"Look at old Atkins, Sleep, reading again. George! he must be soured on life to do that."

"Oh, he's a freak," answered "Sleep" Forsyth, yawning and stretching himself, "or he couldn't glue his nose to an old book while the team was practising. I haven't any use for grinds. Hang this German! 'Meine Mutter ist krank, und mein Vator'—How did the Welsh Rarebit do to-day, Doggy?"

"Pretty slick. We worked that new trick in great shape; it ought to be a sure thing against Williston. Well, I suppose I might as well tackle these sentences too. 'My mother's a crank'—nice sentiment that. Do you think Travers keeps his eye on the ball, Sleep? 'Meine Mutter'—Hurrah! there goes the old bell at last!"

St. James was not a very large school, averaging only about a hundred and fifty boys, but it had a great football team, whose record was the envy of all the other schools in that part of the country; and yet, though the masters were all intensely interested in its success, they were in the very act, when my story opens, of passing resolutions which might have the most disastrous effect upon the prospects of the season.

"I am sorry to be obliged to take this step," said Dr. Langford, the Rector, "but it really seems necessary if we wish to keep up the standard of scholarship in the school. Not only the dull boys, but the bright and naturally studious ones are neglecting their work shamefully, and becoming absolutely demoralized by this craze about football. Would you believe it, Mr. Watson, but Robert Fitzhugh in class to-day actually translated the line, 'Manes indium cursim ludo facto recipiunt,' in this way, 'The hair of the players, the game being finished, immediately received a cutting.'"

The masters all laughed, it was so characteristic of the right tackle.

"The plan will be worth trying, at all events," continued Dr. Langford. "I fancy, though, it will cause great consternation." And it did.

"Wake up, Sleep! Have you heard the game they have sprung on us?" cried Buck Graham, bursting in upon Forsyth. "It's outrageous; it's unconstitutional; it's—it's—low-down," he spluttered, pounding the table with his fist. "They say—Mr. Watson told Travers and Sargent, so it's straight—that the Doctor has made a new rule, and every fellow who doesn't get over sixty in classics will have to stop playing football."

"Well, I'll be—kicked!" ejaculated Sleep Forsyth. "That will finish poor old Buff Miller."

"It knocks us all out," said Graham, indignantly, "except the Welsh Rarebit. The fellows are having a mass-meeting in the gym about it now; they're in a fearful way. Come on over, Sleep."

The gymnasium was filled with an excited crowd of boys, all talking at once, and breathing out, like Saul of old, threatenings and slaughter. The inherent "meanness" of the new law went without saying, but how to circumvent it was the grave question.

"We might send in a petition in good Latin," suggested Fitzhugh.

"Yes; you write it," jeered Doggy Parker. "How about 'the hair of the players getting a cutting'? That's the way Fitz translated the sentence about the shades receiving the gladiator after the contest, Atkins," turning to a tall boy who was leaning against the bars, "to the Doctor, too. Wasn't it a bad break? I believe that's the reason he's put up this game on us."

"Well, it's all up with football," said Captain Miller, gloomily. "How can any one expect a team to play decently if they have to grind like so many old machines?"

"You'd better order patent duplex-burner, double-reflecting spectacles for us, instead of shoes and sweaters, Buff," said George Fluellen, the Welsh Rarebit, sarcastically, "and make 'Arry 'Arris coach us in Latin daring practice. Instead of ''Es a-'oldin' 'is man,' say, 'Agite!'—Line up!"

"We might just as well cancel all our dates," interrupted Lewis, the right end, "if we have to start in and dig old Greek roots like ground-hogs. What's the use of coming to school if you can't play football without studying?"

This was clearly the sentiment of the meeting, and it was expressed in as revolutionary language as they dared adopt, and for the next few days the spirit of rebellion was so rife that the masters had to resort to severe measures in order to maintain their authority; but the boys soon came to the conclusion that the Doctor's law was like that of the Medes and Persians, and that their best policy would be to submit with a good grace, for the day of the great game with Williston was rapidly approaching.

"I say, Atkins," said Doggy, putting his head sheepishly in at the door of the Grind's room, "could you help a fellow a little? I've got to know this stuff to-morrow, and the Welsh Rarebit's busy."

"Of course; come right in," answered Atkins, shutting his book. "I've been over it all once, so I ought to be able to help you."

They sat down to the Æneid together, Doggy groaning as though in severe pain; but the next morning he came smiling out of recitation, and shook up Sleep Forsyth to tell him that "Atkins was no end of a good fellow, even if he were a 'grind.'"

That evening Atkins was besieged by shamefaced members of the team who wanted help in their classics, help which he freely gave; and it became a regular thing for him to coach them in their uphill work, and his patience and good-nature roused their gratitude to such an extent that they rewarded him by confiding all their football hopes and aspirations, generally in the middle of a difficult passage which they were laboriously construing.

"Old Atkins really knows a thing or two," announced Buck Graham, condescendingly. "He agrees with me that the interference is too loose, and that we don't play quick enough. It's no end of a pity he goes in so for study. He might have made something out of him."

"'Maria aspera juro'—Maria swears loudly," read Buff Miller, the big centre rush. "I should think she might over such stuff. Did you see that beautiful run Paddy made to-day?"

"Yes," answered Atkins, "it was great. That means, 'I call the harsh seas to witness,' Buff."

"No, does it? I was afraid my translation was a little free. Don't you think Paddy dodges better than Doggy? But Doggy tackles and bucks the centre better. 'Maria aspera juro'—Maria, no, the seas, I call to witness—I let one or two men through to-day, didn't I?"

"I thought you played a fine block game. But let's hurry and finish this. Fitz is coming with his Latin soon."

So it went on day after day, the football team pitying the 'poor old grind,' while under his coaching they developed memories and logical faculties and almost powers of application, while their game grew daily stronger, and their scores against the little teams which they played larger, for the burning of the midnight oil over the classics did not seem to hurt their "condition" a bit more than the exclusive discussion of plays.

Few seasons pass, however, without being overshadowed by some misfortune, and just ten days before the important game Buck Graham was "snowed under" in a "scrimmage," and when they unearthed him from beneath the human pile they found that his leg was so badly wrenched that his playing again was out of the question. It was a fearful blow to the team, and Captain Miller, with the pessimism of youth, instantly gave up all hope of the championship.

"There's not another full-back in the school," he said. "Fluellen's good at a place kick, but he can't punt; and Forsyth punts pretty well, but a funeral's quicker than he is." And he shook his head gloomily, while poor Buck Graham lay on the lounge gazing ruefully at his bandaged leg and bemoaning his luck.

"Sleep, will you do me a favor?" said Atkins, the following afternoon, blushing with embarrassment. "Will you come out with me behind Harris's house while I try my hand at punting! I used to play full-back on the 'We Get There's,' in Bedford, when I was a little chap."

"You could have knocked me down with a feather," exclaimed Sleep, that evening, "when he said that! Old Grind Atkins going solemnly out to practise kicking was as good a joke as—"

"Your winning a hundred-yard dash!" interrupted Doggy. "Did you run his balls, Sleep?"

"Not much. Why, man, that Grind kicked as if he had never seen a Latin grammar; he kicked like all possessed. I'll be shot if he didn't almost outpunt Buck Graham himself."

"No!" cried Doggy, springing up. "No! Why on earth didn't you tell us that sooner? Where's Miller? Where's Sargent? Come on, Sleep; why, it's the best news of the season."

"Why didn't you come out before?" asked Miller, confronting the blushing fraud.

"I didn't think I could do anything; and when you had Buck you didn't need any one else."

So Graham's place was filled, and by no poor substitute either, for Atkins was found to have concealed a magnificent head for football behind a mass of useless classical lore.

He not only kicked well, but charged the line like a whole battery, and sent the scrub flying while he ploughed his way through for a touch-down.

"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins,
You're a very foxy one!"

sang, or rather shouted, the boys, after a particularly fine play, and Dr. Langford congratulated himself upon the success of his plan, for he was as glad to see Atkins entering into the athletic spirit as he was to hear the brilliant recitations which the team made.

The 15th of November dawned clear and cold, and a hundred and fifty boys awoke to the realization that one of the many crises of their lives had come.

The great game was played on the home grounds this year, so there was nothing to do but wait for the Williston contingency, which arrived at one o'clock, fifty strong, with all the appropriate accompaniments of tin horns, banners, and popular songs; and when the red and white sweaters made their appearance on the gridiron field, the "Rah! rah! rah! Williston!" quite owned the place. The enthusiasm changed sides, however, when the St. James team came out, for though they were plastered and bandaged, and shock-headed and disreputable, they came out to win. There was a little preliminary practice, and then the two captains declared themselves ready.

Williston won the toss and chose the west goal and the wind. The St. James team pulled off their old navy-blue sweaters and fell into position—Osborne, left end; Bates, left tackle; Travers, left guard; Miller (Captain), centre; Sargent, right guard; Fitzhugh, right tackle; Lewis, right end; Fluellen, quarter-back; Parker, McKloskey, half-backs; Atkins, full-back.

Brown was full-back and captain on the Williston team, and he scattered his men carefully over the field. The whistle blew, and the crowd drew their last easy breath, for they knew that the next two hours would bring a "nerve storm."

Miller kicked off, and the ball was caught and downed by Williston.

Then the teams lined up for the first scrimmage. "4, 3, 7, 92," cried Brown, and the little half-back bucked the centre like a man; but Buff stood firm. Twice they tried to break through the line, and twice they were downed in their tracks. Then the ball was passed back to Brown, and he made his first punt. The crowd watched in breathless suspense to see if Atkins would fumble, for no one felt sure of such a new star. But the Grind caught it squarely, and started off, dodging, doubling, butting over, and gaining twenty yards before he was finally downed.

It was a beautiful run, and the grand stand rang with the cheers for "Tommy Atkins," who blushed and grinned as he went back to his place.

Then Doggy was shot through the centre for ten yards, and Paddy for five. Sargent went round the end for three, Travers plunged for five more, and amid frantic applause and a mad flutter of navy blue, Doggy broke through the right tackle, and, well guarded by Miller and Sargent, dashed down the field, and was only brought to earth by Brown on Williston's ten-yard line.

"Line up," cried Buff, giving the signal. "We've got to score now."

Doggy went at the centre like a battering-ram, but Williston had braced for the charge. Then they tried a trick with Bates, but that failed too. Atkins dropped back for a kick, but it was only a bluff, for Doggy took the ball, and when the heaving, swaying, struggling mass went down, the right half-back was lying, with his wind temporarily knocked out, but safely across the fatal line.

The Welsh Rarebit kicked a clean goal, and the St. James boys relieved their pent-up feelings. It was on such occasions that Forsyth's claims to popularity and latent genius justified themselves.

"John Brown's football team is looking for a hole,"

he improvised, smiling cheerfully at the discomfited Willistonians.

"John Brown's football team is looking for a hole,
John Brown's football team is looking for a hole—"

the crowd had joined in at the top of their lungs—

"While we go scoring on."

Buck Graham, hobbling on crutches along the side lines, was radiant, for Atkins seemed to remember all his "pointers," and to be playing really scientific football. The poor fellow ached to go in himself, but that being impossible, it did his heart good to see the substitute holding up the honor of the school.

The game wasn't won yet, however, for though the defensive work of the Williston team had not been very strong, they commenced to play a snappy aggressive game which St. James found hard to block. Bates and Fitzhugh had their hands full with the two tackles, who were as tricky as they were quick, twice getting fifteen yards on alleged "holding in the line."

They forced the ball by small gains slowly down the field, until they had it on the twenty-yard line, and there it staid for two downs. Then Brown dropped back for a try at goal, and the next minute the ball went sailing over the bar to a triumphant chorus of Williston cheers.

There was twenty minutes more of fluctuating fortune and harrowing suspense, for the ball changed hands several times on fumbles and fouls, and the two backs punted freely, but the first half ended with the score still six to five.

During the intermission the schools kept up a constant fire of songs and cheers, for their spirits were away above par. Even Williston was not sufficiently depressed by the lead of one point. They thought it still "anybody's game," but most probably theirs.

The second half commenced amid great enthusiasm, for both teams were warming to their work, and playing in a style that no college eleven need be ashamed of; and as the alumni on the benches watched the steady interference, the good runs, clean tackles, and long kicks, they shook their heads wisely, and prophesied of each one, "That man will make the Harvard, Yale, or Princeton 'varsity sure."

"Look!" cried Buck Graham, excitedly. "There goes Brown round the end! Ah, Doggy has him!"

Yes, Doggy had him, and, what was still better, the ball too. Then St. James settled down to score, and by short hard rushes and clever tricks they worked the ball down, actually down to the ten-yard line, and there they lost it on a claim of foul—for off-side play. It was hard luck, and Sleep Forsyth groaned aloud.

Williston punted, and the lightning-express ends went down the field like trolley-cars; but they could not "rattle" Atkins, and St. James put the ball in play once more. Five yards, a desperate scrimmage, and then a wild shout of joy, and the air was full of fluttering red and white, and all the dark blue flags were furled, for it was Brown and not Paddy who, when the tangled mass rolled off, was found clasping the ball.

Buck Graham got up, leaning heavily on his crutches. It was perhaps Williston's last chance, and she would certainly make the most of it.

Three yards—ten yards—five yards—the ball was working towards the goal, was getting perilously close. Then St. James rallied; the rush-line stood like a stone wall, and the foxy little Welsh Rarebit stopped a very keen trick and made the prettiest tackle of the day.

Two downs. Captain Brown gave his signal and dropped back for another goal from the field; but Miller, dear old fat Buff, broke desperately through and blocked the kick.

There was a second of wild confusion, and then the crowd saw the long legs of Tommy Atkins making for the goal, the oblong leather well under his arm.

Of course he made his touch-down—the whole German army couldn't have stopped him then. And when the Welsh Rarebit kicked the goal you would have thought that the reign of terror had come again; you could almost hear the throats crack; and yet when time was called, and the score still stood 12 to 5, there was voice enough left for a deafening roar, which only boiled down slowly, gradually into an intelligible cheer.

Then Sleep Forsyth, his face purple with excitement, stood up on the highest bench and managed to make himself heard above the din.

"Now, boys," he shouted, "here's to the old Grind, and let everybody sing!"

At this command the crowd joined hoarsely in, led by the thoroughly waked up Sleeper.

"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins,"

they sang with cracked and gasping voices—

"You're a great and noble one;
You're a credit to the classics,
For you made a brilliant run.
May your drop-kick never fail you,
May your aim be ever true.
Three cheers for old Grind Atkins,
Here's St. James's love to you."

"I think," said Dr. Langford, smiling as he congratulated the happy Captain, "that the equilibrium of the school has at length been satisfactorily adjusted since Atkins has become a football hero."

Big Buff Miller beamed from ear to ear. "It's a finest kind of a grind on us," he said, "and we're proud to acknowledge it, though Doggy says it's too bad a pun."