CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XITHE TOUCHDOWNBuck Claxton was genuinely worried. It was Thursday of the week that was to end with the post-season football game against Belden High, and the practice was going all wrong. The little Boy Scout, Bunny Payton, who as quarterback was the most important cog in the machine, wasn't "delivering."Because he was big and heavy, and because the regular team needed defensive drill, Buck had been shifted temporarily to the scrubs. And that was the reason, also, why two very poor players, whose names do not matter, had been substituted in the line. Coach Leland wanted to test his backs on defense.The scrubs were given the ball in the middle of the field. The two elevens crouched, facing each other, and awaited Specs' signal, which came presently, like the crack of a whip. On the last number, the backs broke into action. It was a line plunge, with Buck carrying the ball.The weak link in the first team's line snapped at once. Bunny Payton, backing it up, gave ground and swerved into the path of the runner. Buck, big, solid, a veritablebattering-ram when he was under way, looked as if he might crush this ambitious tackier as easily as an elephant might an ant in its path.But the ant, who was Bunny, did not falter. As Buck reached him, the boy leaped toward the runner, tackling low and fiercely, and brought his opponent to the ground with a tremendous thump.Buck sat up presently. He was unhurt, except as to pride. "Trying to lay me out?" he blazed. "You needn't half kill a fellow to bring him down."The look he gave Bunny made some of the other substitutes shake their heads wisely. The little quarter had offended his captain. It wasn't exactly diplomatic, and—Well, they guessed he wouldn't try it again.But a few minutes later, when exactly the same situation arose, they wondered what he would do. Again Buck took the ball on a straight line plunge; again his interference swept aside the other tacklers of the secondary defense, leaving only the shunted Bunny as a possible danger.Runner and tackler met. The two came together with a crash. Buck staggered forward blindly, tottered, caught himself once, and then fell heavily. Bunny rebounded from the shock, but he did not plunge to the ground. Instead, a very remarkable thing happened.In the very twinkling of an eye, so sudden was the transformation, Bunny ceased to be a tackler and becamea runner. In some mysterious manner, the ball that Buck had been carrying, snuggled in the crook of his arm, was now the other's.There appeared to be no tardy recognition of the shift on Bunny's part. Even as Buck was falling, the quarterback started racing down the field toward his goal. The point of the ball was tucked into his armpit. His hand clasped the other end. The biceps of his arm pressed hard against the rough surface.Bunny could run like a deer. Before the astonished scrubs could recover their wits, he was flashing past, dodging now and then, circling some more alert tackler, pushing off another with a moist palm, but always sprinting over the white lines that marked the field.But the surprising play was not yet done. Without any apparent reason, the runner slowed to a trot and finally stopped altogether. Specs rushed up and tackled him apologetically.A certain touchdown had been sacrificed by Bunny on some mad impulse.The little crowd of rooters that fringed the field babbled its consternation and disgust. The scrubs smiled knowingly at each other. Coach Leland plucked off the players who had piled on the boy with the ball, and then yanked the youngster to his feet with a practiced hand."What made you stop?" he demanded hotly. If there was one thing more than another that angered the coach, it was an exhibition of mental stupidity.Bunny looked down the field; down to where Buck was striding forward belligerently. Scrubs and regulars alike bent forward to listen. When he spoke, he faced the coach squarely."I committed a foul," he said slowly. "When I started to tackle Buck, I saw that he was holding the ball loosely. It had slipped out of his armpit. So, under cover of the tackle, because of some crazy notion, I jerked it away from him. I violated a rule. I'm sorry."Coach Leland opened wide his blue eyes, but he said nothing then. A little later, when he was by Buck's side, he asked his question."Did you fumble when Bunny tackled you?""Maybe I did," said the captain shortly; "it seems to be a habit of mine." He kicked at a little clod of dirt. "Hang it all, coach," he volunteered, "the—the Scout was grandstanding for my benefit. He's afraid of me."The practice that day ended with drop-kicking. Lining up the scrubs some thirty yards from the goal, Leland gave Bunny the ball, with instructions to boot it over the bar.Bunny failed on five successive attempts. Twice he fumbled good passes. Twice he caught the ball with his toe too much on one side. Once he juggled it wildly, allowing himself to be tackled before he made the kick. And each time, as Buck noted with wrinkled brow, opposing players were close enoughto threaten any kicker who might have fear in his heart.When he made his fifth failure, Buck groaned. With the post-season game for the State high-school championship only two days away, his quarterback, the very pivot of the team, was in a stage of cowardly panic. He wished now that the game with Belden had never been arranged; that they had been content with a clean slate for the season; that they had agreed to claim the title jointly with unbeaten Belden.Saturday afternoon came at last, with no change in the situation. The two opposing teams lined up."Are you ready, Belden?" asked the official.No answer."Are you ready, Lakeville?"Crouching just behind the line on which the new football lay teed, Buck Claxton nodded his head. The great crowd stilled expectantly. On the side lines, blanketed and squatting like Indians, the substitutes hunched forward their shoulders.The official shrilled a blast on his whistle. Before the echo had died, Bunny Payton's toe lifted the ball from the ground and sent it hurtling high and far toward the opposing eleven. The game was on.As he ran, Buck sighed with relief. He had been afraid of that first kick; afraid that Bunny's toe would thug into the ground, or hit the ball askew, or roll it feebly along the ribbed field.But now, with the game actually begun, the splendidkick-off gave Lakeville's captain hope. As Buck ran, indeed, he let out his breath with an explosive gasp, and the decisive way in which he downed the Belden fellow who caught the ball was proof of his renewed confidence. If Bunny Payton could only keep that yellow streak under cover!In the gruelling battle that followed, Buck was forced to admit that Bunny shirked no duty. His end runs were triumphs; his forward passes were pinnacles of accuracy; his share in the interference were niceties of skill and training. But always, as the tide of the game flooded or ebbed, Buck shivered apprehensively over possible situations that might reveal to their opponents his quarterback's cowardice.As they might have expected, Belden proved no mean enemy. They could gain at times; once, indeed, they might have pushed through the wavering Belden line for a touchdown, except for a fumble. And that fumble, as Buck recalled with grim pain, was his own. Couldn't he ever learn to hold the ball once he had it?But Belden gained, too. Like Lakeville, when they couldn't advance the ball, they kicked. And so, for three full quarters and part of another, neither team was able to cross the other's goal line. Now, near the end of the final period, the two teams fought in the middle of the field. A scoreless tie seemed inevitable.It was Lakeville's ball. As the players scrambled into position for the scrimmage, Captain Claxton held up his hand."How much longer?" he shouted toward the side lines."Four minutes to play," the timekeeper told him.Buck groaned. They could never make it; they could never carry the ball over those countless lines of white to the goal beyond. True, they might go on smashing forward a yard or two at a time, even making their distances often enough to hold the ball, for Belden was clearly tiring; but it would take longer than four minutes to reach the last rib of the field. Buck felt suddenly weak and limp. He would never make that glorious touchdown of which he had dreamed each night of the past week."Well, don't quit!" he snarled at his quarterback.Bunny stepped into position. "Line up!" he yelled shrilly. "Line up! Seven—four—six—two—ten!"Buck's tired brain wrestled with the signal. It was a new play they had learned that past week, a double pass, with the quarterback eventually taking the ball. Well, why not? Bunny was fast enough, and there was no element of courage involved. Besides, in this desperate eleventh hour, it was high time for trick plays.The ball was passed. As the Belden line braced for the onslaught, Buck swung in behind Bunny, took the soiled pigskin from him, ran with it toward the left end, and then slipped it backward into the boy's eager hands. The other team was jamming in front of theLakeville captain, and he plunged head-down into the mass, to carry on the deception. As he slipped and fell, his ears caught the first rumble of a mighty cheer. Perhaps—He flung off the fellow who had piled upon him and sprang to his feet. Down the field, almost in the shadow of the goal posts, Bunny was just going down under the tackle of the Belden man who played back. The trick had succeeded. They were within striking distance now. If Bunny had the nerve to try it again, he might score.Before Buck reached him, the quarterback was on his feet again, dinning his eternal, "Line up! Line up!" As the team rushed forward to obey, the boy spat out his signal, "Nineteen—thirty—seven—four—six!"What play was that? A cold wave of horror enveloped Buck. His numbed mind told him nothing. It was surely not a repetition of the trick they had just tried. He might have known it would not be, he thought contemptuously; this was a ticklish situation calling for every ounce of nerve a player possessed. Bunny would take mighty good care not to use himself in the pinch. But what play was it?"Signal?" the captain called.Again the quarterback rattled off the numbers.And then, abruptly, Buck's mind cleared. With only a precious yard or two to go, the play must be a line plunge, of course. Tricks were for long gains underdesperate conditions. But why "seven—four—six"? the captain asked himself in amazement. That wasn't his signal; and it was only fair, only right, that he, as the team's leader, should have the honor of the touchdown."Signal?" he yelled angrily.A third time it came. Buck knew the play now; it was Barrett, right halfback, between tackle and guard. So that was it! Another fellow was to carry the ball over the line. Bunny was venting his petty spite by refusing to allow his captain to make the attempt."Change signals!" Buck stormed.In his position behind center, Bunny straightened a little from his crouching position. "I'm taking the responsibility for this play, Buck," he said evenly. And then, like a flash, the signal rolled out once more, the ball chugged into the quarterback's hands, and the two teams were scrimmaging.To his credit, be it said that Buck charged with the others. The Belden line sagged, tautened, broke for an instant. The players eddied and tossed, and were sucked into the human whirlpool. Somewhere at the bottom, Buck heard the long pipe of the official's whistle. Then, as daylight reached him, he discerned the smeared white goal line directly beneath him, and on it—no, a good inch beyond!—the soiled yellow ball. It was over. The touchdown had been made.The balance of the game was like a vague dream. Somebody kicked the goal and added another point.Somebody kicked off. The teams lined up once more before a whistle ended the game. Lakeville was interscholastic champion of the State.Bunny slapped his captain on the back. "We beat 'em, Buck!" he yelled. "We beat 'em, didn't we?""Yes," said Buck Claxton distinctly, "we beat them, you little sneak!"The team cheered Belden then; and Belden came back with a pretty poor apology of the formula that runs, "What's the matter with Lakeville? They're all right!" And then Belden, sad, defeated, yearning for seclusion, shucked out of its football suits and into street clothes, and went away from there just as fast as it could.Before the game, the Scouts had invited the Lakeville squad to the Black Eagle Patrol clubhouse for supper. When the invitation had been extended, Buck, Barrett, Sheffield and Co. had looked blank, neither accepting nor declining. But at six o'clock they were there, appearing awkward and embarrassed, but altogether too happy over the result of the game to bear any resentment. That is to say, all of them looked that way except Buck, who stared straight ahead during the meal, and wouldn't talk, and didn't appear to be listening to the jokes and jests that were bandied back and forth.But when the meal was done, and Bunny, as toastmaster, with clenched hands under the table, where nobody could see them, and a forced smile on his face, which everybody could see, rose and said easily, "Iguess we'd all like to hear from the captain," Buck met the issue squarely."I'm not much of a speech maker," he began slowly (and rapidly proved that the literary and debating society had taught him to be a very good one, indeed), "but there's something that must be said, and I'm going to ask you fellows to listen while I say it. This last week has been a hard one for all of us, I guess, but I think the one who's felt the hurts most is Quarterback Bunny Payton."They all looked at Bunny, of course, and the boy felt his face go white. What was the captain of the football team going to say about him?"Back a while," Buck went on doggedly, "I thought Bunny was no good. I guess a lot of you saw what happened during practice—you know, when I was sore at him, and he tackled me and got hold of the ball, and then wouldn't make a touchdown because he thought he had committed a foul. He was—was in pretty bad, because it looked as if he had a streak of yellow and was afraid of—well—me. I thought so. But I was—was way off. It was just plain nerve that made him stop when he had the ball."And about those goals he didn't kick. You know what I mean. It sorta cinched what I thought about him—a coward, I mean. But that wasn't right, either. He had gashed his hand on a rock; that's why he fumbled and juggled the ball and dropped it crooked on his toe and—and everything."Then in the game to-day, he played like a trooper; topnotch all the way through. You know what I mean—that trick play that put the ball right on top of the goal and—and everything."Well, I wanted to make the touchdown then. Jiggers, how I wanted to do it! But he wouldn't let me, and I was sore at him all over again. You know what I mean—how I felt, captain and everything, and he wouldn't give me the ball. But I've been thinking that over, and I hand it to him for his nerve again. He gave Barrett the ball, and Barrett went over with it. Say, that riled me. Why didn't he let me do it? But—well, I've figured that out now. Barrett's a good old sobersides hoss; you can always count on old Barrett. And me—no. I fumbled once before in the game; I guess maybe I'd 'a' fumbled again, and tossed away the chance to win. Maybe. You know what I mean. So he passes me up for Barrett. Talk about nerve! Why, that took more courage, I'll bet, than anybody else here ever thought of having; about a million times more. But he did it. He knew the sure way to win that game. Understand?"Well, now listen to me. Maybe I won't go to Lakeville High next year. So we ought to elect a captain who will—sure. You know what I mean. And—well, say, how about Bunny Payton for the job?"It seemed to the little quarterback that the fellows had gone suddenly insane. Before his dazed mind could fully grasp Buck's suggestion, he had been unanimouslyelected captain, and Buck was congratulating him, and the party was breaking up."But—but," he stammered to Buck, "we need you for next year. Are you sure you won't be in school?""Well," drawled the ex-captain, winking prodigiously, "I may die before then, or—or make a million dollars and build me a school of my own, or—or something like that. Anyhow, you'll be a better fellow for the job than I ever was. You should have been leading the team this year."That was all, except that at the door Buck drew Bunny aside."Look here," he said. "I'm just beginning to realize that you Scouts are the real goods. You're fine fellows, and you're fine athletes." He looked warily over his shoulder. "It strikes me I'd like to be a Scout myself, if they ever get up another patrol in this little old town of ours."

THE TOUCHDOWN

Buck Claxton was genuinely worried. It was Thursday of the week that was to end with the post-season football game against Belden High, and the practice was going all wrong. The little Boy Scout, Bunny Payton, who as quarterback was the most important cog in the machine, wasn't "delivering."

Because he was big and heavy, and because the regular team needed defensive drill, Buck had been shifted temporarily to the scrubs. And that was the reason, also, why two very poor players, whose names do not matter, had been substituted in the line. Coach Leland wanted to test his backs on defense.

The scrubs were given the ball in the middle of the field. The two elevens crouched, facing each other, and awaited Specs' signal, which came presently, like the crack of a whip. On the last number, the backs broke into action. It was a line plunge, with Buck carrying the ball.

The weak link in the first team's line snapped at once. Bunny Payton, backing it up, gave ground and swerved into the path of the runner. Buck, big, solid, a veritablebattering-ram when he was under way, looked as if he might crush this ambitious tackier as easily as an elephant might an ant in its path.

But the ant, who was Bunny, did not falter. As Buck reached him, the boy leaped toward the runner, tackling low and fiercely, and brought his opponent to the ground with a tremendous thump.

Buck sat up presently. He was unhurt, except as to pride. "Trying to lay me out?" he blazed. "You needn't half kill a fellow to bring him down."

The look he gave Bunny made some of the other substitutes shake their heads wisely. The little quarter had offended his captain. It wasn't exactly diplomatic, and—Well, they guessed he wouldn't try it again.

But a few minutes later, when exactly the same situation arose, they wondered what he would do. Again Buck took the ball on a straight line plunge; again his interference swept aside the other tacklers of the secondary defense, leaving only the shunted Bunny as a possible danger.

Runner and tackler met. The two came together with a crash. Buck staggered forward blindly, tottered, caught himself once, and then fell heavily. Bunny rebounded from the shock, but he did not plunge to the ground. Instead, a very remarkable thing happened.

In the very twinkling of an eye, so sudden was the transformation, Bunny ceased to be a tackler and becamea runner. In some mysterious manner, the ball that Buck had been carrying, snuggled in the crook of his arm, was now the other's.

There appeared to be no tardy recognition of the shift on Bunny's part. Even as Buck was falling, the quarterback started racing down the field toward his goal. The point of the ball was tucked into his armpit. His hand clasped the other end. The biceps of his arm pressed hard against the rough surface.

Bunny could run like a deer. Before the astonished scrubs could recover their wits, he was flashing past, dodging now and then, circling some more alert tackler, pushing off another with a moist palm, but always sprinting over the white lines that marked the field.

But the surprising play was not yet done. Without any apparent reason, the runner slowed to a trot and finally stopped altogether. Specs rushed up and tackled him apologetically.

A certain touchdown had been sacrificed by Bunny on some mad impulse.

The little crowd of rooters that fringed the field babbled its consternation and disgust. The scrubs smiled knowingly at each other. Coach Leland plucked off the players who had piled on the boy with the ball, and then yanked the youngster to his feet with a practiced hand.

"What made you stop?" he demanded hotly. If there was one thing more than another that angered the coach, it was an exhibition of mental stupidity.

Bunny looked down the field; down to where Buck was striding forward belligerently. Scrubs and regulars alike bent forward to listen. When he spoke, he faced the coach squarely.

"I committed a foul," he said slowly. "When I started to tackle Buck, I saw that he was holding the ball loosely. It had slipped out of his armpit. So, under cover of the tackle, because of some crazy notion, I jerked it away from him. I violated a rule. I'm sorry."

Coach Leland opened wide his blue eyes, but he said nothing then. A little later, when he was by Buck's side, he asked his question.

"Did you fumble when Bunny tackled you?"

"Maybe I did," said the captain shortly; "it seems to be a habit of mine." He kicked at a little clod of dirt. "Hang it all, coach," he volunteered, "the—the Scout was grandstanding for my benefit. He's afraid of me."

The practice that day ended with drop-kicking. Lining up the scrubs some thirty yards from the goal, Leland gave Bunny the ball, with instructions to boot it over the bar.

Bunny failed on five successive attempts. Twice he fumbled good passes. Twice he caught the ball with his toe too much on one side. Once he juggled it wildly, allowing himself to be tackled before he made the kick. And each time, as Buck noted with wrinkled brow, opposing players were close enoughto threaten any kicker who might have fear in his heart.

When he made his fifth failure, Buck groaned. With the post-season game for the State high-school championship only two days away, his quarterback, the very pivot of the team, was in a stage of cowardly panic. He wished now that the game with Belden had never been arranged; that they had been content with a clean slate for the season; that they had agreed to claim the title jointly with unbeaten Belden.

Saturday afternoon came at last, with no change in the situation. The two opposing teams lined up.

"Are you ready, Belden?" asked the official.

No answer.

"Are you ready, Lakeville?"

Crouching just behind the line on which the new football lay teed, Buck Claxton nodded his head. The great crowd stilled expectantly. On the side lines, blanketed and squatting like Indians, the substitutes hunched forward their shoulders.

The official shrilled a blast on his whistle. Before the echo had died, Bunny Payton's toe lifted the ball from the ground and sent it hurtling high and far toward the opposing eleven. The game was on.

As he ran, Buck sighed with relief. He had been afraid of that first kick; afraid that Bunny's toe would thug into the ground, or hit the ball askew, or roll it feebly along the ribbed field.

But now, with the game actually begun, the splendidkick-off gave Lakeville's captain hope. As Buck ran, indeed, he let out his breath with an explosive gasp, and the decisive way in which he downed the Belden fellow who caught the ball was proof of his renewed confidence. If Bunny Payton could only keep that yellow streak under cover!

In the gruelling battle that followed, Buck was forced to admit that Bunny shirked no duty. His end runs were triumphs; his forward passes were pinnacles of accuracy; his share in the interference were niceties of skill and training. But always, as the tide of the game flooded or ebbed, Buck shivered apprehensively over possible situations that might reveal to their opponents his quarterback's cowardice.

As they might have expected, Belden proved no mean enemy. They could gain at times; once, indeed, they might have pushed through the wavering Belden line for a touchdown, except for a fumble. And that fumble, as Buck recalled with grim pain, was his own. Couldn't he ever learn to hold the ball once he had it?

But Belden gained, too. Like Lakeville, when they couldn't advance the ball, they kicked. And so, for three full quarters and part of another, neither team was able to cross the other's goal line. Now, near the end of the final period, the two teams fought in the middle of the field. A scoreless tie seemed inevitable.

It was Lakeville's ball. As the players scrambled into position for the scrimmage, Captain Claxton held up his hand.

"How much longer?" he shouted toward the side lines.

"Four minutes to play," the timekeeper told him.

Buck groaned. They could never make it; they could never carry the ball over those countless lines of white to the goal beyond. True, they might go on smashing forward a yard or two at a time, even making their distances often enough to hold the ball, for Belden was clearly tiring; but it would take longer than four minutes to reach the last rib of the field. Buck felt suddenly weak and limp. He would never make that glorious touchdown of which he had dreamed each night of the past week.

"Well, don't quit!" he snarled at his quarterback.

Bunny stepped into position. "Line up!" he yelled shrilly. "Line up! Seven—four—six—two—ten!"

Buck's tired brain wrestled with the signal. It was a new play they had learned that past week, a double pass, with the quarterback eventually taking the ball. Well, why not? Bunny was fast enough, and there was no element of courage involved. Besides, in this desperate eleventh hour, it was high time for trick plays.

The ball was passed. As the Belden line braced for the onslaught, Buck swung in behind Bunny, took the soiled pigskin from him, ran with it toward the left end, and then slipped it backward into the boy's eager hands. The other team was jamming in front of theLakeville captain, and he plunged head-down into the mass, to carry on the deception. As he slipped and fell, his ears caught the first rumble of a mighty cheer. Perhaps—

He flung off the fellow who had piled upon him and sprang to his feet. Down the field, almost in the shadow of the goal posts, Bunny was just going down under the tackle of the Belden man who played back. The trick had succeeded. They were within striking distance now. If Bunny had the nerve to try it again, he might score.

Before Buck reached him, the quarterback was on his feet again, dinning his eternal, "Line up! Line up!" As the team rushed forward to obey, the boy spat out his signal, "Nineteen—thirty—seven—four—six!"

What play was that? A cold wave of horror enveloped Buck. His numbed mind told him nothing. It was surely not a repetition of the trick they had just tried. He might have known it would not be, he thought contemptuously; this was a ticklish situation calling for every ounce of nerve a player possessed. Bunny would take mighty good care not to use himself in the pinch. But what play was it?

"Signal?" the captain called.

Again the quarterback rattled off the numbers.

And then, abruptly, Buck's mind cleared. With only a precious yard or two to go, the play must be a line plunge, of course. Tricks were for long gains underdesperate conditions. But why "seven—four—six"? the captain asked himself in amazement. That wasn't his signal; and it was only fair, only right, that he, as the team's leader, should have the honor of the touchdown.

"Signal?" he yelled angrily.

A third time it came. Buck knew the play now; it was Barrett, right halfback, between tackle and guard. So that was it! Another fellow was to carry the ball over the line. Bunny was venting his petty spite by refusing to allow his captain to make the attempt.

"Change signals!" Buck stormed.

In his position behind center, Bunny straightened a little from his crouching position. "I'm taking the responsibility for this play, Buck," he said evenly. And then, like a flash, the signal rolled out once more, the ball chugged into the quarterback's hands, and the two teams were scrimmaging.

To his credit, be it said that Buck charged with the others. The Belden line sagged, tautened, broke for an instant. The players eddied and tossed, and were sucked into the human whirlpool. Somewhere at the bottom, Buck heard the long pipe of the official's whistle. Then, as daylight reached him, he discerned the smeared white goal line directly beneath him, and on it—no, a good inch beyond!—the soiled yellow ball. It was over. The touchdown had been made.

The balance of the game was like a vague dream. Somebody kicked the goal and added another point.Somebody kicked off. The teams lined up once more before a whistle ended the game. Lakeville was interscholastic champion of the State.

Bunny slapped his captain on the back. "We beat 'em, Buck!" he yelled. "We beat 'em, didn't we?"

"Yes," said Buck Claxton distinctly, "we beat them, you little sneak!"

The team cheered Belden then; and Belden came back with a pretty poor apology of the formula that runs, "What's the matter with Lakeville? They're all right!" And then Belden, sad, defeated, yearning for seclusion, shucked out of its football suits and into street clothes, and went away from there just as fast as it could.

Before the game, the Scouts had invited the Lakeville squad to the Black Eagle Patrol clubhouse for supper. When the invitation had been extended, Buck, Barrett, Sheffield and Co. had looked blank, neither accepting nor declining. But at six o'clock they were there, appearing awkward and embarrassed, but altogether too happy over the result of the game to bear any resentment. That is to say, all of them looked that way except Buck, who stared straight ahead during the meal, and wouldn't talk, and didn't appear to be listening to the jokes and jests that were bandied back and forth.

But when the meal was done, and Bunny, as toastmaster, with clenched hands under the table, where nobody could see them, and a forced smile on his face, which everybody could see, rose and said easily, "Iguess we'd all like to hear from the captain," Buck met the issue squarely.

"I'm not much of a speech maker," he began slowly (and rapidly proved that the literary and debating society had taught him to be a very good one, indeed), "but there's something that must be said, and I'm going to ask you fellows to listen while I say it. This last week has been a hard one for all of us, I guess, but I think the one who's felt the hurts most is Quarterback Bunny Payton."

They all looked at Bunny, of course, and the boy felt his face go white. What was the captain of the football team going to say about him?

"Back a while," Buck went on doggedly, "I thought Bunny was no good. I guess a lot of you saw what happened during practice—you know, when I was sore at him, and he tackled me and got hold of the ball, and then wouldn't make a touchdown because he thought he had committed a foul. He was—was in pretty bad, because it looked as if he had a streak of yellow and was afraid of—well—me. I thought so. But I was—was way off. It was just plain nerve that made him stop when he had the ball.

"And about those goals he didn't kick. You know what I mean. It sorta cinched what I thought about him—a coward, I mean. But that wasn't right, either. He had gashed his hand on a rock; that's why he fumbled and juggled the ball and dropped it crooked on his toe and—and everything.

"Then in the game to-day, he played like a trooper; topnotch all the way through. You know what I mean—that trick play that put the ball right on top of the goal and—and everything.

"Well, I wanted to make the touchdown then. Jiggers, how I wanted to do it! But he wouldn't let me, and I was sore at him all over again. You know what I mean—how I felt, captain and everything, and he wouldn't give me the ball. But I've been thinking that over, and I hand it to him for his nerve again. He gave Barrett the ball, and Barrett went over with it. Say, that riled me. Why didn't he let me do it? But—well, I've figured that out now. Barrett's a good old sobersides hoss; you can always count on old Barrett. And me—no. I fumbled once before in the game; I guess maybe I'd 'a' fumbled again, and tossed away the chance to win. Maybe. You know what I mean. So he passes me up for Barrett. Talk about nerve! Why, that took more courage, I'll bet, than anybody else here ever thought of having; about a million times more. But he did it. He knew the sure way to win that game. Understand?

"Well, now listen to me. Maybe I won't go to Lakeville High next year. So we ought to elect a captain who will—sure. You know what I mean. And—well, say, how about Bunny Payton for the job?"

It seemed to the little quarterback that the fellows had gone suddenly insane. Before his dazed mind could fully grasp Buck's suggestion, he had been unanimouslyelected captain, and Buck was congratulating him, and the party was breaking up.

"But—but," he stammered to Buck, "we need you for next year. Are you sure you won't be in school?"

"Well," drawled the ex-captain, winking prodigiously, "I may die before then, or—or make a million dollars and build me a school of my own, or—or something like that. Anyhow, you'll be a better fellow for the job than I ever was. You should have been leading the team this year."

That was all, except that at the door Buck drew Bunny aside.

"Look here," he said. "I'm just beginning to realize that you Scouts are the real goods. You're fine fellows, and you're fine athletes." He looked warily over his shoulder. "It strikes me I'd like to be a Scout myself, if they ever get up another patrol in this little old town of ours."

CHAPTER XIITHE ICY HILLTwo days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon, going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with such stubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when the following morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth; the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that night under the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result, Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, with cutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth that morning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistling cheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alert for some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from its swaddling clothes.His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group of what Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys in town were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Their ages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, andthey were clad in a collection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that would have made a ragman frown."Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appeared to be the leader. "How did you break your sled?""I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And my name isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White.""Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take a look at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over the runner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmith shop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coasting party till to-morrow.""Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toe of his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let's nail on a brace and try it.""Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfire told him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began to understand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathize with them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, Jimmie White," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?""Sure!""Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and—""—and what?""And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called, as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the door again.""No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequate to such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister.""What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up sat Peter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too like Peter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showed above the snug fur lap-robe."Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take my friends coasting.""Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of little boys."Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"They were. They said so emphatically and loudly."You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted with them, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other. Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse for the Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat, sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill with us, Peter?""I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a tree and tucked the fur cover more snuglyabout his little brother. "Say, I—I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me.""Come ahead!"By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost before it had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scrambling aboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and the others piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the big sled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot. The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness; so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of an angle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemed even steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly."Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder."I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far from convincing.Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail. Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when the bob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout grunted audibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again, swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have given anything in the world to have recalled that sound.They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others, pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin."I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a long sweep.""And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrett scornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn't run more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willing to take a chance. You Scouts—" But he thought better of it, and left the accusation unsaid.During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top, when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forward position."Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn this side of the railroad track, where the road branches?""Of course.""Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see, the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then around a corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It's dangerous.""I can turn this side of the track," said Bonfire doggedly."All right," decided Barrett. "I'm ready."So, it seemed, were the raggedy-taggedy youngsters. Bonfire braced his feet on the crossbar and gripped the steering lines. Another left-over boy, not the same one this time, pushed them off."Clear!" he shouted the warning down the road after them. "Clear for coasters!"Halfway down the slide, round the first bend, the long bobsled spun into a straightaway that was partially blocked. A heavy wagon on runners seemed to occupy the entire road. Bonfire saw it instantly. There was a chance—just a bare, scant chance—that he might steer by on the right, grazing the ponderous wagon. But there would be only a foot or two to spare, and at the terrific speed they were traveling a collision might mean serious accident.His quick eye told him something else, too. On either side of the road, the snow was banked high in great cushions. He made his decision instantly. Jerking desperately on one line, he steered the bob off its course and into the drift, turning it completely over and spilling its human load into the soft mattress of snow.Nobody was hurt in the least. The little fellows picked themselves up, righted the long sled, and dragged it back into the road. Two or three of them stared solemnly at Bonfire, but only Jimmie White ventured any comment."A good steerer could have slipped past that wagon, I guess," he said slowly. "Your—friend here could."Bonfire shut his lips tightly. What was the use? Perhaps, after all, he had been too cautious. It didn't matter much now, one way or the other, for he knew very well what Peter Barrett was thinking of him.They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the very crest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie White uttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointed a trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum as the first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled. Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering, the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the groove worn by the coasters.For a long moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment. Then, all at once, three of them spoke."He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," said Bonfire, with queer huskiness, "and—""—and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocks there—""Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It—Cree, it's my kid brother!"It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that. Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds were being lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who had spoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted it clear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flung himself and sled headlong upon the slide.Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzily from the running start, spedalong side by side, with Peter Barrett's on the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree's on the left. Far ahead now—hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire—the runaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way down Old Forty Five.Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little Jimmie White dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic efforts to keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in the chase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked them together.At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turn at a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on one runner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. It seemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. With a welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When they straightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder. Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it was clear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its white surface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forget the danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coast every shred of his skill.He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the wind friction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift the course by digging atoe into the trail would mean a tiny loss of speed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holding ruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered to each trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thought of his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, when recklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneer at the way he steered.But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. He had hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past the rock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there was still a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. He might catch it yet; might—no, must!Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snow pelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemed to leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them; then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularly dangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten half from his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled a little, but his fingers did not relax.He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued and pursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a little more time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, were a little farther away!Mingled with thescratch-scratchof the iron-shodrunners came another sound,—loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was. Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then, like a flash, came the explanation.It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroad track. If the child on the sled crashed into it—In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from the surface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcing himself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back on the trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freight train was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track. And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine would reach it together."I must catch it before it gets to the track!" he told himself. "I must!"The ice-drive filled his mouth as he spoke, half choking him. Already his eyes were encrusted with a film of frozen sleet, and objects ahead were blurring into an indistinct white mass. For the first time, too, he began to realize the doubt that he might reach the child in time. A cowardly desire to swerve into the snow-bank at one side, as he had done with the bob, fought for a place in his mind. He knew now that he could never pull up even before they reached the railroad track.But he fought back the temptation. "'A Scout,'"he told himself, "'is brave. A Scout is brave. A Scout is brave.'"Another sound dinned into his ears. It swept back from the frozen trail ahead of him, and presently he came to know that it was the frightened cry of the child on the other sled. So near it sounded that he could not believe the distance between them was more than the reach of his arm. But it was. When he lifted his head, he saw that a full ten feet still separated them.The sled ahead was already taking the slight rise to the railroad track. It would clear the onrushing engine by a few precious feet. But in another second or two, the path of the coasting slide would be effectually blocked by the train. This child would cross in time; he himself had no such margin of safety. In all probability, he would strike the very prong of the cow-catcher."Too late!" he moaned. "I can't do it!" Then, abruptly, his mind jerked back to what lay beyond: to the turn they had told him about, and the creek below, and the rocks. Resolutely, he held his sled to the course.As he swept upon the upgrade to the track, he heard from behind Peter Barrett's shout."Don't!" it rang out. "Don't try it! You can't—"The whole world seemed to roar at him. There was the clang of a bell, the hoarse whistle of the engine, the hiss of steam, the rasp of brakes hard-set. To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel, with a sharp-pointed triangle skimming low to destroy him.To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel.Page135.He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steel rail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the second click of the far rail—waited—waited—waited. Would it never come? Then—snap!—he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadow darkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster of iron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He was over safely.A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was some obstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forced loss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be calling to him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dully why he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sled with Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at his very side.He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed his fingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug his left toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, till the double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led. But there was no room to spare. Before they were around,they had climbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment on its brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.Afterward—some minutes afterward—when the locked sleds had ground to a standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and little Jimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot of Old Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the snowy ground, with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, but Bonfire was too exhausted to speak."I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There was honest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I—I did a lot of thinking back there," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I—I guess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thought you were—well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people. But this morning—" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top of the hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind, and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off—Do you know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly. I—Well, it—it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as they turned toward his little brother."Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."

THE ICY HILL

Two days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon, going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with such stubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when the following morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth; the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that night under the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result, Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, with cutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.

Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth that morning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistling cheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alert for some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from its swaddling clothes.

His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group of what Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys in town were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Their ages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, andthey were clad in a collection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that would have made a ragman frown.

"Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appeared to be the leader. "How did you break your sled?"

"I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And my name isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White."

"Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take a look at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over the runner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmith shop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coasting party till to-morrow."

"Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toe of his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let's nail on a brace and try it."

"Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfire told him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began to understand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathize with them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, Jimmie White," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?"

"Sure!"

"Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and—"

"—and what?"

"And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called, as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the door again."

"No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequate to such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister."

"What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.

Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up sat Peter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too like Peter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showed above the snug fur lap-robe.

"Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take my friends coasting."

"Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of little boys.

"Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"

They were. They said so emphatically and loudly.

"You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted with them, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other. Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse for the Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat, sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill with us, Peter?"

"I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a tree and tucked the fur cover more snuglyabout his little brother. "Say, I—I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me."

"Come ahead!"

By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost before it had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scrambling aboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and the others piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.

A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the big sled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot. The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness; so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of an angle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemed even steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly.

"Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder.

"I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far from convincing.

Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail. Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when the bob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout grunted audibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again, swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have given anything in the world to have recalled that sound.

They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others, pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin.

"I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a long sweep."

"And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrett scornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn't run more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willing to take a chance. You Scouts—" But he thought better of it, and left the accusation unsaid.

During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top, when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forward position.

"Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn this side of the railroad track, where the road branches?"

"Of course."

"Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see, the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then around a corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It's dangerous."

"I can turn this side of the track," said Bonfire doggedly.

"All right," decided Barrett. "I'm ready."

So, it seemed, were the raggedy-taggedy youngsters. Bonfire braced his feet on the crossbar and gripped the steering lines. Another left-over boy, not the same one this time, pushed them off.

"Clear!" he shouted the warning down the road after them. "Clear for coasters!"

Halfway down the slide, round the first bend, the long bobsled spun into a straightaway that was partially blocked. A heavy wagon on runners seemed to occupy the entire road. Bonfire saw it instantly. There was a chance—just a bare, scant chance—that he might steer by on the right, grazing the ponderous wagon. But there would be only a foot or two to spare, and at the terrific speed they were traveling a collision might mean serious accident.

His quick eye told him something else, too. On either side of the road, the snow was banked high in great cushions. He made his decision instantly. Jerking desperately on one line, he steered the bob off its course and into the drift, turning it completely over and spilling its human load into the soft mattress of snow.

Nobody was hurt in the least. The little fellows picked themselves up, righted the long sled, and dragged it back into the road. Two or three of them stared solemnly at Bonfire, but only Jimmie White ventured any comment.

"A good steerer could have slipped past that wagon, I guess," he said slowly. "Your—friend here could."

Bonfire shut his lips tightly. What was the use? Perhaps, after all, he had been too cautious. It didn't matter much now, one way or the other, for he knew very well what Peter Barrett was thinking of him.

They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the very crest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie White uttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointed a trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum as the first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled. Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering, the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the groove worn by the coasters.

For a long moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment. Then, all at once, three of them spoke.

"He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," said Bonfire, with queer huskiness, "and—"

"—and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocks there—"

"Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It—Cree, it's my kid brother!"

It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that. Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds were being lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who had spoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.

Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted it clear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flung himself and sled headlong upon the slide.

Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzily from the running start, spedalong side by side, with Peter Barrett's on the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree's on the left. Far ahead now—hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire—the runaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way down Old Forty Five.

Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little Jimmie White dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic efforts to keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in the chase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked them together.

At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turn at a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on one runner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. It seemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. With a welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When they straightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.

The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder. Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it was clear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its white surface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forget the danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coast every shred of his skill.

He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the wind friction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift the course by digging atoe into the trail would mean a tiny loss of speed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holding ruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered to each trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thought of his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, when recklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneer at the way he steered.

But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. He had hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past the rock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there was still a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. He might catch it yet; might—no, must!

Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snow pelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemed to leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them; then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularly dangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten half from his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled a little, but his fingers did not relax.

He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued and pursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a little more time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, were a little farther away!

Mingled with thescratch-scratchof the iron-shodrunners came another sound,—loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was. Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then, like a flash, came the explanation.

It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroad track. If the child on the sled crashed into it—

In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from the surface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcing himself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back on the trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.

He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freight train was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track. And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine would reach it together.

"I must catch it before it gets to the track!" he told himself. "I must!"

The ice-drive filled his mouth as he spoke, half choking him. Already his eyes were encrusted with a film of frozen sleet, and objects ahead were blurring into an indistinct white mass. For the first time, too, he began to realize the doubt that he might reach the child in time. A cowardly desire to swerve into the snow-bank at one side, as he had done with the bob, fought for a place in his mind. He knew now that he could never pull up even before they reached the railroad track.

But he fought back the temptation. "'A Scout,'"he told himself, "'is brave. A Scout is brave. A Scout is brave.'"

Another sound dinned into his ears. It swept back from the frozen trail ahead of him, and presently he came to know that it was the frightened cry of the child on the other sled. So near it sounded that he could not believe the distance between them was more than the reach of his arm. But it was. When he lifted his head, he saw that a full ten feet still separated them.

The sled ahead was already taking the slight rise to the railroad track. It would clear the onrushing engine by a few precious feet. But in another second or two, the path of the coasting slide would be effectually blocked by the train. This child would cross in time; he himself had no such margin of safety. In all probability, he would strike the very prong of the cow-catcher.

"Too late!" he moaned. "I can't do it!" Then, abruptly, his mind jerked back to what lay beyond: to the turn they had told him about, and the creek below, and the rocks. Resolutely, he held his sled to the course.

As he swept upon the upgrade to the track, he heard from behind Peter Barrett's shout.

"Don't!" it rang out. "Don't try it! You can't—"

The whole world seemed to roar at him. There was the clang of a bell, the hoarse whistle of the engine, the hiss of steam, the rasp of brakes hard-set. To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel, with a sharp-pointed triangle skimming low to destroy him.

To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel.Page135.

To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel.Page135.

To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel.Page135.

He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steel rail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the second click of the far rail—waited—waited—waited. Would it never come? Then—snap!—he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadow darkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster of iron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He was over safely.

A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was some obstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forced loss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be calling to him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dully why he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sled with Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at his very side.

He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed his fingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.

The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug his left toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, till the double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led. But there was no room to spare. Before they were around,they had climbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment on its brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.

Afterward—some minutes afterward—when the locked sleds had ground to a standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and little Jimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot of Old Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the snowy ground, with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, but Bonfire was too exhausted to speak.

"I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There was honest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"

It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I—I did a lot of thinking back there," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I—I guess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thought you were—well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people. But this morning—" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top of the hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind, and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off—Do you know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly. I—Well, it—it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as they turned toward his little brother.

"Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."

CHAPTER XIIIAPRON STRINGS"It's an outrage!" declared S. S. Zane, banging an indignant fist on the table in the Scouts' clubhouse. "Yes, sir, an outrage; that's what it is!"The subject under discussion was a bulletin that had been posted that day on the board in the high-school hall. It read:NOTICE!The following basketball players will report at 12:30 Saturday afternoon, ready for the trip to Elkana:Left ForwardKiproyRight ForwardBarrettCenterSheffieldLeft GuardCollinsRight GuardTurnerSubstitutesPayton, Jones, Henderson, Zane(Signed)RoyalSheffield,Captain."Spite-work, I tell you!" chimed in Specs. "You know who picked the players as well as I do, with Professor Leland home sick in bed. Sheffield did. He's captain of the team, president of the athletic association, and—and enemy of the Boy Scouts, isn't he? Well!""Sheffield's all right himself," Bi admitted slowly, "but"—he looked up defiantly—"but the others aren't any better than we Scouts who have been playing.""We were on the regular team when we beat Elkana that first game, I guess!" blazed Jump. "It was the other way around then, with Kiproy, Barrett, Collins and Turner as the substitutes. Right after that, Sheffield began to sack us, one at a time. There were three Scouts on the team that beat Grant City, then two in the Charles City mix-up, and finally only Bunny against Deerfield. Now there isn't a single one of us on the regular five. It's a wonder we are still in the running for the pennant.""Well, we won't be," prophesied S. S.; "not after this Elkana game. You just wait and see!""They certainly buried us the last time," said Bunny, making a wry face. "But so did Grant, and you all know we nosed them out in the rubber. I wonder—Bonfire, what's wrong? What does this new line-up mean, anyhow?"Number 8 of the Black Eagle Patrol stopped tappingthe table with his pencil and looked up. "Want the truth?" he asked, with a smile.There was a sheeplike nodding of heads. One and all, the Scouts had been won to the uncanny results of Bonfire's powers of observation."Well," began the tenderfoot slowly, "I have an idea Sheffield is trying to face Elkana with the strongest team he can put together; he'll have to if he expects to win, because Elkana has easily the best team, with the possible exception of our own, in the high-school league. I don't think he has dropped you Scouts because of spite."Bi bristled. "You mean that those other four are better players than we are?""No." Bonfire considered the case judicially. "No, you fellows are better than they are—individually.""But—""Wait a minute, Bi. I think I can make you understand what I mean. Basketball, you see, isn't like football, where the quarter calls a signal that tells some player what to do; nor like baseball, where you field a certain position, or bat yourself on base, or try to bring another fellow home. No, basketball is different, a lot different. When the ball comes to you, maybe you dribble it along and pass it to somebody else, and maybe you try for a basket yourself.""I don't see—""You won the first Elkana game," Bonfire interruptedplacidly, "by pure luck. You lost the second because you were outplayed at every turn. You'll lose the third and deciding one, too, if Sheffield starts the same team again, playing the same kind of game.""But you just said we were better players than Barrett and Kiproy and Collins and Turner."Bonfire looked him squarely in the face. "Better individually, I said. The trouble with you fellows is that you are too good. You can shoot baskets so accurately that you forget there is more to the game than merely looping the ball for a goal every time you get hold of it. Look here, Bunny, who shot the most baskets in the game we won from Elkana?""Sheffield," the patrol leader admitted readily."And in the Grant game? And the Deerfield game?""Sheffield. We aren't claiming, though, that he isn't the best basketball player in Lakeville. He is, I guess. But in those last games, at least, he had more chances to score than any other player.""Exactly!" said Bonfire. "And that is how Lakeville will beat Elkana Saturday—if it does. By teamwork, by each player's forgetting himself for the good of the machine, by feeding the ball at every opportunity to the best basket-shooter of them all—Royal Sheffield. Kiproy won't try to score, but to pass the ball to Sheffield whenever he can, and then hover under the basket for a possible miss; and so will Collins and Barrett and Turner. You four fellows might loop itin from the center of the floor, or from off to one side—sometimes! Sheffield won't miss one try out of five. Do you see what I mean?"It was obvious that they did. There was a solemn nodding of heads. Curiously enough, slow-thinking Bi was the one to voice the thought that was taking root in the mind of each of them."But why," he asked, "didn't Sheffield explain his system to Bunny and S. S. and Jump and me, and have us feed the ball to him in the game?"Bonfire answered with another question. "Why did you fellows think he had dropped you from the team for spite?" He waited a moment for the idea to grip. "Don't you see, Bi, that just as surely as you have been mistrusting him, just that surely he has been questioning your willingness to do him a good turn without hope of reward? The others are so glad to make the team that they will play as he says.""But we would—""Of course, you would," Bonfire caught him up. "But Sheffield doesn't know that your good turns are not done for pay, even in applause. He doesn't know that when a Boy Scout does a good turn, he doesn't wait around for thanks; doesn't even tell anybody else he has done a good turn. I am sorry he can't understand, because I know that if you fellows only had the chance, you'd play up to him as those others never will. But—Well, let's keep that eighth law in mind; let's be cheerful and obey orders." He glanced apologeticallytoward Bunny. "I didn't mean to preach," he added, smiling.Bunny smiled back understandingly. At that moment, he was thinking not only that Bonfire was a mighty good Boy Scout, but that he would make an equally satisfactory patrol leader. If the Black Eagles ever needed a new Number 1——"Going to the game?" Specs asked Bonfire abruptly."No—o. I'd like to, but I can't afford to spend the money."Bonfire did not mention the ninth law, about thrift, but Bunny knew the boy had it in mind. "Yes, sir," he told himself, "he'd make a dandy patrol leader. Wish he was going to Elkana with us; he helps win more games than any player."If Bunny had known of the problem he was to face at seven-thirty the next Saturday evening, between halves, he would have put that wish in stronger words; for he was to need Bonfire's advice and help more than ever before.At two-ten on the afternoon of the fateful day, the manager of the Elkana Athletic Association met them as they stepped from the train."Good news!" he greeted. "We have arranged to play the game this evening in the Hallworth College gymnasium. Come on; I'll take you right over."And a little later:"This is the dressing room. You can put yourclothes in this big locker while you play. Yonder are the shower baths. Now, if you like, you can use the main floor upstairs to practice till three-thirty; sort of give you the feel of the place, anyhow. Well, good-by and good luck to-night—only not too much of that last!"Captain Sheffield elected to take advantage of the invitation to put his five through a short, brisk practice. Ten minutes proved ample, not only to satisfy him that the team was on edge, but to bathe it in perspiration."Call it a day!" said Sheffield at last. "Now get your baths and meet me here about six, to go out to supper together."Bunny noticed that he left them free to do as they pleased the balance of the afternoon. It worried him a little. If he had been captain of the team, he would have warned the boys, at least, to loaf and rest as much as possible, that they might be fresh for the game. But, after all, Sheffield was in charge, not he; and Bunny knew Royal well enough to realize that youth's contempt for "tying anybody to his apron strings", as he had once put it.But the tiny unrest would not down. Ten minutes later, his body glowing pink after a shower and a brisk rub with a great Turkish towel, Jump fed new fuel to the worry."Bunny," he said carelessly, "you don't mind if we go swimming, do you? There's a big tank in there,with the water so clear you can see the bottom all over.""Sorry, Jump," the patrol leader decided, "but it wouldn't do. You'd tire yourself out in no time.""The other fellows are swimming right now," Jump protested.Bunny clenched his hands. "The Scouts, you mean?""No, Kiproy and Collins and Turner and Barrett. Bi said we ought to get your permission before we went in.""Not now," Bunny told him. "After the game, maybe, but not now." He watched Jump slouch dejectedly away. "I wish," he told himself, "that Sheffield had stayed around and told those others not to go swimming. It won't help their speed any in the basketball game."But at supper that evening, when they were guests of the Elkana team, the four boys who had been in the tank looked so fresh and fit for battle that Bunny decided no harm had been done. The business of eating a delicious meal, and of getting acquainted with their opponents, and of bandying challenges and promises and good-natured threats back and forth apparently galloped the hands of the clock on the wall; and it seemed no time at all before they were piling upstairs from the gymnasium dressing quarters into a room flooded with brilliant light and banked on all sides by a large and noisy gathering.Some official tossed a coin for choice of baskets, and Sheffield said "Heads." He laughed when he won."I don't see any advantage either way," he told the Elkana captain. "Pick your side, please."From the substitutes' bench, Bunny nodded his appreciation of this fine sportsmanship. After all, Sheffield had his good points. He watched eagerly as the Lakeville captain and a tall, rangy Elkana boy faced each other in the middle of the floor. Then the referee tossed the ball high into the air between them, piped a shrill blast on his whistle as it reached its top limit, and the game was on.What followed was so rapid that Bunny could hardly follow the play. Sheffield leaped and whacked the ball to the right, straight for the side. But Turner was there to make the catch. He dribbled it, dodged a rushing opponent, dribbled it another yard, and suddenly shot it, with a long underhand pass, across the floor to Collins, far on the left. Like ants, the players swarmed toward him; the whole playing court, indeed, was curiously like an ant hill. Collins bounced the ball just once before he shot it to Barrett, on the opposite side. Barrett spun it through an open space to Kiproy, who was in a corner of the great quadrangle. By this time, Sheffield had raced down the center to a spot just in front of the basket. Here he took a perfect throw, balanced the ball in his hands, and then looped it upward for the net, scoring the first two points of the game in exactly twenty-seven seconds."Oh, boy!" gasped Jump on the bench, "I guess that's teamwork." And the other three Lakeville substitutes agreed that it certainly was.But one basket in the first half-minute does not spell victory. Even before Lakeville had scored again, by an intricate triangular shooting combination that evolved a forward crisscross, Bunny fancied he could detect a laggard movement here and there; not enough, in any one instance, to interfere with rapid and accurate passing, but still a hint of possible future trouble.After that, while Elkana was looping its first basket and Lakeville countering with its third, Bunny saw more and more clearly that only Sheffield was maintaining the dashing pace the team had set in the beginning. Barrett was puffing hard and running with a slight effort; Collins and Turner were slowing perceptibly; Kiproy was making passes an instant before they were necessary. In another five minutes of hard play, with the ball rushed from one end of the court to the other a dozen times, the lessening of snap and rush on Lakeville's part was becoming hideously apparent. Elkana had scored twice more, making the count six all.Bunny knew the turn of the tide was at hand. The Elkana cheerers knew it, too, and yelled and tooted horns and rang bells and swung into a mighty rhythmical roar of, "One, two, will do!" It was a silly thing, Bunny thought; but it wasn't half as bad as the tag of, "Three, four, five, six; all scored on tricks!" when the goals reached that figure; nor the jubilant, "Seven,eight; just you wait!" when the Elkana team added another basket. Lakeville's total was still six.With the first half nearly over, the visiting team was playing with its back against the wall, strictly on the defensive. Sheffield was still alert and dangerous, but he could not shoot goals when the other players failed to feed him the ball. A dozen times, it seemed to Bunny, the captain broke up threatening formations of Elkana's almost single-handed; and once, just at the end, he shot a clean basket from near the center of the floor, looping the ball upward in a great arc and dropping it like a plummet within the iron ring that supported the net. But Elkana scored again, too; and when the pistol shot signaled the end of the half, the blackboard showed: Lakeville, 8; Elkana, 10.It meant defeat, Bunny knew, inglorious defeat. Lakeville was slowing and weakening; Elkana was only warming to the final onslaught. In a way, too, his conscience told him, the fault was his; he might have gone straight to the tank that afternoon and begged the fellows to come out before they tired themselves. He wished now that he had.Between halves, while the four exhausted players lay stretched on benches, Sheffield wandered down the aisle between the rows of lockers for a glass of water. Bunny took quick advantage of his absence."Bring a drink of water for each of them, won't you?" he said querulously to the three substitutes. He waited till they were out of earshot. "Look here, youfellows!" he began grimly, spreading his legs and leaning toward them in his earnestness. "You're ready to drop, every last one of you, because of that long swim this afternoon. Does Sheffield know about it?""Didn't mention it to him," said Kiproy carelessly. "Why?""Somebody should!" snapped Bunny. "Not one of you is fit to play another minute, and he ought to know the reason."Collins sat up. "Are you going to snitch?""No, I'm not. I'm no tattletale. But I'm going to ask you not to start this next half.""So the substitutes can go in, eh?" It was Turner's slur."Maybe they can't hold that Elkana five," flashed Bunny, "but they're fresh, anyhow, and not half dead. Will you drop out, Kiproy?""No, I won't!""You, Collins? Turner? Barrett?"In each case, the reply was a curt refusal. Barrett added doubtfully, "We'll be in shape by the time play starts again.""After swimming in the tank for nearly an hour!" Bunny cried scornfully. "You know better than that, all of you. Once more—""Time's up! Come on!" It was Sheffield's cool voice. The captain stood at the end of the long bench.With a sigh, Bunny brought his feet together andstraightened up. "I can't do a single thing," he told himself bitterly. "I won't snitch, and I can't force them to quit playing. We're beaten, that's all."Up the winding stairway marched the five members of the team; up and through the doorway at the top, and out upon the main floor of the gymnasium, to certain, inevitable defeat. On the bottom step, unconscious that he was blocking the way for the other three substitutes, Bunny watched till the last foot lifted and disappeared.

APRON STRINGS

"It's an outrage!" declared S. S. Zane, banging an indignant fist on the table in the Scouts' clubhouse. "Yes, sir, an outrage; that's what it is!"

The subject under discussion was a bulletin that had been posted that day on the board in the high-school hall. It read:

NOTICE!The following basketball players will report at 12:30 Saturday afternoon, ready for the trip to Elkana:Left ForwardKiproyRight ForwardBarrettCenterSheffieldLeft GuardCollinsRight GuardTurnerSubstitutesPayton, Jones, Henderson, Zane(Signed)RoyalSheffield,Captain.

NOTICE!The following basketball players will report at 12:30 Saturday afternoon, ready for the trip to Elkana:Left ForwardKiproyRight ForwardBarrettCenterSheffieldLeft GuardCollinsRight GuardTurnerSubstitutesPayton, Jones, Henderson, Zane(Signed)RoyalSheffield,Captain.

NOTICE!

The following basketball players will report at 12:30 Saturday afternoon, ready for the trip to Elkana:

"Spite-work, I tell you!" chimed in Specs. "You know who picked the players as well as I do, with Professor Leland home sick in bed. Sheffield did. He's captain of the team, president of the athletic association, and—and enemy of the Boy Scouts, isn't he? Well!"

"Sheffield's all right himself," Bi admitted slowly, "but"—he looked up defiantly—"but the others aren't any better than we Scouts who have been playing."

"We were on the regular team when we beat Elkana that first game, I guess!" blazed Jump. "It was the other way around then, with Kiproy, Barrett, Collins and Turner as the substitutes. Right after that, Sheffield began to sack us, one at a time. There were three Scouts on the team that beat Grant City, then two in the Charles City mix-up, and finally only Bunny against Deerfield. Now there isn't a single one of us on the regular five. It's a wonder we are still in the running for the pennant."

"Well, we won't be," prophesied S. S.; "not after this Elkana game. You just wait and see!"

"They certainly buried us the last time," said Bunny, making a wry face. "But so did Grant, and you all know we nosed them out in the rubber. I wonder—Bonfire, what's wrong? What does this new line-up mean, anyhow?"

Number 8 of the Black Eagle Patrol stopped tappingthe table with his pencil and looked up. "Want the truth?" he asked, with a smile.

There was a sheeplike nodding of heads. One and all, the Scouts had been won to the uncanny results of Bonfire's powers of observation.

"Well," began the tenderfoot slowly, "I have an idea Sheffield is trying to face Elkana with the strongest team he can put together; he'll have to if he expects to win, because Elkana has easily the best team, with the possible exception of our own, in the high-school league. I don't think he has dropped you Scouts because of spite."

Bi bristled. "You mean that those other four are better players than we are?"

"No." Bonfire considered the case judicially. "No, you fellows are better than they are—individually."

"But—"

"Wait a minute, Bi. I think I can make you understand what I mean. Basketball, you see, isn't like football, where the quarter calls a signal that tells some player what to do; nor like baseball, where you field a certain position, or bat yourself on base, or try to bring another fellow home. No, basketball is different, a lot different. When the ball comes to you, maybe you dribble it along and pass it to somebody else, and maybe you try for a basket yourself."

"I don't see—"

"You won the first Elkana game," Bonfire interruptedplacidly, "by pure luck. You lost the second because you were outplayed at every turn. You'll lose the third and deciding one, too, if Sheffield starts the same team again, playing the same kind of game."

"But you just said we were better players than Barrett and Kiproy and Collins and Turner."

Bonfire looked him squarely in the face. "Better individually, I said. The trouble with you fellows is that you are too good. You can shoot baskets so accurately that you forget there is more to the game than merely looping the ball for a goal every time you get hold of it. Look here, Bunny, who shot the most baskets in the game we won from Elkana?"

"Sheffield," the patrol leader admitted readily.

"And in the Grant game? And the Deerfield game?"

"Sheffield. We aren't claiming, though, that he isn't the best basketball player in Lakeville. He is, I guess. But in those last games, at least, he had more chances to score than any other player."

"Exactly!" said Bonfire. "And that is how Lakeville will beat Elkana Saturday—if it does. By teamwork, by each player's forgetting himself for the good of the machine, by feeding the ball at every opportunity to the best basket-shooter of them all—Royal Sheffield. Kiproy won't try to score, but to pass the ball to Sheffield whenever he can, and then hover under the basket for a possible miss; and so will Collins and Barrett and Turner. You four fellows might loop itin from the center of the floor, or from off to one side—sometimes! Sheffield won't miss one try out of five. Do you see what I mean?"

It was obvious that they did. There was a solemn nodding of heads. Curiously enough, slow-thinking Bi was the one to voice the thought that was taking root in the mind of each of them.

"But why," he asked, "didn't Sheffield explain his system to Bunny and S. S. and Jump and me, and have us feed the ball to him in the game?"

Bonfire answered with another question. "Why did you fellows think he had dropped you from the team for spite?" He waited a moment for the idea to grip. "Don't you see, Bi, that just as surely as you have been mistrusting him, just that surely he has been questioning your willingness to do him a good turn without hope of reward? The others are so glad to make the team that they will play as he says."

"But we would—"

"Of course, you would," Bonfire caught him up. "But Sheffield doesn't know that your good turns are not done for pay, even in applause. He doesn't know that when a Boy Scout does a good turn, he doesn't wait around for thanks; doesn't even tell anybody else he has done a good turn. I am sorry he can't understand, because I know that if you fellows only had the chance, you'd play up to him as those others never will. But—Well, let's keep that eighth law in mind; let's be cheerful and obey orders." He glanced apologeticallytoward Bunny. "I didn't mean to preach," he added, smiling.

Bunny smiled back understandingly. At that moment, he was thinking not only that Bonfire was a mighty good Boy Scout, but that he would make an equally satisfactory patrol leader. If the Black Eagles ever needed a new Number 1——

"Going to the game?" Specs asked Bonfire abruptly.

"No—o. I'd like to, but I can't afford to spend the money."

Bonfire did not mention the ninth law, about thrift, but Bunny knew the boy had it in mind. "Yes, sir," he told himself, "he'd make a dandy patrol leader. Wish he was going to Elkana with us; he helps win more games than any player."

If Bunny had known of the problem he was to face at seven-thirty the next Saturday evening, between halves, he would have put that wish in stronger words; for he was to need Bonfire's advice and help more than ever before.

At two-ten on the afternoon of the fateful day, the manager of the Elkana Athletic Association met them as they stepped from the train.

"Good news!" he greeted. "We have arranged to play the game this evening in the Hallworth College gymnasium. Come on; I'll take you right over."

And a little later:

"This is the dressing room. You can put yourclothes in this big locker while you play. Yonder are the shower baths. Now, if you like, you can use the main floor upstairs to practice till three-thirty; sort of give you the feel of the place, anyhow. Well, good-by and good luck to-night—only not too much of that last!"

Captain Sheffield elected to take advantage of the invitation to put his five through a short, brisk practice. Ten minutes proved ample, not only to satisfy him that the team was on edge, but to bathe it in perspiration.

"Call it a day!" said Sheffield at last. "Now get your baths and meet me here about six, to go out to supper together."

Bunny noticed that he left them free to do as they pleased the balance of the afternoon. It worried him a little. If he had been captain of the team, he would have warned the boys, at least, to loaf and rest as much as possible, that they might be fresh for the game. But, after all, Sheffield was in charge, not he; and Bunny knew Royal well enough to realize that youth's contempt for "tying anybody to his apron strings", as he had once put it.

But the tiny unrest would not down. Ten minutes later, his body glowing pink after a shower and a brisk rub with a great Turkish towel, Jump fed new fuel to the worry.

"Bunny," he said carelessly, "you don't mind if we go swimming, do you? There's a big tank in there,with the water so clear you can see the bottom all over."

"Sorry, Jump," the patrol leader decided, "but it wouldn't do. You'd tire yourself out in no time."

"The other fellows are swimming right now," Jump protested.

Bunny clenched his hands. "The Scouts, you mean?"

"No, Kiproy and Collins and Turner and Barrett. Bi said we ought to get your permission before we went in."

"Not now," Bunny told him. "After the game, maybe, but not now." He watched Jump slouch dejectedly away. "I wish," he told himself, "that Sheffield had stayed around and told those others not to go swimming. It won't help their speed any in the basketball game."

But at supper that evening, when they were guests of the Elkana team, the four boys who had been in the tank looked so fresh and fit for battle that Bunny decided no harm had been done. The business of eating a delicious meal, and of getting acquainted with their opponents, and of bandying challenges and promises and good-natured threats back and forth apparently galloped the hands of the clock on the wall; and it seemed no time at all before they were piling upstairs from the gymnasium dressing quarters into a room flooded with brilliant light and banked on all sides by a large and noisy gathering.

Some official tossed a coin for choice of baskets, and Sheffield said "Heads." He laughed when he won.

"I don't see any advantage either way," he told the Elkana captain. "Pick your side, please."

From the substitutes' bench, Bunny nodded his appreciation of this fine sportsmanship. After all, Sheffield had his good points. He watched eagerly as the Lakeville captain and a tall, rangy Elkana boy faced each other in the middle of the floor. Then the referee tossed the ball high into the air between them, piped a shrill blast on his whistle as it reached its top limit, and the game was on.

What followed was so rapid that Bunny could hardly follow the play. Sheffield leaped and whacked the ball to the right, straight for the side. But Turner was there to make the catch. He dribbled it, dodged a rushing opponent, dribbled it another yard, and suddenly shot it, with a long underhand pass, across the floor to Collins, far on the left. Like ants, the players swarmed toward him; the whole playing court, indeed, was curiously like an ant hill. Collins bounced the ball just once before he shot it to Barrett, on the opposite side. Barrett spun it through an open space to Kiproy, who was in a corner of the great quadrangle. By this time, Sheffield had raced down the center to a spot just in front of the basket. Here he took a perfect throw, balanced the ball in his hands, and then looped it upward for the net, scoring the first two points of the game in exactly twenty-seven seconds.

"Oh, boy!" gasped Jump on the bench, "I guess that's teamwork." And the other three Lakeville substitutes agreed that it certainly was.

But one basket in the first half-minute does not spell victory. Even before Lakeville had scored again, by an intricate triangular shooting combination that evolved a forward crisscross, Bunny fancied he could detect a laggard movement here and there; not enough, in any one instance, to interfere with rapid and accurate passing, but still a hint of possible future trouble.

After that, while Elkana was looping its first basket and Lakeville countering with its third, Bunny saw more and more clearly that only Sheffield was maintaining the dashing pace the team had set in the beginning. Barrett was puffing hard and running with a slight effort; Collins and Turner were slowing perceptibly; Kiproy was making passes an instant before they were necessary. In another five minutes of hard play, with the ball rushed from one end of the court to the other a dozen times, the lessening of snap and rush on Lakeville's part was becoming hideously apparent. Elkana had scored twice more, making the count six all.

Bunny knew the turn of the tide was at hand. The Elkana cheerers knew it, too, and yelled and tooted horns and rang bells and swung into a mighty rhythmical roar of, "One, two, will do!" It was a silly thing, Bunny thought; but it wasn't half as bad as the tag of, "Three, four, five, six; all scored on tricks!" when the goals reached that figure; nor the jubilant, "Seven,eight; just you wait!" when the Elkana team added another basket. Lakeville's total was still six.

With the first half nearly over, the visiting team was playing with its back against the wall, strictly on the defensive. Sheffield was still alert and dangerous, but he could not shoot goals when the other players failed to feed him the ball. A dozen times, it seemed to Bunny, the captain broke up threatening formations of Elkana's almost single-handed; and once, just at the end, he shot a clean basket from near the center of the floor, looping the ball upward in a great arc and dropping it like a plummet within the iron ring that supported the net. But Elkana scored again, too; and when the pistol shot signaled the end of the half, the blackboard showed: Lakeville, 8; Elkana, 10.

It meant defeat, Bunny knew, inglorious defeat. Lakeville was slowing and weakening; Elkana was only warming to the final onslaught. In a way, too, his conscience told him, the fault was his; he might have gone straight to the tank that afternoon and begged the fellows to come out before they tired themselves. He wished now that he had.

Between halves, while the four exhausted players lay stretched on benches, Sheffield wandered down the aisle between the rows of lockers for a glass of water. Bunny took quick advantage of his absence.

"Bring a drink of water for each of them, won't you?" he said querulously to the three substitutes. He waited till they were out of earshot. "Look here, youfellows!" he began grimly, spreading his legs and leaning toward them in his earnestness. "You're ready to drop, every last one of you, because of that long swim this afternoon. Does Sheffield know about it?"

"Didn't mention it to him," said Kiproy carelessly. "Why?"

"Somebody should!" snapped Bunny. "Not one of you is fit to play another minute, and he ought to know the reason."

Collins sat up. "Are you going to snitch?"

"No, I'm not. I'm no tattletale. But I'm going to ask you not to start this next half."

"So the substitutes can go in, eh?" It was Turner's slur.

"Maybe they can't hold that Elkana five," flashed Bunny, "but they're fresh, anyhow, and not half dead. Will you drop out, Kiproy?"

"No, I won't!"

"You, Collins? Turner? Barrett?"

In each case, the reply was a curt refusal. Barrett added doubtfully, "We'll be in shape by the time play starts again."

"After swimming in the tank for nearly an hour!" Bunny cried scornfully. "You know better than that, all of you. Once more—"

"Time's up! Come on!" It was Sheffield's cool voice. The captain stood at the end of the long bench.

With a sigh, Bunny brought his feet together andstraightened up. "I can't do a single thing," he told himself bitterly. "I won't snitch, and I can't force them to quit playing. We're beaten, that's all."

Up the winding stairway marched the five members of the team; up and through the doorway at the top, and out upon the main floor of the gymnasium, to certain, inevitable defeat. On the bottom step, unconscious that he was blocking the way for the other three substitutes, Bunny watched till the last foot lifted and disappeared.

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