“If bread is the staff of life, butter is the gold head to the cane,” remarked Max profoundly, as he waved the butter-knife.

“I say, Max,” inquired Stanley; “how long did it take you to study that up?”

“I knew he had something on his mind,” added Alex; “he has been unusually quiet all the morning.”

“None of your impertinence, Alex,” Max was beginning, with mock dignity, when Louis said, from his seat farther down the table,—

“He made it up last night, before he went to sleep. I was just dropping off when I heard him mumbling, ‘Bread—staff of life—butter—hm—butter?—um—yellow—no, gold.’ I fell asleep just then, and left him still studying on it.”

“You don’t appreciate really good jokes,” said Max loftily; “and if you tell any more such stories about me, I’ll leave you out of the next lark I have on foot.”

“You don’t dare,” said Louis, laughing.

“What’s going on?” inquired Stanley curiously, for he had caught a knowing glance which passed between the room-mates, and felt sure, from Max’s suppressed excitement, that there was some frolic on hand.

“Nothing more exciting than the game to-morrow,” answered Max evasively, as he moved away from the table. “I only wish that Leon had been ordered for extra duty in the afternoon, instead of Frank Osborn. I’m afraid our side hasn’t much chance, unless two days of arrest have undermined Leon’s constitution. He’ll make trouble for us, if it hasn’t.”

The boys separated for evening study-hour, and soon afterwards quiet reigned over Flemming, for the members of the eleven went early to bed, to be ready for the event of the morrow, while the other boys soon followed the example of their mates. Long before “lights out” had sounded and Lieutenant Wilde had made his round, Old Flemming was as dark and silent as a deserted house, left tenantless even by ghosts. However, if any ghostly wanderer had been walking the halls of Old Flemming, that night at midnight, he would have been surprised to see a door swing slowly open and two boys step stealthily out into the hall, their shoes in their hands and a great, dark bundle under the arm of one of them. With long, noiseless steps they moved towards the head of the stairs, pausing often to listen and peer into the velvety darkness around them; then they stole down the stairs to the outer door which they opened as cautiously as they had done the other, closed it behind them, and passed out into the night. At the foot of the steps leading from the drive up to the level of the armory door, they dropped down on the ground and began to put on their shoes.

“All right so far, Wing,” said one of them in a low tone, as he laced up his shoe and tied the string in a complicated knot. “If we can carry this thing through, we’re in luck.”

“And if we’re caught, it will be bad for us,” returned Louis gloomily. “After all, though, the chances are with us, for nobody has ever tried anything of the kind before now, and they won’t be on the watch to prevent it.”

“We’re all safe enough till we go in again,” said Max; “as long as we don’t break our necks,” he added provisionally, as he glanced up at the armory which was dimly outlined against the starless sky above.

“Fine night for us,” observed Louis. “But come ahead; we don’t want to waste any time talking.” And he led the way to the buttresses which flanked the corner of a little wing near the front of the building.

“I’ll go up ahead,” said Max; “and then you hand up the colors. Bother the fellow that planned this building!” he added petulantly. “I’ve rubbed all the skin off my knee, trying to get a purchase against this smooth stone. Why couldn’t he have left it rough, I wonder.”

“He would, if he’d had the interest of ninety-two at heart,” returned Louis. “But stop scolding and hurry up there.”

Both the boys were as agile as monkeys, and by bracing themselves against the angle of the buttresses, they had soon climbed up to where they could gain a slippery footing on the steep roof of the wing. Once there, their way was easier, for a row of small bars fastened to the slates, showed where the janitor went up to the ridgepole, in the rare event of trouble with the lines for raising the colors. At the ridgepole the boys came to a halt, and seating themselves astride the sharp comb of the roof, they began to untie the bundle they had so carefully brought with them. The next moment, the roof at their feet was covered with something large and dark, which lay in loose folds along the tiles.

“Ready?” asked Max, after a moment of careful adjustment.

“Ready,” answered Louis from his post farther back on the roof.

“Let her go, then!” And there was a sound of rasping cordage, as the dark mass slowly rose into the air.

“Catch hold of me, while I make this fast,” said Max. Then he bent forward over the edge of the roof, for a moment. “Now,” he continued, as he cautiously rose to a perpendicular once more, “if they don’t stare to-morrow morning, when they go to put up the colors, my name’s not Max Eliot.”

“Won’t Paul be wild, though, to think that none of his men were bright enough to think of it?” said Louis, with a chuckle, as he prepared to descend.

Max followed him at a little distance, and half their way was safely accomplished when Louis heard a sudden slip, followed by a heavy thud and a suppressed exclamation from Max.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, in the same low tone in which all their conversation had been carried on.

“Missed one of the steps and sat down,” replied Max wrathfully. “I wouldn’t mind the thump; but I hit on one of these beastly nails and I felt something give out. If I’ve torn a hole in my coat, it will give the whole thing away. I could build a better armory than this, myself,” he added, as he scrambled to his feet again.

“Safe!” ejaculated Louis, when the door of their room had once more closed behind them. “We’ve put the thing through, Max, and I don’t see how we can get caught.”

“Unless my coat tells the story,” said Max ruefully, as he pulled off the offending garment and felt up and down the back. “Here ’tis,” he continued; “a great three-cornered tear, large enough to put my head through. However am I going to mend it, so it won’t show?”

“You can pin it up,” said Louis hopefully. “If you can just get through the morning, you can let it go that was torn in a scrimmage. But do go to bed, for we mustn’t be sleepy in the morning.”

Louis’s warning was unnecessary, for the excitement of their escapade and of the coming game kept the boys from sleeping soundly during the few remaining hours of the night; and the first light of the morning found Max, partly dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed, with his mouth full of pins, as he tried to repair the damages wrought by his fall.

“How does this go, Wing?” he asked, slipping on the coat and turning his back to Louis who was still in bed.

“Like time,” responded Louis promptly and concisely. “It’s all puckered up and looks worse than the hole.”

“Then what can I do?” asked Max desperately. “I never could sew it up, even if I had the tackle; and it can’t go as ’tis, for ’t would tell the whole thing. If I only had another fatigue coat! Help me out, there’s a good fellow, for you’re in it as badly as I am.”

“Let’s see,” said Louis, raising himself on his elbow to contemplate the task before him; “my sister mends her gloves with plaster; why not doctor up your coat the same way?”

“Good scheme!” said Max approvingly, as he dived into his pocket for a tiny silver case.

Then, possessing himself of the one pair of scissors which the room afforded, he settled himself to his novel tailoring with such good success that he was enabled to put in a prompt appearance at the breakfast-table, with but little trace of his adventure of the previous night.

It was the unvarying custom of the school to have the colors raised on the armory, every morning at the hour for guard-mounting; but on this particular morning, the eyes of the early stragglers about the grounds were met by a new feature in the landscape. From the top of the flagpole on the armory, a flag was already waving in the morning wind; but instead of the familiar stars and bars of the national tricolor, there flaunted a huge blue cambric banner, inscribed in golden letters with the legend: ’92 AND ’94. The new colors were promptly hauled down, but not before most of the cadets had gathered around the armory to look and laugh, and speculate as to the perpetrators of the joke; but neither the boys’ speculations, nor the doctor’s efforts to discover the offenders, ever succeeded in bringing to light the mystery of the midnight expedition of the loyal juniors.

The long-anticipated Saturday before Thanksgiving was a cold, clear, bracing day, as if especially designed for the annual football match. According to the regular habit of the school, lessons were over at eleven that morning, and a light lunch was served immediately afterwards. Promptly at two o’clock the procession formed in front of the armory, headed by the school band who banged and tooted away in their best style. Back of them walked the two elevens, gorgeous in their uniforms, the white jerseys of one side adorned with a huge scarlet F. on the chest, while the others wore a blue letter modestly surrounded with a halo of little golden stars. This impressive body was followed by the twenty or thirty cadets who had no active part in the proceedings, but went merely in the light of spectators. Lieutenant Wilde and Mr. Boniface, walking arm in arm, brought up the rear with befitting solemnity. To the inspiring strains of “Marching through Georgia,” the line moved off, turned down the hill and marched twice around the doctor’s house, while Mrs. Flemming and Gyp watched them from the front piazza, and Maggie O’Flarity, on the back porch, saluted them with a flourish of her broom and poker. Then, with the doctor in their ranks, they started for the ball-field, while the band, with a delightful impartiality, changed their tune to “See, the Conquering Hero comes!” And the small village boys that garnished the fence, waved their shabby hats in pleased anticipation.

The doctor and Lieutenant Wilde took up their positions as umpire and referee, for out of love for their boys they cheerfully resigned themselves to the somewhat doubtful enjoyments of these honorary offices; the spectators arranged themselves as best they could, and the players took their places for the struggle. The seniors realized that this was their last chance to cover themselves with glory, so far as football was concerned, and Leon was burning with a determination to efface the memory of his recent disgrace; while, on the other side, the juniors, secure in their faithful training, viewed their opponents with scorn, and encouraged their young allies to do their best. Louis squared his shoulders, and stood very straight, with the consciousness that his blue and gold finery was extremely becoming, and Max tossed a stray pine cone at the nearest village urchin, a tow-headed youth who dodged and chuckled in recognition of this especial mark of attention.

At a signal from the doctor, the play began and then—But why describe all the details of the game to an audience of American boys who know and love it so well, or to those older and wiser—and duller heads, to whom the whole subject is uninteresting, and its mysteries a sealed book? It is enough to tell that there were the usual groupings of wildly excited lads, the usual mad races across the field, the usual wild onslaughts of the rush line. Again and again Leon caught the ball from the snapper and passed it on to Paul for a run, again and again the fine punting of Max saved the game for the juniors; but the intermission had come and gone, and the issue was doubtful. Slowly, as if reluctant to leave the busy scene, the sun dropped towards the western hills, and the battle was in favor of the seniors. The critical moment had come, and the teams lined up for a scrimmage, with the ball far towards the junior goal. Very quietly and steadily Jack Howard took the ball, though his face was white with the intense excitement of the moment, as he waited for the captain’s signal to play.

“One—four—three!” commanded Paul.

For one instant he balanced the ball on its end, then snapped it back with suddenness and precision, rising again in time to block his man in the opposing rush line. With the same accuracy that his centre had shown, Leon caught up the swiftly-moving ball in the hollow of his right arm, and with one quick swing, passed it on to the left tackle who darted away down the field, only to be met full in his course by the junior right tackle, who leaped upon him with a suddenness that fairly hurled the ball from his grasp into the clutches of the junior men.

Again came the breathless excitement of awaiting the signal to play. Then the cry of the junior captain, “Five—six!” was followed by the answering signal from Stanley, to warn the snap back that he was ready. Swift as thought, the ball rolled back to his hand, and went flying to Louis who, seizing an unguarded opening between the end and tackle, sprang forward and went dodging down the field, half-way to the senior goal, before he could be stopped. There was a moment of deafening applause; then the tumult was stilled, for all realized that the climax of the game had come.

“Seven—two!” commanded the junior captain.

Again, as the ball rolled back to Stanley, the lines were broken for a desperate, hand-to-hand struggle. Then a triumphant shout from the seniors was met by an answering groan from the friends of the juniors. Stanley had passed the ball to the “scrub” who was substituting for Frank Osborn. Misunderstanding the captain’s signal, he had fumbled in receiving it, and the seniors had fallen on the ball.

For an instant, Paul surveyed the field. In spite of their recent mishap, the juniors were playing finely; still, when it came to a question of brute force, the advantage lay with the seniors, and he gave his orders accordingly. Massing their men into a wedge about the precious ball, the seniors ploughed their way down the field, offering a resistless, impenetrable front to the baffled juniors. Six yards, eight yards, eleven yards, on they swept. Then Louis, who had been watching for his moment to come, all at once plunged through and over the human barrier, knocking the ball from the hands of the man who was holding it, and capturing it in the very midst of the enemy, amidst the jubilant shouts of his allies. Ten minutes more to play, on an almost even score; but the advantage of position lay with the junior team, as once again the elevens lined up.

“Seven—four!” commanded the junior captain.

Once more the ball flew from Stanley to Louis who made a rush towards a weak spot in the opposing line, then, seizing the moment when the senior team had massed itself to protect the threatened point, abruptly passed the ball to Max, who shut his teeth together and punted as he had never punted before. Up and out flew the ball, far over the heads of the rushers, and away sprang the boys after it, with Louis leading the juniors, and the ends plunging along close at his heels. At almost the same moment, Leon and Louis reached the ball. Leon cast himself upon it, but Louis hurled himself on top of Leon and knocked the ball from his grasp. When they emerged from the pile of wriggling boys, it was Louis who held the ball and they were close to the senior goal. Three minutes later, the victory lay with the juniors.

The conquering eleven were immediately seized and surrounded by their schoolmates, for both the spectators and the defeated contestants united in giving them hearty congratulations on their fine play, although Louis was unanimously voted the real winner of the game. There were a few minutes of breathless, noisy chatter; then the band struck up “Hail to the Chief,” and the procession reformed, to march back to Old Flemming for a jolly supper, presided over by no less a person than the doctor himself, supported on either hand by the captains of the rival elevens.

“I say, Hal,” said Paul, stopping him on the piazza; “where’s that young brother of yours? He played magnificently, and I want to tell him so.”

“I don’t know where he is,” answered Harry. “I haven’t seen him since the game. Perhaps he’s gone up-stairs for something; I’ll go and see, if you want.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Paul, turning away. “He’ll be down to supper in a few minutes, and I can see him then.”

But Leon failed to appear at supper-time, and when Harry and Paul went to look him up afterwards, they found him lying on his bed, looking a little white about the mouth.

“What’s the matter, Leon?” exclaimed Harry anxiously.

“Oh, nothing much,” answered Leon, sitting up as he saw them enter; “only I twisted my foot a little in that last rush. It felt sort of queer, and I thought I’d keep still to-night; but ’t will be all right in the morning, so don’t say anything about it.”

However, morning found the ankle so swollen and lame that Leon allowed his brother to ask Lieutenant Wilde to come and look at it. Slight as was his knowledge of such matters, Lieutenant Wilde unhesitatingly pronounced it a severe sprain, and the village doctor, who appeared a little later, confirmed him in the statement and ordered the boy to give his foot a rest for some days.

“When you boys get a little sense of your own,” the old man remarked vehemently, while he bound up the foot with fingers as gentle as a woman’s; “when you boys get a little sense of your own, I say, you’ll leave off playing such an abominable game as football. It’s come now to where it isn’t much but a prize-fight, and all it’s good for is to bring in an income to us doctors. There! now you’re all right, but don’t you think of stepping on that foot for the next week. Then we’ll see!” And he took his departure, leaving his patient looking rather forlorn.

“This is fine,” remarked Leon disconsolately, when he had gone. “Here ’tis Thanksgiving week, and everybody going off. Between this and my row with Winslow, I am rather down on my luck, just now.”

“Never mind, Leon,” said Alex, who chanced to be in the room. “Everybody says the doctor only punished you because he had to, for the looks of it; and you can console yourself with the thought that the seniors are all saying that you did more than any other one fellow to save the game for them.”

“Yes,” added Harry; “and you’d better be thankful that you didn’t lay yourself up in practice. Plenty of fellows have done it before now, and there’s neither glory nor fun in that kind of thing, you know.”

“Much good that does me,” returned Leon ungratefully, though at heart he was proud of his success. “I only hope daddy won’t think I’m a hard case. But when you fellows are off eating turkey, think of me, starving here on husks, with only Dame Pinney for company.”

But Mrs. Flemming was far too motherly a little woman to think of leaving Leon for a lonely Thanksgiving with Mrs. Pinney, the housekeeper. Early the next morning, she knocked at Leon’s door, with a daintily-packed basket in one hand and the latest boys’ book in the other.

“I just looked in for a minute,” she said; “to ask if it wouldn’t be a good idea to have you carried down to our house, Wednesday morning, to stay till the boys come back, on Monday. Lieutenant Wilde will be with us, and we should all like this chance to get better acquainted with you. Gyp is lamenting that we can’t have Harry, too; but I suppose his plans are already made.”

Accordingly on Wednesday morning Leon was waited upon by a “lady’s chair,” formed of Jack and Alex, who marched down the hill to the doctor’s house and deposited their burden in a reclining-chair which was cosily drawn up in front of the parlor fire, close to a little table covered with the latest illustrated papers and a number of books of travel and adventure, such as boys love. From this luxurious retreat, Leon could watch his departing friends with calm indifference; for was he not to spend five whole days in the house with the doctor and Lieutenant Wilde, with Mrs. Flemming to coddle him, and Gyp to amuse him to the best of her small ability?