"Thinking of it?" asked Dick, looking up coolly.
"Yes—-really," replied Bayliss.
"See the coach, then; he's running the squad."
"Yes; I guess I will, thanks. Good morning!"
Bayliss sauntered along, blithely whistling a tune. He knew Coach Morton would give him the glad hand of welcome for the squad and the team.
"Oh, Mr. Morton," was Bayliss's greeting, as he encountered the coach near the school building steps.
"Yes?" asked the submaster pleasantly.
"I—-I—-er—-I didn't make the meeting yesterday afternoon, butI guess you might put my name down for the squad."
"Isn't this a bit late, Bayliss?" asked the submaster, eyeing the youth keenly.
"Perhaps, a bit," assented the confident young man. "However——-"
"At its meeting, last night, Mr. Bayliss, the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association advised me to consider the squad list closed."
"Closed?" stammered Bayliss, turning several shades in succession."Closed? Do—-do you mean——-"
"No more additions will be made to the squad this year," replied the coach quietly, then going inside.
Bayliss stood on the steps, a picture of humiliation and amazement.
"Fellows," gasped Bayliss, as Prescott and his two chums came along, "did you hear that? Football list closed?"
"Want some advice?" asked Dick, halting for an instant.
"Yes," begged Bayliss.
"Never kick a sore toe against a stone wall," quoth Dick Prescott, and passed on into the school building.
By this time training was going on briskly. Four days out of every week the squad had to practice for two hours at the athletic field.
There were tours of work in the gym., too.
Besides, it was "early to bed and early to rise" for all members of the squad.
Even those who hoped only to "make second" were under strict orders to let nothing interfere with their condition.
Three mornings in the week Coach Morton met all squad men for either cross-country work or special work in sprinting. And this was before breakfast, when each man was on honor pledged to take only a pint of hot water—-nothing more—-before reporting. On the other mornings, football aspirants were pledged to run without the coach.
Yet, with all this, studies had to be kept up to a high average, for no man on the "unset" list could hope to be permitted to play football.
Hard work? Yes. But discipline, above all. And discipline is priceless to the young man who really hopes to get ahead in life!
"You're not playing fair," Dave cried reproachfully to his chum one day.
"Why not?" Prescott questioned mildly.
"You're using hair tonic!" Darrin asserted, with mock seriousness, as he gazed at Dick's bushy mop of football hair. "You're growing a regular chrysanthemum for a top piece to your head."
"Oh, my hair, eh?" smiled Dick. "Why, you can have as fine a lot of hair if you want to take the trouble."
"Don't I want it, though?" retorted Darrin. "What kind of tonic do you use?"
"Grease," smiled Prescott.
"Nothing but grease?"
"Nothing much."
"What kind of grease?"
"Elbow!"
"Now, stop your joshing," ordered Dave promptly. "No kind of muscular work is going to bring out a fuzzy rug like that on anyone's skypiece."
"But that's just how I do it," Dick insisted. "Not a bit hard, either. See here! Just use your finger tips, briskly, like this, and stir your whole scalp up with a brisk massage."
"How long do you keep it up?" demanded Dave, after following suit for some time.
"Oh, about ninety seconds, I guess," nodded Prescott. "You want to do it eight times a day, and wash your head weekly, though with bland soap and not too much of it."
"Is that honestly all you do to get a Siberian fur wig such as you're wearing?"
"That's all I do," replied Dick. "Except—-yes; there's one thing more. Go out of doors all you can without a hat."
"The active curry-comb and the vanished hat for mine, then," mutteredDave, with another envious look at Dick's bushy hair.
Nor did Dave rest until the other chums all had the secret. By the time that the football season opened Dick & Co. were the envy of the school for their heavy heads of hair.
With all the hard work of training, Coach Morton did not intend that the young men should be so busy as to have no time for recreation. He understood thoroughly the value of the lighter, happier moments in keeping an athlete's nervous system up to concert pitch.
Though the baseball training of the preceding spring had been "stiff" enough, Dick & Co. soon found that the football training was altogether more rugged.
In fact, Coach Morton, with the aid of Dr. Bentley as medical director, weeded out a few of the young men after training had been going on for a fortnight. Some failed to show sufficient reserve "wind" after running. A few other defectives proved not to have hearts strong enough for the grilling work of the gridiron.
All the members of Dick & Co., however, managed to keep in the squad. In fact, hints soon began to go around, mysteriously, that Dick & Co. were having the benefit of some outside training. Purcell came to young Prescott and asked him frankly about this report.
"Nothing in it," Dick replied promptly. "We're having just the same training as the rest of the boys. But I'll tell you a secret."
"Go on!" begged Purcell eagerly.
"You know the training rules—-early retiring and all?"
"Yes; of course."
"Well, we fellows are sticking to orders like leeches. Every night, to the minute, we're in bed. We make a long night's sleep of it. Then, besides, we don't slight a single particle of the training work that we're told to do by ourselves. We've agreed on that, and have promised each other. Now, do you suppose all the fellows are sticking quite as closely to coach's orders?"
"I—-I—-well, perhaps they're not," agreed Purcell.
"Are you?" insisted Dick.
"In themain, I do."
"Oh," observed Prescott, with mild sarcasm. "'In the main'! Now, see here, Purcell, we High School fellows are fortunate in having one of the very best coaches that ever a High School squad did have. Mr. Morton knows what he's doing. He knows how to bring out condition, and how to teach the game. He lays down the rules that furnish the sole means of success at football. And you—-one of our most valuable fellows—-are following some of his instructions—-when they don't conflict with your comfort or with your own ideas about training. Now, honestly, what do you know about training that is better than Coach Morton's information on that very important subjects"
"Oh, come, now; you're a little bit too hard, Prescott," arguedPurcell. "I do about everything just as I'm told."
"You admit Mr. Morton's ability, don't you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then why don't you stick to every single rule that's laid down by a man who knows what he is doing? It will be better for your condition, won't it, Purcell?"
"Yes, without a doubt."
"And what is better for you is better for the team and for the school, isn't its"
"By Jove, Prescott, you're a stickler for duty, aren't you?" criedPurcell.
He spoke in a louder tone this time. Two girls who were passing the street corner where the young men stood heard the query and glanced over with interest.
Neither young man perceived the girls at that moment.
"Why, yes," Prescott answered slowly. "Duty is the main thing there is about life, isn't it?"
"Right again," laughed Purcell.
One of the girls looked swiftly at the other. They were Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, friends of Dick's and Dave's, and also members of the junior class.
"Well, I'm going to take a leaf out of your book," pursued Purcell. "I'm really as anxious to see Gridley High School always on top as you or any other fellow can be."
"Of course you are," nodded Dick. "The way you put our baseball team through last season proves that."
"I'm going to be a martinet for training, hereafter," Purcell declared earnestly. "I'm going to be a worse stickler than old coach himself. And I'm going to exercise my right as a senior to watch the other fellows and hold their noses to the training grindstone."
"Then I'm not worried about Gridley having a winning team this year," Dick answered.
"By Jove, you had a lot to do with that, too, didn't you, Prescott?" cried Purcell. "You put it over the 'soreheads' so hard that we never heard from them again after we got started."
"You helped there, also, Purcell. If you and Ripley and a few others had gone over to the 'soreheads' it would have stiffened their backbone and nothing could have made it possible, this year, for Gridley High School to have an eleven that would represent all the best football that there is in the grand old school."
In the first two years of their school life Dick and Dave had spent many pleasant hours in the society of Laura and Belle. So far, during the junior year, the chums had had but little chance to see the girls, for the demands of football were fearfully exacting.
Laura, being almost at the threshold of seventeen years, had grown tall and womanly. Bert Dodge began to notice what a very pretty girl the doctor's daughter was becoming. So, one afternoon while the football squad was practicing hard over on the athletic field, Bert encountered Laura and Belle as they strolled down the Main Street.
Lifting his hat, Dodge greeted the girls, and stood chatting with them for a few moments. To this neither of the girls could object, for Bert's manners, with the other sex, were always irreproachable.
But, presently, Laura saw her chance. She did not want to be rude, but Bert's face had just taken on a half-sneering look at a chance mention of Dick's name.
"You aren't playing football this year, Bert?" Laura asked innocently.
Bert quickly flushed.
"No," he admitted.
"Of course everyone can't make the eleven," Belle added, with mild malice.
"I—-I don't believe I'd care to," Dodge went on. "I—-you see—-I don't care about all the fellows in the squad."
"I don't suppose every boy who is playing on the squad is a chum of everyone else," remarked Laura.
"Such fellows as Prescott, for instance, I don't care much about," Bert continued, with a swift side glance at Laura Bentley to see how she took that remark. But Laura showed not a sign in her face.
"No?" she asked quietly. "I think him a splendid fellow. By the way, he and Dave Darrin haven't received the reward for finding your father, have they?"
Bert gasped. His face went white, then red. He fidgeted about for an answer.
"No," he replied, cuttingly, at last, "and I don't believe they ever will."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," cried Laura in quick contrition. "I didn't know that it was a tender spot with you, or your family."
"It isn't," Bert rejoined hurriedly. "It simply amounts to this, that the reward will never be paid to a pair of cheeky, brazen-faced——-"
"Won't you please stop right there, Mr. Dodge?" Laura asked sweetly. "Mr. Prescott and Mr. Darrin are friends of ours. We don't like to hear remarks that cast disrespect in their direction."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," answered Bert, trying not to be stiff.But he was ill at ease, leaving the girls very soon after.
Yet, in his hatred for Dick and Dave, young Dodge resolved upon a daring stroke. He enlisted Bayliss, and the pair sought to "cut out" Prescott and Darrin with Laura and Belle.
Neither Dick nor Dave was in love. Both were too sensible for that. Both knew that love affairs were for men old enough to know their own minds. Yet the friendship between the four young people had been a very proper and wholesome affair, and much pleasure had been derived on all sides.
Nowadays, however, Bert and Bayliss managed to be much out and around Gridley while the football squad was at practice. Almost daily this pair met Laura and Belle, as though by accident, and the two young seniors usually managed, without apparent intrusion, to walk along beside Laura and Belle, often seeing the pair to the home gate of one or the other.
"You two fellows want to look out," Purcell warned Dick and Dave, good-naturedly, one day. "Other fellows are after your sweet-hearts."
"I wonder how that happened," Dick observed good-humoredly. "I didn't know we had any sweethearts."
"What about——-" began Purcell, wondering if he had made a mistake.
"Please don't drag any girls' names into bantering talk," interposedDave, quickly though very quietly.
So Purcell said no more, and he had, indeed, meant no harm whatever. But others were noticing, and also talking. High School young people began to take a very lively interest in the new appearance of Dodge and Bayliss as escorts of Laura and Belle.
Then there came one especially golden day of early autumn, when it seemed as though the warm, glorious day had driven everyone out onto the streets. Dodge and Bayliss met Laura and Belle, quite as though by accident, and manifested a rather evident determination to remain in the company of the girls as long as possible.
Finally Laura halted before one of the department stores.
"Belle, there's an errand you and I had in mind to do in there, isn't there?" Laura asked.
"May we have the very great pleasure, then, of your leave to wait until you are through with your shopping?" spoke up Bert Dodge quickly.
Laura flushed slightly. Just then more than a dozen of the football squad, coming back from the field, marching solidly by twos, turned the corner and came upon this quartette. There were many curious looks in the corners of the eyes of members of the squad.
Despite themselves Dick and Dave could feel themselves reddening.
But Laura Bentley was equal to the emergency. "Here come the school's heroes—-the fellows who keep Gridley's High School banner flying in the breeze," she laughed pleasantly.
Both Dodge and Bayliss started to answer, then closed their lips.
"Won't you please excuse us, boys?" begged Laura, in her usual pleasant voice. "Here are Dick and Dave, and Belle and I wish to speak with them."
From some of the members of the football squad went up a promptly stifled gasp that sounded like a very distant rumble.
Dick and Dave, looking wholly rough and ready in their sweaters, padded trousers and heavy field shoes, stepped out of the marching formation as though obeying an order.
The chums looked almost uncouth, compared with the immaculate, dandyish pair, Dodge and Bayliss. The latter, with so many amused glances turned their way, could only flush deeply, stammer, raise their hats and—-fade away!
The lesson was a needed and a remembered one. Laura and Belle took their afternoon walks in peace thereafter.
"Get in there, Ripley! Don't be afraid. It's only a leather dummy. It can't hurt you! Now, tackle the dummy around the hips—-hoist!"
A laugh went up among the crowd as Fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy.
Young Ripley's face was red, but he took the coach's stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year.
"Now, Prescott! Show us that you can beat your last performance!Imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!"
Dick rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right.
"Let go!" called the coach, laughingly. "It isn't a sack of gold!"
Another laugh went up. This was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of Gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work.
For half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for Coach Morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling.
"Now," continued the coach, in a voice that didn't sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, "it'll be just as well if you fellows don't get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled. The provisional first and second teams will now line up. Second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal. You fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or School eleven. Fight for all you're worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going! You fellows of the first, or School eleven, I want to see what you can do with real tackling."
There was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection. The ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly.
The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball. Second's right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School's line. On School's left, Dick and Ripley raced in together, while second's interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. Dick, too, understood. He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead. At Ripley, therefore, the second's interference hurled itself savagely. It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and Dick Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. In an instant the ball was "down." Second had gained less than a yard.
"Good work!" the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle."Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work."
Again second essayed to get away with the ball. This time the forward pass was employed—-that is to say, attempted. Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs.
Now School had the ball. As the quarter-back's signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School's right end. As the ball was snapped, School's right wing went through the needful movements, but Dick Prescott, over at left end, had the ball. Ripley and Purcell were supporting him.
Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. It was team work again. Dick was halted, for an instant. Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition—-on and on! Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. He was over second's line—-touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers.
As Dick came back he limped just a bit.
"I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game," remarked one citizen admiringly.
"Nerve? pooh!" retorted his companion. "Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another. The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve."
The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically.
"Would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed,"
"Yes; I suppose so," admitted the kicker.
"Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life."
"But they're not looking for it," objected the kicker, "or they wouldn't go in so swift and hard. Real nerve? I'd believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!"
"Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game," pursued the first speaker. "Coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer. Yet I can't help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs."
"I want to see the nerve, and I want to see the game prove its worth," insisted the kicker.
Second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it. Thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with High School eleven.
And now the practice was over for the afternoon. The whistle between coach's lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring—-aching a bit, too—-came off the field. Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling. Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field. But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed.
Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered. As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information.
"Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?" asked one man.
"Yes," replied Mr. Morton promptly.
"Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?" questioned another.
"No; of course not, as yet. Each day some of the young men develop new points—-of excellence, or otherwise. The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division. In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team. We shall have it all decided within a few days."
"But you're rather certain," insisted another, "that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?"
"It would be going too far to say that," replied Coach Morton slowly. "The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game. Our judgment is even more reliable after they've been through the second game."
By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate. Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them. The kicker was still on hand.
Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence. There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries.
"He's bent on killing the officer! Run!"
"Look out! Here he comes! Scoot!"
"He's crazy!"
Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all.
Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open. Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad. The citizens followed, running and puffing.
Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight. One of the smallest members of Gridley's police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street.
Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over. Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself. But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him. The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow.
Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed.
Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely. It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway.
"Look out, boys! He'll kill you!" shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background.
"Will he?" grunted Dick grimly. "Greg, I'll tackle the fellow—-you be ready to fall on him. Head down, now—-charge!"
As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy's goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow.
"Get outer my way!" roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them.
Dick's head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair.
"Get out of my way, you kid!" gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him.
Greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter
But Dick sailed straight in. As he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side.
Fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young Prescott.
But Dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man.The big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists.
Dick wasn't hit, however. Instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat—-all quick as a flash.
That big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled. Red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse.
As he fell, Greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow's chest. In another instant young Prescott was a-top of the fellow.
"Keep him down, boys!" yelled Coach Morton.
Just before the coach sprinted to the spot Dave Darrin, then TomReade, and then Tom Purcell, hurled themselves into the fray.
When the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold.
The policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could.
"Will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?" asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets.
"Will we?" ejaculated Dave. "Whoop!"
"Roll the fellow over!" called Dick Prescott.
With a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back. There was a scuffle, but Coach Morton helped. A minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place.
In the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm.
"What do you say, now?" asked that man's companion. "Though, of course, Prescott and Holmes knew that help wasn't far off."
"It doesn't make any difference," retorted the recent kicker. "Either boy might have been killed by that big brute before the help could have arrived."
"Then does football teach nerve?"
"It certainly must!" agreed the recent kicker.
A few days later the members of the school team, and the substitutes, had been announced. Then the men who had made the team came together at the gymnasium.
Who was to be captain of the eleven?
For once there seemed to be a good deal of hanging back.
If there were any members of the team who believed themselves supremely fitted to lead, at least they were not egotistical enough to announce themselves.
There was a good deal of whispering during the five minutes before Mr. Morton called them to order. Some of the whisperers left one group to go over to another.
"Now, then, gentlemen!" called Coach Morton. "Order, please!"
Almost at once the murmuring stopped.
"Before we can go much further," continued the coach, "it will be necessary to decide upon a captain. I don't wish to have the whole voice in the matter. If you are to follow your captain through thick and thin, in a dozen or more pitched football battles, it is well that you should have a leader who will possess the confidence of all. Now, whom do you propose for the post of captain? Let us discuss the merits of those that may be proposed."
Just for an instant the murmuring broke out afresh.
Then a shout went up:
"Purcell!"
But that young man shook his head.
"Prescott!" shouted another.
Dick, too, shook his head.
"Purcell! Purcell!"
"Now, listen to me a moment, fellows!" called Purcell, standing very straight and waving his arms for silence. "I don't want to be captain. I had the honor of leading the baseball nine last season."
"No matter! You'll make a good football captain!"
"Not the best you can get, by any means," insisted Purcell. "I decline the honor for that reason, and also because I don't want the responsibility of leading the eleven."
"Prescott!" shouted three or four of the squad at once.
Purcell nodded his head encouragingly.
"Yes; Prescott, by all means! You can't do better."
"Yes, you can! And you fellows know it!" shouted Dick.
His face glowed with pleasure and pride, but he tried to show, by face, voice and gesture, that he didn't propose to take the tendered honor.
"Prescott! Prescott!" came the insistent yell.
Above the clamor Coach Morton signaled Dick to come forward to the platform.
"Won't you take it, Prescott?" inquired the coach.
"I've no right to, sir."
"Then tell the team why you think so."
As soon as coach had secured silence Dick, with a short laugh, began:
"Fellows, I don't know whether you mean it all, or whether you're having a little fun with me. But——-"
"No, no! We mean it! Prescott for captain! No other fellow has done as much for Gridley High School football!"
"Then I'll tell you some reasons, fellows, why I don't fit the position," Dick went on, speaking easily now as his self-confidence came to him. "In the first place, I'm a junior, and this is my first year at football. Now, a captain should be a whole wagon-load in the way of judgment. That means a fellow who has played in a previous season. For that reason, all other things being equal, the captain should be one of the seniors who played the gridiron game last year."
"You'll do for us, Prescott!" came the insistent call.
"For another thing," Dick went on composedly, "the captain should be a man who plays center, or close to it. Now, I'm not heavy enough for anything of that sort. In fact, I understand I'm cast for left tackle or left end—-probably the latter. So, you see, I wouldn't be in the right part of the field. I don't deny that I'd like to be captain, but I'd a thousand times rather see Gridley win."
"Then who can lead us to victory" demanded Dave Darrin briskly.
Dick promptly. "He's believed to be our best man for center. He played last year; he knows more fine points of the game than any of us juniors can. And he has the judgment. Besides, he's a senior, and it's his last chance to command the High School eleven."
"If Wadleigh'll take it, I'm for him," spoke Dave Darrin promptly.
Henry Wadleigh, or "Hem," as he was usually called, was turning all the colors of the rainbow. Yet he looked pleased and anxious.
There was just one thing against Wadleigh, in the minds of Hudson and some of the others. He was a boy of poor family. He belonged to what the late but routed "soreheads" termed "the mockers." But he was an earnest, honest fellow, a hard player and loyal to the death to his school.
"Any other candidates?" asked Coach Morton.
There was a pause of indecision. There were a few other fellows who wanted to captain the team. Why didn't some of their friends put them in nomination?
Dick & Co. formed a substantial element in the team. They were for "Hen" Wadleigh, and now Tom Reade spoke:
"I move that Wadleigh be considered our choice for captain."
"Second the motion," uttered Dan Dalzell, hastily.
Coach Morton put the proposition, which was carried. Wadleigh was chosen captain, subject to the approval of the Athletics Committee of the alumni, which would talk it over in secret with Coach Morton.
And now the team was quickly made up. Wadleigh was to play center. Dick was to play left end, with Dave for left tackle. Greg Holmes went over to right tackle, with Hazelton right guard. Dan Dalzell was slated as substitute right end, while Tom Reade was a "sub" left tackle.
Fred Ripley was put down as a substitute for left end. As one who kept in such close training as did Prescott he was not likely to miss many of the big games, and Fred's chances for playing in the big games was not heavy. Yet Ripley was satisfied. Even as a "sub," he had "made" the High School eleven.
"I think, gentlemen," declared Mr. Morton, in dismissing the squad, "that we have as good a team to put forward this year as Gridley has ever had. The only disquieting feature of the season is the report, coming to us, that many of the rival schools have, this year, better teams in the field than they have ever had before. So we've got to work—-well like so many animated furies. Remember, gentlemen, 'coldfeet' never won a football season."
Bayliss and Dodge when they heard the news, were much disgusted. They had hoped that subs. Instead, Dick and three of his cronies had been put in Gridley's first fighting line, only two of the redoubtable six being on the sub list.
School and second teams, being now sharply defined, fell to playing against each other as hard and as cleverly as they could.
Wadleigh's choice as captain was confirmed by the Athletics Committee.
"But I'd never have had the chance, Prescott, old fellow, if it hadn't been for you," "Hen" protested gratefully. "Dick, I won't forget your great help!"
"I didn't do anything for you, Hen," Prescott retorted, with one of his dry smiles.
"You didn't?" gasped Wadleigh.
"No, sir! I did it for the school. I wanted to see our team have the best possible captain and the winning eleven!"
Bert and Bayliss happened to be passing the gymnasium when they heard of the selection of Wadleigh.
"Bert," whispered Bayliss, "I believe you're at least half a man!"
"What are you driving at?" demanded Dodge.
"We owe Dick Prescott a few. If you're with me we'll see if his season on the gridiron can't be made a farce and a fizzle."
As always happens the schedule of the fall's games was changed somewhat at the last moment.
In the first change there was a decided advantage. Wrexham withdrawing its challenge almost at the last, Coach Morton took on Welton High School for the first game of the season.
Now, Welton must have played for no other reason than to gratify a weak form of vanity, for there were few High School teams in the state that had cause to dread Welton High School.
For Gridley, however, the game served a useful purpose. It solidified Captain Wadleigh's team into actual work. The score was 32 to 0, in favor of Gridley. However, as Dick phrased it, the practice against an actual adversary, for the first time in the season, was worth at least three hundred to nothing.
"But don't you fellows make a mistake," cautioned Captain Wadleigh."Don't get a notion that you've nothing bigger than Welton totackle this year. Next Saturday you've got to go up againstTottenville, and there's an eleven that will make you perspire."
Coach Morton had Tottenville gauged at its right value. During the few days before the game he kept the Gridley boys steadily at work. The passing and the signal work, in particular, were reviewed most thoroughly.
"Remember, the pass is going to count for a lot," Mr. Morton warned them. "You can't make a weight fight against Tottenville, for those fellows weigh a hundred and fifty pounds more, to the team, than you do. They're savage, swift, clever players, too, those Tottenville youths. What you take away from them you'll have to win by strategy."
So the Gridley boys were drilled again and again in all the special points of field strategy that Coach Morton knew or could invent.
Yet one of the best things that Mr. Morton knew, and one that always characterized Gridley, was the matter of confidence.
Captain Wadleigh's young men were made to feel that they were going to win. They did not underestimate the enemy, but they were going to win. That was well understood by them all.
Now, in the games of sheer strategy much depends upon nimble ends.
Dick Prescott, in particular, was coached much in private, as well as on the actual gridiron.
"Keep yourself in keen good shape, Mr. Prescott," Mr. Morton insisted."We need your help in scalping Tottenville next Saturday."
As the week wore along Mr. Morton and Captain Wadleigh became more and more pleased with themselves and with their associates.
"I don't see how we can fail tomorrow," said Mr. Horton, quietly, to "Hen" Wadleigh, just after the School and the second teams had been dismissed.
It was not much after half-past three. Practice had been brief, in order that none of the players might be used up.
"Prescott, in especial, is showing up magnificently," replied Wadleigh. "He and Darrin are certainly wonders at their end of the line."
"You must use them all you can tomorrow, and yet don't make them fight the whole battle," replied Coach Morton. "Save them for the biggest emergencies."
"I'll be careful," promised Wadleigh.
Dick and Dave walked back into the city, instead of taking a car.
"How are you feeling, Dick?" asked Dave.
"As smooth as silk," Prescott replied.
"I don't believe I've ever been in such fine condition before," replied Dave.
"That's mighty good, for I have an idea that the captain means to use us all he can tomorrow."
"Oh, Tottenville is as good as beaten, then," laughed Dave, with all the Gridley confidence.
"I'd like to know just how strong Tottenville is on its right end of the line," mused Prescott.
"I don't care how strong they are," retorted Darrin, with a laugh. "You and I are not going to use strength; we're going to rely upon brains—-Coach Morton's brains, though, to be sure."
The two chums separated at the corner of the side street on which stood the Prescott bookstore and home. Dave hurried home to attend to some duties that he knew were awaiting him.
Dick, whistling, strolled briskly on. He saw Dodge and Bayliss on the other side of the street, but did not pay much attention to them until they crossed just before Dick had reached his own door.
"There's the mucker," muttered Bayliss, in a tone intentionally loud enough for the young left end to overhear.
"I won't pay any attention to them," thought Dick, with an amused smile. "I can easily understand what they're sore about. I'd feel angry myself if I had been left off the team."
"Why do fellows like that need an education?" demanded Dodge, in a slightly louder tone, as the pair came closer.
Still Dick Prescott paid no heed. He started up the steps, fumbling for his latch key as he went.
"You faker! You mucker!" hissed Bayliss, now speaking directly to the young left end.
This was so palpable that Dick could not well ignore it. Dropping the key back into his pocket, he turned to stare at the two "sorehead" chums.
"Eh?" he asked, with a quiet laugh.
"Yes; I meant you!" hissed Bayliss.
"Oh, well," grinned Dick, "your opinions have never counted for much in the community, have they?"
"Shut up, you ignorant hound!" warned Bayliss belligerently.
"Too bad," retorted Dick tantalizingly. "Of course, I understand what ails you. You were left off the High School team, and I was not. But that is your own fault, Bayliss. You could have made the team if you hadn't been foolish."
"Don't insult me with your opinions fellow!" cried Bayliss, growing angrier every instant. At least, he appeared to be working him self up into a rage.
"Oh, I don't care anything about your opinions, and I have no anxiety to spring mine on you," retorted Dick, in an indifferent voice. Once more he fumbled for his latch key.
"You haven't any business talking with gentlemen, anyway," sneeredBert Dodge.
Dick flushed slightly, though he replied, coolly:
"As it happens, just at present I am not!"
"What do you mean by that?" flared Bert.
"Oh, you know, you don't care anything about my opinions," laughed Dick. "Let us drop the whole subject. I don't care particularly, anyway, about being seen talking with you two."
"Oh, you don't?" cried Bayliss, in a voice hoarse with rage.
In almost the same breath Bert Dodge hurled an insult so pointed and so offensive that Dick's ruddy cheek went white for an instant.
Back into his pocket he dropped the latch key, then stepped swiftly down before his tormentor.
"Dodge," he cried warningly, "take back the remark you just made. Then, after that, you can take your offensive presence out of my sight!"
"I'll take nothing back!" sneered the other boy.
"Then you'll take this!" retorted Dick, very quietly, in a cold, low voice.
Prescott's fist flew out. It was not a hard blow, but it landed on the tip of Bert Dodge's nose.
"You cur!" cried Dodge chokingly. "Wait until I get my coat off."
"No; keep it on; I'm going to keep mine on," retorted Prescott."Guard yourself, man!"
"Jump in, Bayliss! We'll thump his head off!" gasped Dodge, with almost a sob in his voice, to was so angry.
Bayliss would have been nothing loath to "jump in." But, just as Dick Prescott, after calling "guard," aimed his second blow at Bert, Fred Ripley, Purcell and "Hen" Wadleigh all hurried up to the scene.
For Bayliss to be caught fighting two-to-one would have resulted in a quick thrashing for him. So Bayliss stood back.
"Bad blood, is there?" asked Wadleigh, as the new arrivals hurried up.
"Prescott, after insulting Bert, flew at him," retorted Bayliss, panting some with the effort at lying.
Dodge was now standing well back. He had parried three of Dick's blows, but had not yet taken the offensive. As Dodge was a heavier man, and not badly schooled in fistics, Dick had the good sense to go at this fight coolly, taking time to exercise his judgment.
"What's it all about?" demanded Wadleigh.
Just for an instant Bayliss felt himself stumped. Then, all of a sudden, an inspiration in lying came to him.
"Prescott got ugly because the Dodges never paid that thousand-dollar reward," declared Bayliss.
Dick heard, and with his eye still on Dodge, shouted out: "That's not true, Bayliss. You know you are not telling the truth!"
Bayliss doubled his fists, and would have struck Prescott down from behind, but Wadleigh, who was a big and powerful fellow, caught Bayliss by his left arm, jerking him back.
"Now, just wait a bit, Bayliss," advised "Hen," moderately. "From what I know of Prescott I'm not afraid but that he'll give you satisfaction presently—-if you want it."
"You bet he'll have to!" hissed Bayliss.
"If Prescott loses the argument he has on now," added Purcell, significantly, "I fancy he has friends who will take his place with you, Bayliss."
Then all turned to watch the fight, which was now passing the stage of preliminary caution.
Several boys and men had run down from Main Street. Now, more than a score of spectators were crowding about.
"Hurrah!" piped up one boy from the Central Grammar School."The mucker bantam against the 'sorehead' lightweight!"
There was a laugh, but Bert Dodge didn't join in it, for, after receiving two glancing, blows on the chest, he now had his right eye closed by Dick's hard left.
The next instant the bewildered Dodge received a blow that sent him down to the sidewalk.
"I think I've paid you back, now," Prescott remarked quietly.
At this moment Mr. Prescott, hearing the noise from the back of his bookstore, came to the door.
"What is the trouble, Richard?" inquired his parent.
Dick stepped over to his father, repeating, in a low voice, the insult that Dodge had hurled at him.
"You couldn't have done anything else, then!" declared the elder Prescott, fervently; and this was a good deal for Dick's father, quiet, scholarly and peace-loving, to say.
Bert and Bayliss walked sullenly away amid the jeers of the onlookers.Once out of their sight, Bert, fairly grinding his teeth, said:
"Bayliss, I'll have my revenge yet on that mucker Prescott—-" and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he added savagely:
"The Tottenville game's tomorrow—-you know?"
"Yes?" said Bayliss inquiringly.
"Well, wait till tomorrow afternoon, and I'll take the conceit out of the miserable cur—-just you wait."
"Rah! rah!Gri-i-idley!"
Again and again the whole of the rousing, inspiring High School yell smote the air.
It was but a little after noon on Saturday.
It seemed as though two thirds of the school, including most of the girls, had come down to the railway station to see the High School eleven off on its way to Tottenville. That city was some thirty miles away from Gridley, but there was a noon express train that went through in forty minutes.
Coach Morton and Captain Wadleigh had rounded up the whole of the school team. All of the subs were there. The coach and members of the team were at no expense in the matter, since their expenses were to be paid out of the gate receipts of the home eleven.
To many of the boys and girls of Gridley High School, however, the affair bore a different look. The round trip by rail would cost each of these more than a dollar, with another fifty cents to pay for a seat on the grand stand at Tottenville.
Hence, despite the fine representation of High School young folks at the railway station, not all of them were so fortunate as to look forward to going to the game.
In addition to those of the young people who could go, there were more than three hundred grown-ups who had bought tickets. The railroad company, having been notified by the local agent, had added a second section to the noon express.
And now they waited, enthusiasm finding vent in volleys of cheers and the school war-whoop.
Dick Prescott and his chums stood at one end of the platform. Nor were they alone. Many admirers had gathered about them. Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, who were going with the rest to Tottenville, were chatting with Dick and Dave. Each of the girls carried the Gridley High School colors to wave during the expected triumphs of the afternoon.
"I'm glad you're playing today," Laura almost whispered to youngPrescott.
"Why?" smiled Dick
"Why, I believe you're one of those fortunate people who always carry their mascot with them," rejoined Miss Bentley earnestly. "With you there, Dick, I feel absolutely certain that even Tottenville must go down in the dust. Gridley will bring back the score—-and not a tied score, either."
"I certainly hope I am as big a mascot, or possess as big a mascot as you seem to believe," laughed young Prescott.
"You and Dave are each other's mascots," declared Belle Meade, with a laugh. "I remember that last year when you were both on the baseball nine Gridley never lost a game in which you and Dave both played."
"Nor did the nine lose any other game," returned Dick, "though there were some games when Dave and I weren't on the batting list. The nine didn't lose a game last season, Miss Belle, and had only one tied score."
"Anyway," declared Laura, with great conviction, "it all comes back to this—-that Gridley can't lose today because both Prescott and Darrin are to play."
"And I believe, young ladies, that you're both much nearer to the truth than you have any idea of. In today's game a great deal does depend on Prescott and Darrin."
It was Captain "Hen" Wadleigh, who, passing to the rear of the group, had overheard Laura's remark, and had made this addition to her prophecies.
"Here comes the train!" yelled one youth, who was fortunate enough to have a ticket for the day.
Soon after the sound of the whistle had been heard the express rolled in. But this was the first section of the regular train. By some effort the football crowd was kept off the train. Soon after the second section of the train was sighted as it rolled toward the station.
"Team assemble!" roared Captain Wadleigh.
There was a rush of husky, mop-headed youths in his direction.
Just then a hand rested on Dick's arm.
"Let me speak with you, just a moment Prescott."
As Dick turned he found himself looking into the face of Hemingway, plan clothes man to Chief Coy of the Police department.
"I'm awful sorry, lad, but——-" began Hemingway slowly, in a tone of the most genuine regret.
Dick's face blanched. He scented bad news instantly, though he could not imagine what it was.
"Anyone sick—-any accident at home?" asked the young left end.
"Team aboard, first day coach behind the smoker!" roared CaptainWadleigh, and the fellows made a rush.
"The truth is," confessed Hemingway, "I've a war——-"
Dick saw light in an instant.
"Oh, that wretched Dodge? He has——-"
"Sworn out a warrant for your arrest," nodded Hemingway.
Laura and Belle did not hear or see this. They were hurrying rearward along the train.
Few of the football fellows saw the trouble, for they were busy boarding the car named by Captain Wadleigh.
Dave Darrin was the only one to pay urgent heed.
"See here, Hemingway," began Dave, "Dick will come back—-you know that. He's desperately needed today. Won't it do just as well——-"
"No," broke in the plain-clothes man, reluctantly. "I'd have done that if possible, but Dodge's father put the warrant in my hand and insisted."
"He?" echoed Darrin, bitterly. "The very man that Dick and I rescued when he was out of his head and in the clutches of scoundrels He? Oh, this is infamous—-or crazy!"
"I know it is," nodded Officer Hemingway sympathetically. "But what am I to do when——-"
"Hustle aboard, there, you Prescott and Darrin!" roared CaptainWadleigh's voice from an open window.
"You hear, Hemingway?" urged Dave.
"Yes; but I can't help it," sighed the policeman.
"We're not going—-can't——-" fluttered Darrin. His voice was low, but it reached the captain of the eleven.
"What's that?" roared Wadleigh, making a dash for the door of the car. "Keep your seats, you other fellows. I——-"
"You go, Dave—-you must!" commanded Dick. "Hurry! The train is starting. Hustle! Play for both of us."
Dick gave his chum a push that was compelling. Dave yielded, boarding the step as the end of the car went by him.
"What——-" began Wadleigh, breathlessly.
"I'll explain," panted Darrin angrily.
The train was now in full motion.
"Hey, dere! Stop dot train, quick! Me! I am not off board, yet!"
It was Herr Schimmelpodt, hot, perspiring and gasping, who now raced upon the platform. For one of his weight, combined with his lack of nimbleness, it was hazardous to attempt to board the moving train.
Yet Herr Schimmelpodt made a wild dash for the train. He would have been mangled or killed, had not Officer Hemingway caught the anxious German and pulled him back.
"Hey, you! Vot for you do dot?" screamed Herr Schimmelpodt."Hey? Answer me dot vun, dumm-gesicht!" (Foolish-faced one.)
"I did it to save you from going under the wheels," retorted OfficerHemingway dryly.
"Und now I don't go me by dot game today!" groaned Herr Schimmelpodt. "Me! I dream apout dot game all der veek, und now I don't see me by it."
"But, man——-"
"Hal's maul." (Literally' "Shut your mouth!")
"Me! Und I Couldn't lose dot game for ein dollar!" glared the prosperous German.
He stared after the departed second section, from the open windows of which fluttered or wildly waved many a banner; for few of the Gridley crowd had yet discovered that one of the most prized members of the team had been left behind.
Herr Schimmelpodt it was, who, a wealthy retired contractor, had found his second youth in his enthusiasm over the High School baseball nine the season before.
Though thrifty enough in most matters, the German had become a liberal contributor to the High School athletic fund, to the great dismay of his good wife, who feared that his new outdoor fads would yet land them both in the poorhouse.
"Vot you doing here, Bresgott?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, turning upon the young prisoner. "Vy you ain't by dot elefen? How dey going to vin bis you are behint left?"
"You have company in your misery, sir," said Officer Hemingway. "I'm awfully sorry to say that Dick Prescott can't see today's game, either. It's a whopping shame, but sometimes the law is powerless to do right."
"What foolishness are you talking mit, vonce alretty?" demandedHerr Schimmelpodt, looking bewildered.
"I've just been arrested, on a false charge of assault," Dick stated quietly.
"You? Und you don't blay by der game yet' By der beard of Charlemagne," howled Herr Schimmelpodt excitedly, "ve see apoud dot!"
Digging down into a trouser's pocket this enthusiastic old High School "rooter" brought up a roll of bills almost as large around as a loaf of bread.