two of the Brimfield players were first and second substitutes. Of Brimfield's tallies two were due to the skill of Hatherton Williams, who twice placed the pigskin over the bar for field-goals, once from the twenty-five yards and once from near the forty. The Brimfield backs showed up better than at any time in the season, and Norton and Kendall gained almost at will. There was still much to criticise and Mr. Robey was far from satisfied with the work of the eleven as a whole, but the school in general was vastly pleased. Coming a week after that disappointing 0 to 0 game with the military academy, the Cherry Hill game was decidedly encouraging.

So far Erie Sawyer had treated both Steve and Tom with silent contempt whenever he encountered them, although his scowls told them that they were by no means forgiven. Naturally, since Eric was on the 'varsity and the two chums on the second, they saw each other practically every afternoon on the field or in the gymnasium. But it wasn't difficult to avoid a real meeting where so many others were about. Roy Draper pretended to think that Eric was only biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to murder the two in cold blood, and delighted to draw gruesome pictures of the ultimate fate of his friends.

"I guess what he will really do," he said on the Sunday afternoon following the Cherry Valley game when he and Harry Westcott were in Number 12 Billings, "is to decoy you both over to the Sound some fine day and drown you."

"Just how will he manage it?" asked Tom, who was tumbling everything in the room about in his search for a mislaid book.

"He will probably tie heavy weights to your necks and drop you into a deep hole in the ocean," replied Roy promptly. "Then you will be eaten by sharks."

"And what would we be doing all the time he was tying the weights to us?" asked Steve sarcastically.

"Nothing, because he'd chloroform you first," returned Roy triumphantly, much pleased with his readiness. "You'd be insensible."

"Meaning without sense," murmured Harry. "It wouldn't take much chloroform."

"Huh! Don't you talk!" said Steve. "You'll never have brain-fever!"

"Ha!" scoffed Harry. "Sarcasm, the refuge of small intellects!"

"Come on," said Tom. "It's nearly three-thirty. Bother Sawyer, anyway. He's not troubling me any."

"That's all right," replied Roy, as he got up from the window-seat, "but when you wake up some fine morning and find yourself bathed in your own life's blood you'll wish you'd listened to me."

"I can't help listening to you. You talk all the time. Besides, I shouldn't call it a fine morning if I woke up dead. I—I'd think it was a very disagreeable day! Are you coming, Steve?"

"I suppose so," replied Steve with a groan. "I wish practice was in Halifax, though. I'm tired to-day." He got up from his bed, on which he had been lying in defiance of the rules, and stretched himself with a yawn.

"You'll be tireder when the first gets through with us," said Tom grimly. "Robey will sick all his subs on us to-day, I guess; and subs always think they have to kill you just to show how good they are."

"If anyone tries any funny-business with me to-day he will get in trouble," growled Steve as he pulled his cap on and followed the others through the door. "I just hope someone will try it on!"

Tom's prediction proved correct. The first-string men were given easy practice and faced the second for only ten minutes in scrimmage. Then they were trotted off to the gymnasium and the 'varsity substitutes took their places. Steve relieved Sherrard at right end in the second period and played so poorly that he received more than one "calling-down" by "Boots." His temper seemed to be in a very ragged condition to-day, and he and Lacey, who played at left tackle on the first, got into several rumpuses in which hands were used in a manner not countenanced by the rules of football. Finally, Steve was sent off to make way for a second substitute, who played the position so well during the few minutes that remained that Steve became even more disgruntled. When practice was over he joined Tom, Roy and Harry—the latter pair having watched proceedings from the stand—and made his way to the gymnasium in a very poor state of mind. Roy, who didn't believe in humouring folks, tried to twit Steve on his "scrapping" with Lacey, but Steve flared up on the instant and Roy was glad to change the subject. After that, Steve was gloomily silent until the gymnasium was reached.

As chance had it, the first-string fellows had just completed dressing and begun to leave the building as the others arrived there, and Steve, leading the way through the big door, collided with a boy who was on his way out. There was really plenty of room for the two to pass each other, but Steve was not in a frame of mind to give way to anyone and the result was that the other chap received the full force of Steve's shoulder.

"Who are you shoving?" demanded an angry voice.

Steve turned and confronted Eric Sawyer. "Don't take all the room if you don't want to be shoved," answered Steve belligerently. Eric was accompanied by a younger fellow, who instantly withdrew to the safety of the further side of the hall. "You're too big, anyway," continued Steve. Tom and the others, at his heels in the open doorway, gasped and stared at Steve in amazement. Eric's countenance depicted a similar emotion for an instant, and I think he, too, gasped. Then he sprang forward and gave Steve a push that sent him staggering away from the door.

"You fresh kid!" he growled. "You keep out of my way after this or you'll get hurt. I've stood about all of your nonsense I mean to!"

Steve leaped back with clenched hands and flashing eyes, but Harry stepped between, while Tom and Roy caught hold of Steve.

"That'll be about all, Sawyer," said Harry quietly. "You can't fight a fellow a head smaller than you, you know."

"Don't you butt in," growled Eric. "I don't intend to fight him, but I'll give him a mighty good spanking if he bothers me any more. Come on, Whipple."

Steve, struggling against the grasps and pleas of Tom and Roy, strove to get between Eric Sawyer and the door. "Spank me, will you?" he said angrily. "You let me be, you fellows! Take your hands off me! I'll show him he can't push me around!"

"I won't push you the next time," laughed Eric contemptuously. "I'll turn you over my knee! You, too, you other freshie." He glared at Tom, but Tom was too busy with Steve to make reply. "You want to both of you keep away from me after this."

And, with a final scowl, Eric went out, followed by his companion who ventured a weak and ingratiating smile as he passed. By that time the hall was half-full of curious spectators, and Steve, finding his enemy gone, allowed himself to be conducted to the stairway.

"I'm not through with him yet," he declared. "I'll teach him to push me around like that!"

"Oh, cut it!" said Roy disgustedly. "Don't be a silly ass, Steve. You began it yourself and you got what was coming to you. A nice fight you would put up against Sawyer!"

"It's no affair of yours," replied Steve hotly. "No one asked you to butt in on it, anyway. You too, Tom! The next time you keep out of my affairs. Do you understand?"

Tom said nothing, but Roy shrugged his shoulders as they entered the locker room. "If you want to make a fool of yourself, all right, Steve. I won't interfere again. Don't worry."

"I'm no more of a fool than you are," responded Steve. "You fellows make me sick. Just because Sawyer's a little bigger, you let him kick you all over the shop."

"He's never kicked me," drawled Harry. "But if he tried to I'd run. I may not be a hero, but I know what's what! Put your head under the cold water tap, Steve."

Steve replied to that advice with a scowl, and Harry and Roy turned back to make their way upstairs again and across to Torrence.

"He acted like a silly kid," said Roy crossly.

"Yes, he was in a beast of a temper to-day, anyway. Wonder what's the matter with him. He's like a bear with a sore head. He had pluck to stand up to Sawyer, though. I'd have run."

"So would he, probably, if he hadn't been so mad," chuckled Roy. "You can be awfully brave if you get mad enough!" Then he added more seriously: "Sawyer will get him some day surely, after this."

"Oh, Sawyer isn't as bad as he's painted, I guess," replied Harry. "The trouble with Steve is that he's pig-headed or something."

"He fancies himself a bit," said Roy. "He will get over it after he's been here longer. You can't help liking him, though, and I'll be sorry if he gets out."

"Why should he get out?" asked Harry in surprise.

Roy shrugged. "Maybe he won't, but he will if he doesn't get a hunch and buckle down to study. 'Uncle Sim' has got it in for him hard. Some fine day Steve will get an invitation to the Cottage, Josh will tell him a few things, Steve will get lumpy and—good-night! You see if it doesn't turn out that way."

"Why the dickens doesn't he study, then?" grumbled Harry. "He's got brains enough."

"Oh, sure, he's got the brains," answered Roy as he held open the door at Torrence, "but he hasn't discovered yet that there's someone else to think of besides Steve. If he doesn't want to do a thing he won't—unless he's made to. Look at the way he played to-day! Just because he felt lumpy he didn't think it was worth while to do anything but scrap with that other chap. Folks won't stand for that very long and some day Steve will wake up with a bang!"

"You going over to swim?" asked Harry when they had reached their room.

Roy shook his head gently. "Not this afternoon, I think, thanking you just the same. I'd be afraid Steve would pull me under water and drown me!" Roy chuckled as he seated himself and, thrusting his hands in his trousers pockets, surveyed his shoes smilingly. "Poor old Steve! He's in for a heap of trouble, I guess, before he gets ready to settle down as a useful member of our charming little community."

"Seems to me," said Harry, "about the best thing you do to-day is predict trouble for folks. You're as bad as What's-his-name's raven; you croak."

"The gentleman's name was Poe," returned Roy sweetly. "But perhaps you've never studied American literature."

"I thought Poe was a football hero at Princeton or somewhere," laughed Harry. "What did he ever do for American literature?"

"American history was more in his line," replied Roy. "Football history. Find your ball and let's go down and pass. I won't croak a single, solitary croak, old thing."