Garry Grayson at Lenox High

"Wonder if we'll be able to make the football eleven when we go to Lenox High."

Rooster Long stopped drawing pictures in the dust with the toe of his shoe and looked up at his companion inquiringly.

Garry Grayson, former captain and quarterback of the Hill Street eleven, shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't think we have a Chinaman's chance of making the team our first year in high," he replied. "Lenox will have plenty of material, good seasoned material, to draw on from the three upper classes. No reason why they should turn to the freshmen for recruits."

"Except that there are going to be some mighty good players among the freshmen this year," chimed in another boy, who emerged from the house at that moment and sat down on the step near which Garry was standing. "Maybe I'm speaking out of my turn, and there are some who won't agree with me—so much the worse for them—but I certainly think we turned out some pretty good players last year, if you should ask me."

The speaker was Bill Sherwood, a tall, well-developed lad who had played center on the Hill Street grammar school eleven, and was affectionately known to his mates as "Big Bill."

"You said it," agreed Nick Danter, a rather rangy, well-knit youth who lay stretched out at full length on the porch. "I'd go far enough to say that some of them could give the high school fellows a pretty nifty tussle at this minute."

"That goes not only for our Hill Street boys, but for some of the fellows of the Cherry and Webster Street schools," put in Ted Dillingham, stocky and muscular, as he leaned lazily against the finishing post of the porch railing. "Look at Pete Maddern and Tom Allison! They're no slouches when it comes to playing football, and I hear they're going to high this fall."

The boys were gathered about and on the porch of the Sherwood summer bungalow on the shores of picturesque Bass Lake, to which Garry Grayson, Rooster Long, Nick Danter and Ted Dillingham had been invited for a two week's stay, an invitation that they had gladly accepted, as they were the warmest and most congenial of friends.

All of them had graduated from the Hill Street grammar school of Lenox the preceding term, and were planning to enter the high school in the fall. The summer was nearly at an end, and they were looking forward eagerly to the new experience in store for them. Books, however, were not foremost in their thoughts at the moment.

All of them were football players, loved the great game, and had acquitted themselves well on the Hill Street football team that had won the grammar school championship the preceding season from their rivals of the Cherry and Webster Street schools. Garry Grayson especially had proved himself a remarkable player for a boy of his age.

But, good as they had been on a grammar school eleven, they knew that the high school was a different matter—all the difference, as Nick Danter had at one time expressed it, that there was "between being big frogs in a little puddle and little frogs in a big puddle."

But despite the cold water thrown on his hopes by his chums, Rooster Long still held tenaciously to his ambition.

"I don't see why we can't make a try for the team, anyway," he persisted, with a long face. "Just because we're freshmen doesn't say we have to be dumbbells and sit back and take just whatever is handed to us."

"Of course not," Garry agreed, with a touch of irony. "There's nothing to prevent our making a noise and trying to draw the attention of the upper classes to our humble position at the foot of the throne. Though, of course, there's just a chance," he admitted, his eyes kindling, "that our victories over Cherry and Webster may give us Hill Streeters a little boost even with the high and mighty Lenox fellows."

"Gee, I sure would like to be on that team!" said Rooster, with a yearning shake of his head. "They're just one degree below the college teams."

"Come out of your trance!" admonished Bill Sherwood. "We won't have a look in."

"I'm afraid you're right," agreed Garry. "If we get even as far as the scrub this year we'll be lucky. Maybe they'll let us be doormats for the regulars."

"Gee, you fellows are about as cheerful as a funeral!" cried Rooster, giving a vicious kick to an unoffending stone. "You give me the jim-jams. I've got to do something to get my mind off my troubles."

Bill Sherwood laughed lazily.

"Nothing to get so het up about, Rooster," he drawled. "We won't be the only freshmen at Lenox High this fall, you know. There will be plenty of others biting their nails on the sidelines and telling any one who will listen that they could do a mighty sight better than those boobs of regulars."

"They say that misery loves company, but that doesn't cut any ice with me," and Rooster frowned mightily. "I'd rather dodge Lenox altogether than to stand on the sidelines and watch the other fellows play."

"He's getting wild," observed the grinning Garry. He yawned and raised his arms above his head in a luxurious stretch. "What do you say we go in for a swim, Bill? That may help cool him off."

"Just what I was going to suggest, nothing else but," replied Bill, rising with alacrity. "Come on, let's jump into our bathing suits."

This formality was accomplished in a very short time, and the boys were soon out of the house and making a dash through the woods toward the shimmering waters of Bass Lake.

The Sherwood bungalow boasted a private dock from which the lads often went fishing and swimming. Bill had a canoe and also a cranky little motorboat that usually spoke out of its turn.

"It goes when you think the motor's dead," Bill had said, when describing the eccentric craft to his chums, "and it stops without the sign of a reason just when everything seems in fine working order. The only thing that has any effect on it is a good talking to, for it knows its master's voice."

He threw out his chest pompously as he spoke, but doubled up promptly when Garry poked him in the stomach.

"What do you think I am, a punching bag?" he demanded in an injured tone.

"Oh, did I hit you?" asked Garry in mock contrition. "My hand must have slipped."

At the moment the boys had no use for either craft, for on that particular afternoon they intended to be in the water and not on it.

They sat for a time on the edge of the dock, basking enjoyably in the sun, knowing that the warmer they got the more enjoyable would be the plunge into the cool waters of the lake.

It was a pretty sheet of water, with numerous miniature bays and jutting points to break the monotony of the shore line. There were many summer bungalows like the Sherwoods' cuddled among the trees near the shore of the lake, and on the north side was a fairly pretentious hotel.

On such a bright afternoon the lake was bound to be studded with the boats of pleasure seekers. Canoes slipped with graceful, gliding motion from one inlet to another, while motorboats of all descriptions chugged busily over the gleaming surface.

"All this will soon be over," remarked Garry, with a shade of regret in his voice. "I hate to see winter come."

"But before winter comes fall, and in the fall comes football," chanted Bill.

Rooster Long gave his chum an injured look.

"I thought we came here to get our minds off of football for a while," he complained. "You fellows can do what you like, but I'm going in swimming."

"You bet you are!" declared Garry, and gave Rooster a push that landed him splashing and sputtering in the seven feet of water at the edge of the dock.

Shaking the water from his eyes, Rooster shook a fist at the grinning Garry.

"Come down here and try that again," he cried.

"Come up here and I will," retorted Garry.

He raised his hands above his head, bent his body in the form of a bow, and clove the water with as clean and pretty a dive as one could wish to see.

Coming to the surface, puffing and blowing, he found himself entwined in a pair of strong arms that he discovered a moment later belonged to Rooster.

Then ensued a hilarious, aquatic wrestling match, in which each of them swallowed a good deal of water.

Bill stood on the end of the dock, rooting now for one, now for the other of his guests, until in the excitement he lost his balance and fell among them throwing the combatants into temporary confusion.

"He's busting up the fight!" gurgled Rooster. "Let's put him under."

And so, as often happens to the innocent bystander, Bill was set upon by both Garry and Rooster and finally was forced to duck and swim some distance under water to elude his tormentors.

"You had to run," called out Garry gleefully, and Bill shook a wet fist at him.

"I didn't run, I swam," he returned, grinning. "I can lick you one at a time, but two together are too many for me."

Ted Dillingham and Nick Danter had by this time come in with a splash, but they had scarcely touched the water when Garry's muscles suddenly became taut and he stared at an object out on the lake.

"Look at that motorboat!" he cried, as the other boys followed the direction of his gaze. "Must be going fifty miles an hour."

"Some fool driving," remarked Bill carelessly.

"I'll say that he's a fool!" cried Garry excitedly. "Look, fellows, he's heading straight for those rocks on the south shore!"

It was a moment before the other lads took in the seriousness of the situation.

Then with a yell Bill Sherwood started swimming for the dock.

Garry guessed his intention, and reached there at the same moment, the other boys close behind their comrades.

Bill jumped into his own eccentric motorboat, Garry tumbling in after him. By the time he had loosened the rope that tied the boat to the dock all five were on board.

For once the engine worked without protest. Bill, who was a master hand at working the craft urged the cranky motor to its limit and headed the nose of the boat toward the south shore.

The drivers of the strange motorboat were steering crazily, and those in the small craft who found themselves in the way turned tail and scuttled for cover.

"Why don't they turn out?" exclaimed Garry, in a frenzy of anxiety. "Are they blind? Can't they see that they're heading right for the rocks?"

"They're either idiots or they don't know how to run a boat," muttered Bill, as he bent himself to the task of getting out of his engine all the speed possible.

"Or else they've lost their heads and are too scared to try to steer at all," commented Rooster. "Gee, but that was a close shave!" he added, as the strange craft barely missed running down a canoe.

Bill's boat was now whizzing along like a comet, and the distance between it and the other craft was rapidly diminishing. The boys could now see quite clearly the inmates of the runaway vessel.

There were but two of them, boys apparently of about the age of Garry and his chums, and they seemed to be arguing about the possession of the wheel.

Garry made a megaphone of his hands and shouted:

"Turn out! You're heading for the rocks. Turn out!"

Even as he spoke there came a flash of fire, a sharp report, and the motorboat crashed against the rocks!

---

The occupants of the ill-fated craft were thrown clear of it just as the wreck broke into a mass of flames.

"They went down over there, Bill!" cried Garry, pointing to the spot where the strangers had disappeared. "Better slow down and I'll dive for them."

"I'm with you," declared Rooster, who was almost as expert a swimmer as Garry Grayson.

Bill nodded and brought the boat sharply about. Garry poised on the edge of the deck for a moment and then dived into the transparent water, closely followed by Rooster Long.

As Garry came up he saw one of the victims of the wreck struggling in the water and trying to keep his head above the surface.

The owner of the head was evidently in a frenzy of fear.

"Save me! Help! I'm drowning!"

The words came in sputtering yelps, and Garry struck out for the imperiled youth. In a moment he was at the boy's side.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," he directed. "Easy now. You're all right. We've got a boat right here."

What was Garry's surprise to feel the arms of the other boy close about him in a grip that seemed to be made of steel!

Garry's arms were pinioned close to his sides. He was powerless to make a move to save either himself or the fear-crazed lad who seemed determined to drown them both.

Garry heard a cry from Bill Sherwood and knew by the sound that the motorboat was being turned around and headed toward the spot where he struggled vainly to rid himself of that iron clutch around his shoulders.

Garry Grayson had been born and brought up in the thriving town of Lenox, a place of about fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the Sheldon River about two miles from Bass Lake. He was now about thirteen years old, a frank, likable, courageous boy, a leader in the sports of his age, and extremely popular with his mates.

His father was Joseph Grayson, a prominent lawyer of the town and active in its civic life. His mother was a refined, gracious woman, to whom her son was devoted. Garry had a twin sister, Ella, a pretty, merry girl, who teased her brother unmercifully, though in fact she was very fond and proud of him.

Among Garry's closest friends were Ted Dillingham and Nick Danter, whose fathers were partners in the largest department store in town. Others with whom he was on the most friendly terms included Tom Long, otherwise Rooster, and Bill Sherwood. All of them had been on the football team of the Hill Street grammar school, which had won the championship from similar schools in the town, and their enthusiasm for the game had still further cemented their friendship. Now they had graduated from the intermediate school and were preparing to enter the Lenox high school in the fall.

They had found the road to the championship no easy one. There had been traitors in their own school who had done their best to have Hill Street lose. Chief among these had been Chatwood Johns and Bud Warding who were disgruntled and envious because they had been put off the scrub team for playing dirty football. There was, too, another enemy, Sandy Podder, a vicious, dissipated pupil of the Lenox high school, who had caused Garry and his chums no end of trouble.

How Garry Grayson and his teammates overcame all obstacles; how, with the aid of a gypsy girl, they exposed a mystifying conspiracy—these and other exciting incidents are narrated in the first volume of this series, entitled: "Garry Grayson's Hill Street Eleven; or, The Football Boys of Lenox."

And now to return to Garry in his desperate plight as he was seeking to rescue the boy who had been thrown into the lake from the wrecked motorboat.

As the water closed over Garry's head he put all his strength into a straining, outward movement of his imprisoned arms. He felt the grip of his companion relax a little. He tried again with still better results. He kicked downward desperately with his feet to bring them both to the surface for the air his lungs demanded. He felt the grip of the other boy definitely relax. The latter had either fainted from fright or had drawn so much water into his lungs as to become unconscious.

With a feeling of immense thankfulness, Garry drew his arms free, seized the boy by the hair and brought him to the surface.

Garry was terribly weak himself by this time from muscular and mental strain. He gulped in the air, the while treading water. He shifted his grip to the strange boy's shoulders, keeping his head well above the surface.

"Safe, old boy? I was beginning to get mighty scared."

It was Bill Sherwood's voice, and, looking up, Garry saw the motorboat looming above him.

"Take this fellow, will you, Bill?" he gasped. "I'm all in."

It was the work of a moment for the boys in the boat to relieve Garry of his unconscious burden, then reach a hand to their chum and help him scramble over the side of the boat.

Rooster had reached the dripping deck only a moment before with the second inmate of the wrecked craft. He had had no such close call as Garry, however, for the other lad, though temporarily dazed, could himself swim and required only a little of Rooster's assistance.

The second boy shook the water from his clothes and regarded his unconscious friend without much concern.

"Seems pretty well done up," he remarked unemotionally. "Seems as though he'd tried to get the whole lake down his windpipe."

"He has got a good part of it, and it's up to us to get it out of him in a hurry," replied Bill. "Pitch in, you fellows, and take turns in doing as I do."

Bill Sherwood knelt down by the side of the pallid-faced youth and, with the help of some of his comrades, began to work the unconscious lad's arms over his head and back again and apply other first aid principles with which they were all familiar.

The wreck of the motorboat had been witnessed by many others on the lake, and various craft gathered quickly at the scene of the disaster, some from mere curiosity, others with a laudable desire to extend help, should help be needed.

Some of them were of service in extinguishing the flames of the wrecked vessel before it was wholly destroyed. Most of the upper part was burned, but there was still enough of the hull left to warrant the belief that the boat might be rebuilt.

One boat that swung alongside happened to have a doctor aboard.

"Can I be of any help?" the doctor called out.

"You might come aboard and take a look at him, though I think he's coming to all right," replied Garry.

"Right you are," pronounced the doctor, after a brief examination. "He's opening his eyes now. Luckily, he missed the rocks and only hit the water. And you fellows have done a good job in getting that out of him. All he needs is rest, but it will be just as well to get him home as soon as possible."

"We'll do that," promised Bill, and with a friendly wave of his hand to the doctor stepped again into his own boat and departed.

The prostrate lad opened his eyes and looked around with a frown on his face. He did not speak, nor did the Lenox boys urge him to, but waited for him to get his strength back.

The other lad from the wrecked craft had watched their efforts with more or less interest, but had not volunteered to take part in them. There was evidently no love lost between him and his companion.

There had been a gleam of recognition in Bill's eyes when the less injured lad had scrambled on board, and now that Bill had a moment of respite he introduced the newcomer to his companions.

"This is Jerry Cox, fellows," Bill said informally. "My brother Frank knows him. Jerry, let me introduce Garry Grayson, Rooster Long, Ted Dillingham and Nick Danter. Perhaps you know some of them already."

"Only by name," returned Jerry Cox, as he seated himself on a box near by with a cheerful grin on his face. "Garry Grayson sure led a wicked team for Hill Street last year and Rooster Long did some classy work as back. Gee, I wish I could play the kind of football you fellows put up!"

Both Garry and Rooster warmed to the genuine enthusiasm of their new acquaintance. Here was a football fan like themselves. Garry wondered at the dislike that was evident in Bill's tone as he made the introductions, and made a mental note that he would ask him about it the first time he had an opportunity.

"I should think you would be satisfied with your own special game," Bill said now in the same cold, unfriendly tone. "I hear from Frank that you play a wicked game of pool."

"Wicked is right," agreed Jerry amiably. "I don't need much advice when I have a cue in my hand."

They were interrupted by a fretful voice.

"Why are you keeping me out here?" queried Jerry's companion. "Why don't you take me to shore?"

"We'll do that in a jiffy," responded Bill, with a cheerful grin. "I guess this old bus can get us that far."

The eyes of the rescued boy turned toward him, and the frown on his face deepened.

Garry and his chums had a chance to study that face now, and what they saw did not appeal to them. It was a good-looking face in a rather weak way, but the forehead looked as though it had the habit of scowling and the mouth had a peevish, downward droop that seemed to indicate an habitually sullen state of mind.

The uninvited guest proceeded to act in such a way as to leave little doubt in his auditors' minds that they had judged correctly.

"Take it easy," counseled Garry, as he put his arm beneath the other's shoulder. "Better rest until you get your breath and feel stronger."

The young fellow brushed away Garry's arm impatiently, and after a brief struggle managed to lift himself to a sitting posture. His sullen eyes swept the lake.

"Where's my motorboat?" he asked sharply.

"Gone, Lent," Jerry answered, with an airy snap of his fingers. "Burned up."

"Burned up?" said the other boy, looking incredulously at Jerry. "Why, the boat was brand new! I just bought it. Burned up! I don't believe it!"

"I don't suppose it makes much difference whether you believe it or not," Jerry replied. "There's a fragment of it left, as you can see by looking on the other side. Maybe it can be rebuilt and maybe not. For myself, I should say it wasn't worth towing home. Sorry, but you can't get away from facts."

Garry, who had been listening to the dialogue with interest, now spoke.

"Your boat struck a rock and something exploded," he explained. "We saw that you were in trouble and came as quickly as we could. But the boat burned fast, and, as your friend says, there isn't much of it left."

"Grayson seems to have left out the most important part of it," Jerry put in at this point. "He saved your life, Lent, which ought to mean at least as much to you as the loss of your motorboat."

He spoke with a touch of irony which seemed to be lost altogether on his companion.

The boy addressed as Lent looked at Garry with a gleam of interest for a moment.

"You're the Grayson that played quarterback on the Hill Street eleven last year, are you? You made me lose a lot of money that I bet on the Webster Street team."

It was a queer way of expressing gratitude, and Garry was irritated for a moment.

"You ought to have used better judgment in picking the team to bet on," he answered curtly.

But Lent Stewart was not listening. He dragged himself to his feet and, steadying himself, gripped the rail and stared out frowningly over the water.

Then he turned savagely on Jerry Cox, ignoring the other boys.

"If my new motorboat's wrecked it's all your fault, Jerry Cox!" he snarled. "If you hadn't grabbed my arm, I'd have steered clear of the rocks all right."

"Yes, you would!" jeered Jerry. "If I hadn't done my best to stop your crazy piloting, we'd have been at the bottom long before. I warned you that you were going straight into danger, but you wouldn't listen. You always think you know it all."

"It would be queer if I didn't know more about a boat than you do," retorted his companion. "You as much as wrecked that new boat, and you ought to pay for it."

"Watch me," returned Jerry derisively, and there followed what promised to be a long drawn out and acrimonious dispute had not Garry intervened.

"Let's take these boys where they want to go and get back to the house, Bill," he suggested, a glint in his eye. "I'm hungry, and something tells me that I'm going to be hungrier soon. You wouldn't let me die of starvation, would you?"

Bill looked uncertainly at Garry and the others, opened his mouth as though to speak, then shut it again with a look of determination and turned his attention to his engine.

Big Bill was hospitable, as were his father and mother. The obvious and natural thing for him to do under the circumstances would have been to ask the derelicts up to his house, which was not far away, give them dry clothes of some sort, invite them to partake of an early supper, and then send them home in the family car.

Nine times out of ten he would have acted in just that way. But this time he conquered his instinct toward hospitality without apparent effort. Looking at Jerry Cox and Lent Stewart with an expressionless face, he said in a cold voice that caused his chums to look at each other with inquiring glances:

"If you'll tell me where you want to go, I'll see that you get there as soon as possible."

"We came from Lenox," Lent Stewart answered, sullenly enough. "I have a boathouse there and I can get a change of clothes. My father is rich, and he'll see that you get a—"

He was evidently going to add "reward," but the color that came into Garry's face and the flash that came from his eyes daunted him, and he murmured something that was unintelligible.

"I guess I can get you there all right," said Bill, as he coaxed the engine into life. "It's all up to the old tub. We'll hope she's in a good humor."

It appeared that the "old tub" was in exceptionally good humor; so they made the two-mile trip up the Sheldon river in excellent time. Bill had fastened the hull of the wrecked boat to his own craft with a rope and pulled it along after him.

Lent Stewart's evil humor persisted throughout the trip. Not a word of thanks came from his lips. He sat sullenly, looking gloweringly at the wreck of his boat, varied only by the ugly glances he cast at Jerry.

When they reached the boathouse landing, Stewart stepped off, and with a mumbled word that might have been interpreted as reluctant thanks, directed to no one in particular, made for the boathouse. Jerry, on the contrary, thanked the other lads heartily. Then he turned to go to the boathouse, only to be stopped by Stewart.

"You clear out of this!" he growled. "You wrecked my boat and I don't want anything more to do with you."

"All right, you doughhead, that suits me," retorted Jerry Cox, and strode off to the shore, whistling, with his hands in his pockets.

Garry and his friends, who had not yet gotten out of earshot, heard the interchange and grinned. They had all of them taken a strong dislike to Lent Stewart. They heartily hoped that they would never see him again.

On the contrary, they rather liked Jerry Cox. He was a cheerful young fellow, so different from Stewart that they wondered what had brought them together.

"Cute little sunshine, that Lent Stewart," chuckled Garry, as the cranky little motorboat widened the distance from the dock. "He ought to be a pal of Sandy Podder's. Probably each of them could give the other points on how to make himself a general nuisance."

Rooster laughed.

"I don't know about that," he said. "Sandy Podder's in a class by himself. I liked that Jerry Cox, though," he added. "He seems to be a good fellow."

"Good fellow nothing!" grunted Bill, giving the wheel of the motorboat a savage twist that turned it half about. "He's nothing but a bum—that's what he is!"

---

Such an outburst from good-natured Bill Sherwood was startling. His companions looked at him with surprise. On the face of it, his wrath against Jerry Cox seemed unfounded. This then was the explanation of Bill's coldness and lack of hospitality.

"What's the deep, dark secret, Bill?" asked Garry, voicing the desire to know that all were feeling. "The way you talk about Jerry Cox would make one think you were his best enemy."

"I am," growled Bill.

"What do you know against him?" queried Nick Danter.

"I came to know about him through my brother Frank," replied Bill. "Jerry Cox is one of that fast poolroom bunch. He hangs about Mooney's place all the time with Sandy Podder, Lent Stewart and that gang. He used to be all right before he got in with that lot. Now he's as bad as the rest of them."

"Well, I don't see that that's any of our funeral," put in Ted. "I'm mighty sure I'm not losing any sleep over that poolroom bunch. As long as we don't have to mix with 'em, why should we worry?"

"It's all right for you fellows to talk," returned Bill moodily. "But this Jerry Cox—"

He broke off and looked frowningly straight ahead, while his comrades regarded him curiously.

"Well, he's a friend of my brother Frank's," Bill burst forth, "and he's doing his best to keep Frank in with that rotten poolroom crowd. Do you wonder that I'm sore at him?"

"Not a bit, if that's the case," replied Garry promptly. "I'd feel the same way myself. I'm sorry if Frank has got into that gang. Let's see, Frank is a good deal older than you, isn't he?"

"About five years," answered Bill. "He finished his course in the high school last year, and now he's had a year in college. He'll be in the sophomore class in the fall. He's planning, you know, to be a doctor."

"I've heard it said he was a mighty smart scholar in the high," remarked Ted.

"So he was," replied Bill. "Walked away with most of the prizes. I wish I were as good a scholar as he was. Used to love his books. But now that he's got in with that gang he's neglecting his work and has fallen 'way behind in his studies. The folks have talked to him about it, but it doesn't seem to do any good. As for me, he treats me like a kid."

"It's too bad," said Nick sympathetically.

"Take the time you fellows have been up here, for instance," continued Bill. "How many times have you seen Frank at the bungalow?"

"Just once," replied Garry thoughtfully. "And then he seemed in an all-fired hurry to get back to town," he added.

"Where does he stay at night in Lenox?" Booster asked.

"Oh, at the house of one or other of the gang. Usually he pals with Jerry Cox," Bill explained. "Do you wonder," he added, with another vicious twist of the wheel, "that I could barely bring myself to be decent to the fellow?"

"It's enough to make any one sore," admitted Garry, who felt that he knew now why Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood had often seemed so sad and abstracted during the visit of the boys to the bungalow.

They were entering Bass Lake now, almost at the place where Lent Stewart's motorboat had met with disaster. They stared at the fatal rock reminiscently.

"It's a wonder that Lent Stewart wouldn't learn to pilot a motorboat before he took it out for a spin," commented Ted. "The end sure came fast and furious."

"Shouldn't wonder if he had been drinking," remarked Nick. "I caught sight of a bottle in the bottom of the boat."

"Of course you can't blame him for feeling pretty sore," conceded Garry. "It must be pretty tough to lose a new boat like that. It must have cost a lot of money."

"You can blame him for showing that he was sore, though," declared Bill disgustedly. "The ungrateful goof never even thanked you for saving his life, Garry."

"I was thankful enough for saving my own life," returned Garry, and then told them of the panic-stricken way in which Stewart had clutched him and drawn them both under water.

"Sounds just like him," Bill said contemptuously. "That whole poolroom gang is rotten. That's why it makes me mad enough to bite nails to think of Frank being in with them."

All his friends sympathized heartily with Bill. Having come in contact with that fast, dissipated crowd through Sandy Podder, who was one of the bunch, they knew how worthless it was. They knew, too, that Bill had always looked up to his older brother as a model of everything that was intelligent and fine. There had been a strong bond between the two lads. Small wonder that Bill had found it hard to be polite to Jerry Cox!

"Guess we'd better get over to the house and jump into our clothes," remarked Bill after a silence. "Supper will be just about ready when we get there."

The boys agreed, and after making the motorboat fast to the dock hurried to the house.

That evening at the table the guests were able to read a new meaning into Mrs. Sherwood's anxious glances toward the door and in the conscious effort that Mr. Sherwood made to be companionable and cheerful.

"They are hoping Frank will come home to supper," thought Garry. "I suppose he's having eats with some of the gang and planning a full evening at the poolroom."

Rooster, thinking on the subject, wondered how he could ever have felt a liking for Jerry Cox.

Two days later the visit at the bungalow came to an end.

"Hate to leave, Bill," said Garry. "We've had a mighty slick time while we've been here."

The other boys expressed themselves in similar fashion.

"I hate just as much to have you go," replied Bill. "But I sha'n't be long behind you. The folks are going to close the bungalow earlier this year than usual."

He did not say why, but Garry surmised that this was because they wanted to get back to town so as the better to keep their eye on Frank and try to get him under control.

With warm thanks to their host and hostess, the boys made their way back to their homes at Lenox, hiking it by preference, though Mr. Sherwood offered to send them in the car.

At the corner of Maple and Cherry Streets, they met Dick Randolph and Con Riley, who greeted them like long lost brothers.

"You old deserters!" exclaimed Dick. "We thought you weren't coming back till the first day of school."

"We've been having some fine practice in that open lot back of your house, Garry," said Con. "Dick's developed a great punt, and our forward passing hasn't been so worse."

"I'll have to get in with you," replied Garry. "My hands are itching for the feel of the good old pigskin."

As they reached the front of Garry's home, Mrs. Grayson came hurrying out to meet her son. After a warm greeting to the wanderer, she turned to his chums.

"Come in with Garry, boys," she said smilingly. "Hannah's just putting lunch on the table."

The lads made some objections as a matter of form, but they did not require much urging. Mrs. Grayson was used to having Garry's friends in her house at all hours of the day and at any meal.

She liked to have them, and it might be observed that Hannah, the maid, though she often grumbled over the necessity of setting extra plates at the table, always served the boys with the best there was and looked on with beaming approval as the fruits of her labors disappeared.

The boys' appetites were keen after their hike, and they did full justice to the appetizing lunch spread before them. While they ate they recurred to the ever fascinating topic of their chances to play football at Lenox High during the coming fall.

"You knew, of course; that Pete Maddern and Tom Allison were entering high, didn't you?" Dick asked Garry.

"Yes," replied Garry, as he passed his plate for a second piece of pie. "I'm glad of it, too. They're both of them good fellows and mighty fine football players."

"I can see where we'll have some tall old scrambling to make the team," said Dick lugubriously, "with three husky captains of grammar school elevens fighting for a berth."

"And none of 'em getting it," predicted Ted Dillingham.

"Maybe. But meantime there's nothing to keep us from kicking the ball around," said Garry cheerfully. "Who's with me? That is, if you fellows are all through."

"If we're not, we ought to be," laughed Rooster, pushing back his chair after Mrs. Grayson had given the signal, an example followed by the others. "Lead on, Garry. Get that pigskin. What we'll do to it will be a sin and a shame."

They ran around to the barn at the back of Garry's home, that had been fitted up as a gymnasium, and there Garry possessed himself of the football that had been given him on his last birthday and which, despite rough usage, was still serviceable.

"Make believe it doesn't feel good to get hold of this old football again," he murmured, hugging the ball lovingly in the crook of his arm as he trotted with the other boys to the open field back of the house. "I wish some of the other fellows were here," he added. "We might get in some good practice."

As though in answer to his wish, a group of boys who had also played on the Hill Street eleven appeared at that juncture, coming up Maple Street.

"There's Sizz Snider and Si Rowe!" yelled Rooster Long.

"And Carl Zukor and Sloppy Hume," added Nick. "Hooray! Now we'll have some fun."

The other boys came running, and there were some jubilant greetings.

"If Bill were here now, it would seem like old times!" exclaimed Ted.

Garry nodded assent.

"Almost a full eleven here now," he said. "Too bad that we haven't got another team to play against. But we can get some good group practice anyway at punting, kicking, and forward passing. We'll have five on each side, and we'll try to play as hard as though we were in a regular game."

They divided up accordingly, with Garry's group in possession of the ball.

"Now, fellows, snap into it!" called Garry. "Let's see if you still have some of your old stuff."

He called out a signal, received the ball from Carl Zukor, who acted as center, straightened with a swift movement, and threw the ball to Nick Danter at right half.

Nick turned and threw the ball to Ted, who legged it down the field at a great rate amid the encouraging shouts of his comrades.

He was downed at last by Dick Randolph, who made a rattling tackle.

"Good for forty yards, I bet," sang out Rooster.

"Easy enough to make a long run when there are not many in front of you," laughed Garry. "Bring it back, Ted, and we'll try another."

There had been a fairly heavy rain the night before, and the field was slippery. Also there were small depressions here and there filled with muddy water, into which a runner was apt to fall unless he watched his step.

One of these proved the undoing of Rooster after he in his turn had received the ball and started to run. He had gone about fifteen yards when his feet found one of those mud-filled pockets in the ground.

Down he went in one grand splash, while his mates gathered round to gibe at his downfall.

The ball fell under him, and when Rooster struggled to his feet it was hard to tell which was muddier, the ball or himself.

"Is that what you call making a touchdown?" asked Dick Randolph, with a grin.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Ted.

Rooster regarded his tormentors with a sour expression of countenance.

"You're a great bunch, you are!" he grumbled. "The next one that grins will get this pigskin right on the end of his nose. Now laugh that off."

Before this formidable threat the boys scattered, still jeering, though at a safe distance from Rooster and his weapon.

Garry, laughing, held out his hands.

"Chuck it," he invited. "I'll give it a punt that will shake some of the mud off of it."

Rooster complied, and Garry received the ball gingerly, holding it at either end with the palms of his hands only.

Then he opened his hands. The ball dropped, met his foot squarely, and went whizzing through the air.

At the same moment a tall, thin, preoccupied gentleman turned from the street into the lot.

Ball and man came together with a plop.

"Oof!" exclaimed the man explosively.

---

The tall thin gentleman had been struck squarely in the face.

The shock and the hurt must have been considerable. But apart from this, insult was added to injury by the mud on the ball that spattered over the man's immaculate shirt front and vest.

Garry, in dismay at what he had unintentionally done, ran swiftly across the field in pursuit of the offending pigskin, intent upon making his peace with the victim of the accident.

Peace, however, was the last thing in the thoughts of the stranger, who had taken out his handkerchief and was busily engaged in wiping the mud from his face and clothes.

He stared angrily at Garry when the boy approached, out of breath and full of apologies.

"I didn't see you coming," Garry panted, genuinely penitent. "I'm awfully sorry, sir. I hope it didn't hurt you much. It was only an accident."

"Accident!" sneered the man in a voice trembling with rage. "Quite an unfortunate accident, young man. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"I'm dreadfully sorry," repeated Garry. "I wouldn't have done it for the world!"

"I suppose it was an accident, too," the stranger went on, as though Garry had not spoken, "that you happen to be playing football in a vacant lot close to a fairly populous thoroughfare. Any passerby is in danger of being assaulted as I have been."

Garry stared at the man helplessly, hardly knowing what answer to make to the stilted, pedantic speech.

"Perhaps you had better come into our house," the boy suggested, still anxious to make amends. "You can wash there and have your clothes cleaned."

"I'm not in need of any suggestions from you," replied the man, giving Garry a look out of his cold gray eyes that made the lad think of a snake. "All you can do is to make me an abject apology."

"I've already said that I am sorry," replied Garry, growing a bit red in the face at the stranger's implacable tone, "and I am—very sorry."

"People don't usually cross this lot," Nick broke in, coming to Garry's relief; "and you came around that corner so suddenly that we didn't see you till after the punt was made."

"I was taking a short cut to Mr. Elliny's house," the man rejoined, turning his cold gaze from Garry to Nick. "Not that I feel called on to offer an explanation, since the lot was not fenced in," he added loftily. "It's an outrage for you boys to practice with that filthy football within the town limits," with a glance of distaste at his muddy waistcoat. "I ought to report this affair to the authorities."

With this the outraged stranger swept the group with an icy stare, scowled fiercely at Garry, and continued on his way with a dignity that refused to be marred by the consciousness that his immaculate clothes had suffered sadly.

Nick whistled softly.

"Going to Mr. Elliny's house," he repeated thoughtfully. "Isn't Elliny the head of the Board of Education?"

"Great Scott! So he is," cried Garry, beginning to see whither Nick's question led. "I bet that tall, thin guy is a teacher!"

"Well, you did it that time, Garry!" crowed Rooster. "Sure, that old boy is a teacher. You could tell it by the look of him."

"By the look in his eyes he'll never forgive you, Garry," predicted Nick. "You hurt his dignity."

"Anyway you got some dirt off der ball," said Carl Zukor, who had not yet shaken off his German accent.

"Yeah. Think of that and cheer up, old boy," said elephantine Sloppy Hume, clapping Garry on the shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, anyway. Don't let it faze you."

"Just the same, I'm mighty sorry it happened," replied Garry, as he resumed his position in the field. "I don't suppose it's any fun to have a muddy football smack into you. You can't blame the man for feeling sore."

"You can't blame him for being an old crab, either," said Nick cheerfully. "But you don't exactly love him for it. If he'd been a regular fellow, he'd have accepted your apology and let it go at that."

"Well, come on, play ball," called Garry, and in a few moments practice was in full swing again.

But though he entered heartily into the sport, Garry could not shake off a feeling of regret that the accident had occurred. There had been a look of bitter animosity in the look the man had turned on him, and he had a feeling that he would hear of the matter further.

The afternoon wore on, and the boys were at length forced to call an end to the practice. As they reluctantly dispersed to their homes Garry carefully deposited his precious football in the barn "gym" and entered the house.

There he found that his mother had an errand for him that must be attended to at once.

Garry was muddy and hot and needed a bath badly. Nevertheless, he started off without protest, thinking that perhaps he could work in a shower when he returned.

At the first corner, as luck would have it, he ran into his sister Ella with two of her girl chums. One was Jane Danter, Nick Danter's pretty sister, and the other an out-of-town girl whom Garry did not know.

Since Ella rarely missed an opportunity to tease her brother, she could not resist the opportunity his rather unkempt appearance gave her.

"Garry Grayson! who's been throwing mud at you? Or have you been making mud pies? Of all things! I shouldn't have recognized you if it weren't for your walk. You look like something the cat dragged in."

"Is zat so?" was the only retort Garry in his confusion was capable of making. He felt it was not a very effective one, and his peace of mind was not increased by the sound of the girls' giggles as he passed on with what dignity he could muster.

He realized ruefully that he ought to have taken a moment to wash himself and brush off his clothes. Handling a muddy football during an afternoon of hard practice was not conducive to a good appearance.

"I sure look like a tramp," he thought to himself. "I suppose I'll run into every one I know just because I've got mud all over me."

The first person he saw when he entered the store on his mother's errand was Sandy Podder, who looked Garry over disdainfully from head to foot.

After the first look that passed between them, Garry ignored Sandy and stood with his back toward him while he waited for his order to be filled.

But Sandy was evidently in no mood to be ignored. He started a conversation with the storekeeper in a loud tone that was clearly intended to reach Garry's ears.

"Lot of fellows I know entering Lenox High this fall," remarked Sandy.

"That so?" inquired the storekeeper, without a great deal of interest.

"Sure," continued Sandy. "Some crack football players too, from Webster and Cherry Street schools."

"Some from Hill Street too, if what I hear is true," remarked the man, giving Garry a friendly wink.

"Oh, that bunch! They think they're players, of course." Sandy Podder's scorn was immense. "But they won't have a chance against such fellows as Pete Maddern and Tom Allison. Those two are what I call real football players."

Thinking that Sandy had not recognized Garry as the former captain of the Hill Street team, the well disposed storekeeper tried to give him a hint.

He pointed towards Garry's still averted back and said in a low tone:

"Gently! Gently! That's Garry Grayson himself."

"Well, what of it?" Sandy laughed and snapped his fingers flippantly. "Do you think I'm afraid of him?"

"You bet your life you are!" Garry whirled on him so swiftly that Sandy, though much the bigger of the two, shrank back in alarm. "You stow that kind of talk, Sandy Podder, if you know what's good for you."

Sandy recovered himself enough to bluster:

"Who's going to make me, I'd like to know?"

Garry took a step forward, his eyes blazing. But here the storekeeper intervened.

"Easy, boys, easy," he admonished. "Don't let's have any trouble in here."

Garry drew back at the words and Sandy sneered openly, thinking that he had an ally, if only a negative one.

"You think you're going to make the team at Lenox High, I suppose," continued the trouble-maker. "Well, let me tell you that you haven't the ghost of a chance with Allison and Maddern in the field against you."

Garry was holding himself in with a great effort. When he spoke it was in a deceptively quiet voice.

"You seem to forget that as captain of the Hill Street team I've met both Pete Maddern and Tom Allison—"

"And licked them too," interposed the storekeeper, rubbing his hands with enjoyment. "My boy was there at both those games, and he said they were the prettiest he ever saw."

"Just luck!" sneered Sandy again with that offensive snap of his fingers. "I was there—and I know."

"Oh, you know, do you?" Garry's voice was still calm, but there was something in it that warned Sandy Podder he had gone too far. "Since you know so much, perhaps you can tell me what became of that money that Mr. Long gave you for your father and that your father never got?"

---

At the words that fell from Garry Grayson's lips Sandy Podder's face became as white as ashes.

"Now, now—" he stammered, all his aggressiveness gone. "Just let that drop. I don't want to talk about that."

"I thought not," replied Garry, with a touch of sarcasm. "Then if you don't want me to spill the whole story, beat it out of here and keep going. And more than that," he added, as Sandy turned hurriedly toward the door, "if you try giving anybody else the same line of chatter you've just handed me, I'll make Lenox a mighty uncomfortable place for you. Just get that."

The door slammed after Sandy Podder, and Garry turned toward the grinning storekeeper.

"I'll have that package now," he said, with an answering smile.

"You sure handed that young whippersnapper a hot one that time," said the man, as he pushed Garry's package across to him and received his money in exchange. "I must say, I was glad to see you do it. That fellow needs taking down a peg or two. But say," he lowered his voice to a confidential murmur and leaned eagerly across the counter, "what did you mean about that money and Sandy Podder's old man? You let out just enough to make me interested."

Garry shook his head, gathered the package under one arm, and turned to go.

"How do you know that I wasn't just working a bluff?" he answered.

But after the door had closed behind the lad the storekeeper remained in his place behind the counter for a long minute, perplexity written on his face.

"Bluffing, eh?" he repeated, half aloud. "Well, all I've got to say 'twas a pretty good bluff to make Sandy Podder turn white in the face and hurry out of the shop as though a ghost was at his heels. Looks like Sandy Podder had some trouble with his father about money and that Garry Grayson knows about it. It's no wonder, the way he runs with that poolroom crowd. No boy of mine could keep company with that bunch and live under the same roof with me. That poolroom ought to be closed up, and I'd like to be the one to do it."

Meanwhile, Garry made his way homeward as quickly as he could.

He was irritated by his encounter with Sandy Podder, and half angry with himself because of the slip of the tongue that had almost revealed the shameful facts concerning that young reprobate and the missing three thousand dollars.

Sandy had apparently gotten out of that scrape a good deal more easily than he deserved. For a time after the occurrence he had seemed subdued. But the improvement had lasted only a short time, and now he was as bad—worse, some thought—as ever.

"He hates us fellows for the part we took in showing him up," murmured Garry to himself, "and now that we're entering the same high school where he's been studying, he'll do his best to get even with us. Well, let him try," with an unconscious clenching of the fists. "I guess we'll be a match for him. We've beaten him before, and we can probably do it again."

It was not long before the great day came—great, at least, from Garry's viewpoint—the day on which he was to enter Lenox High.

Mrs. Grayson had spent a few days before the opening in shopping for Garry and Ella, for the latter was to enter the high school on the same day as her twin brother.

There had been a spirited race during the years of grammar school between the brother and sister.

When Garry skipped from 3A to 4A, Ella had put on her working cap and skipped also. When in the higher grades Ella made a brilliant spurt and skipped again, Garry had urged himself to greater effort and in the next grade caught up to her.

Now, as they were about to step on a higher rung of the ladder of learning, they were still side by side.

As they faced each other over the breakfast table, Ella radiant with excitement and bubbling over with good spirits, Garry a bit sheepish and acutely conscious of the handsome new suit that had been bought for him to celebrate the occasion, it would have been hard to find in the whole of Lenox a more wholesome or promising pair of youngsters.

At least Mrs. Grayson thought so, and it is safe to say that Mr. Grayson agreed with her.

"My, how spick and span my famous brother looks!" remarked Ella, as she helped herself to some omelet and a crisp slice of bacon. "You and Tom Allison and that good-looking Pete Maddern will have the spotlight turned upon you to-day, I reckon. The girls call you the 'Three Captains,' and there's a lot of interest as to which of you will make the Lenox football team first."

"So Tom and Maddern's boy are entering to-day too," observed Mr. Grayson, eyeing his son thoughtfully. "They're fine fellows, both of them."

"I'll say they are," Garry rejoined heartily. "Off the gridiron I like them first-rate. But on the field," he added, with a grin, "they're just a couple of fellows to lick."

"Well, go in and lick them, son," said Mr. Grayson, with a smile. "They're a pair of sporting enemies, all right, and if you beat them, it will be in a fair fight."

"I've got more than Pete and Tom to lick, Dad," said Garry. "It's not likely any of us freshmen will make the team. And it's going to be pretty hard to stand on the outside and watch the regulars work."

"Hard on your sporting instincts, but perhaps good for your scholarship," returned Mr. Grayson. "There's just one thing I want to say to you, Garry, before you start out this morning. This goes for you too, Ella, since your mother tells me you are going to try to make the girls' hockey team."

Garry shot an inquiring glance at his sister, but Ella's merry eyes were fixed demurely on her plate.

"All during your work in grammar school," went on Mr. Grayson, "you have been governed by the rule that your studies must come before anything else. You've both done well and we're proud of you. Aren't we, Sadie?"

Mrs. Grayson nodded, smiling.

"We haven't anything to complain of," she agreed.

"And I just want you to remember," Mr. Grayson concluded his brief lecture, "that the same rule holds good in high school. Studies first and sports in what time you have left."

"Sure thing, Dad," assented Garry. He had just caught a glimpse through the window of Nick, Bill, Rooster, and Ted coming up the street. He pushed back his chair hastily, for the boys had promised to call for him. On his way to the door he paused for a moment at his father's side. "That rule is a pretty strict one at Lenox High," he said. "You've got to reach a certain mark in scholarship before you're even eligible to try for a team. I say, El," he added, as he playfully tweaked his sister's ear in passing, "what's this I hear about hockey?"

Ella smiled, as she also pushed back her chair from the table.

"You didn't think I was going to let my brother carry off all the sporting honors of the family, did you?" she returned. Then she ran off for her hat as Garry called a good-bye from the door and joined his friends on the porch.

"Gee, you sure look swell, Garry!" Rooster greeted him. "That is some outfit."

Ted staggered as though he were about to swoon.

"Hold me up," he pleaded. "Am I seeing things?"

"Cut it," commanded Garry, as he made a pass at Ted. "What are you trying to do, pull a fight?"

As they walked on toward the school, it was noticeable that Bill Sherwood was unusually silent. When Garry finally commented on this, Bill roused himself with an effort from his abstraction.

"There was a row at home about Frank's going with that poolroom crowd," he explained. "Gee, I wish I could find some way to sidetrack him! They're sure a rough gang, and I never thought that a brother of mine would be running around with them."

"Oh, don't worry!" Rooster tried to cheer his chum up. "Frank will tumble to them himself if you give him time. Just leave him alone till he comes to his senses."

"Yeah, that's just what I am doing," said Bill mournfully. "He won't let me do anything else."

The chums reached the grounds of the high school a short time later, and found the campus already crowded with students. As the boys mingled with these on their way to the building they caught sight of Sandy Podder talking to Lent Stewart.

As Sandy's eyes lighted on Garry, an angry look came into them. He said something in a low voice to his companion, and then the boys saw him slip off into the crowd.

"Up to some dirty scheme, you can bet," said Rooster Long, with a contemptuous twirl of his books. "That Sandy Podder sure has it in for us."

"And he was talking to Lent Stewart," remarked Garry thoughtfully. "The two seem to be pals."

"Thick as thieves. They're two of a kind, from all I've seen of them," said Bill.

They entered the big building now and looked about them with interest as they proceeded down the corridor.

The school was an old one, the ceilings high, the woodwork dark. But despite the dingy aspect of the place there was an air of dignity, an atmosphere of learning, that impressed the boys just admitted within its portals.

They passed an open door and had the temerity to look in.

"Gee, that's an office!" breathed Ted, with a touch of awe.

"Where they send the naughty freshmen, maybe," put in Nick Danter, with a chuckle. "Bet you'll be the first to make it, Ted, at that."

Ted's retort was cut short by an unexpected incident.

They had reached the end of the corridor and were about to turn the corner to the room assigned to them when Garry leaped back suddenly, almost knocking over Rooster and Bill, who were directly behind him.

A cup of dirty water thrown by an invisible hand had narrowly missed landing squarely on the front of his new coat!

---

Surprise on Garry Grayson's part was quickly followed by anger. Whoever had thrown that cup of water had done it with deliberate and malicious intent.

While Nick, who had caught most of the water, was wiping it from his sleeve, Garry leaped around the corner. There, as he had more than half expected, he encountered the grinning face of Sandy Podder.

Sandy was trying to slip into a room the door of which stood ajar. But Garry was too quick for him and caught him by the shoulder.

As Sandy wriggled out of the clutch a look of feigned innocence came into his face.

"Oh, hello!" he remarked, with an air of specious friendliness. "When did you get here?"

"You know as well as I do," replied Garry angrily. "What did you mean by trying to throw that cup of dirty water over me?"

"I?" replied Sandy, while in his furtive eyes lurked a grin of enjoyment. "You must be crazy. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you?"

With a swift motion Garry bent forward, seized Podder's wrist and gave it a sharp twist. With a cry of surprise and pain Sandy's fingers unclosed and something tinkled on the floor of the corridor.

Garry pounced upon it and picked it up. The object was a collapsible tin cup that can be folded in a small compass and put in the pocket for convenience' sake.

Garry held out the cup, contempt on his face.

"Didn't know anything about it?" he said. "With this cup hidden in your hand and still wet from the water you tried to throw on me!"

"I tell you I didn't try to throw water on you," reiterated Sandy, a little of his assurance gone.

A crowd of boys had gathered, sensing a quarrel, hoping probably, boylike, for a real fight.

Nick Danter nudged Garry's arm.

"Don't start anything, Garry," he urged in an undertone. "This isn't the place or time."

Garry appeared not to have heard him. He unfolded the collapsible cup until it had assumed its full shape and size. There were a few drops of water still clinging to it.

"Give me that cup," demanded Sandy, beginning to bluster. "You're altogether too fresh. Give me back my property."

Garry looked at the few drops of water in the bottom of the cup. These he tossed coolly into the flaming face of Sandy Podder, while some of the boys in the fast-increasing throng laughed gleefully.

"Say you—you four-flusher," cried Sandy, fairly stuttering with wrath. "You give me back my cup or I'll—I'll—"

"Yes," replied Garry, stepping forward to meet him, hands clenched. "Just what will you do?"

Bill Sherwood came up to Garry and whispered in his ear:

"Don't spoil your entrance, Garry. There's nothing Sandy Podder would like better than to see you get in Dutch with the faculty."

Garry nodded. Crushing the cup in his hand he flung it at the feet of its owner.

"There's your cup," he said curtly.

Leaving the red-faced Podder to pick up the cup sheepishly, to the amusement of the spectators, Garry and his friends hurried down the corridor toward what they had been told would be their classroom.

Luckily, the numbers were clearly marked on the doors. They found their number, seventeen, without difficulty and slipped inside.

They were none too soon, for as Garry cast a glance behind he saw one of the teachers approach the group around Sandy Podder, inquiry in his eye.

"Gee, I'm glad you're well out of that, Garry!" said Rooster, with a sigh of relief. "It would be a bad thing to get into a fight your first day in the high school."

"Podder may peach, anyhow," Garry pointed out, but Bill Sherwood scoffed at this.

"Not much! There are too many witnesses to testify that he started the row. He'll want to keep his own skirts clean."

"Besides, his own part in it wasn't over-heroic," chuckled Rooster. "He'd hardly want to brag about it."

"You sure got him mad when you chucked those drops of water at him," grinned Ted. "I wanted to crow."

"The low coward!" exclaimed Garry, his hands clenching again at the memory. "I suppose that's the kind of thing we've got to look out for now. But if Sandy Podder's looking for trouble, he'll get all he wants! I can tell him that."

"He got some this morning," replied the grinning Nick. "Cheer up, Garry. You handed that sneak one bitter dose of medicine, judging from the look on his face when he gulped it down."

Some more of their classmates were coming in then, and as the time for the opening exercises was almost at hand they had no time for further conversation.

Now that Garry had somewhat cooled down, he was glad that he had listened to Bill's warning and not let his anger run away with him. There would be other ways of dealing with the fellow and more appropriate places for that purpose.

The principal of the school, Mr. Allen, gave the students a little talk in the assembly room before they scattered to their respective classes. It was a genial, kindly talk, and the new boys, as Bill later expressed it, "cottoned to him at once." He emphasized the necessity for hard study and the rewards that might be expected to come from it. Then he touched on the sports of the school, with which he was in hearty sympathy, though he warned them that scholarship must come first and that none would be allowed on any of the school teams whose work was not satisfactory to their teachers.

In the absorbing round of new classes, new subjects, and new teachers, Garry soon forgot all about Sandy Podder.

Not much work was expected of any one on that first day. It was more a matter of becoming acquainted with classmates and instructors, learning the rules, and the giving out of the books for the various studies of the term.

It was the first period of the afternoon that brought a surprise to Garry Grayson. It was not a pleasant surprise, and served, together with the scrap with Sandy in the morning, to shadow considerably his first day in school.

As Garry entered the classroom devoted to the study of English literature with the rest of his classmates, the tall, thin figure at the desk impressed him as being in some way familiar, and as the teacher turned his face toward the entering pupils Garry received a distinct shock.

The face belonged to the stranger whose immaculate clothing Garry had soiled with the muddy football on that unfortunate day of practice!

---

The recognition appeared to be mutual. As the teacher's cold glance met Garry's questioning one the eyes of the former hardened with a gleam of antagonism.

The interchange lasted only a second, but it was long enough to assure Garry that it would be a difficult task to erase from the mind of Trompet Shrugg, teacher of English, the memory of that muddy football and the indignity to which the incident had subjected him.

"I'm in Dutch, all right," the boy thought ruefully, as he took a seat between Nick Danter and Bill Sherwood. "That old boy looked as though he could hold a grudge forever. Just my luck that I have to be under him during my first term in Lenox High!"

Garry glanced at Nick and noticed that he, too, was eyeing the teacher with interest. Evidently Nick remembered that fateful day in the lot and was connecting the instructor with the tall, stiff man who had been on his way to "Mr. Elliny's house."

Catching Garry's glance, Nick winked dolefully, while his lips framed the words: "Tough luck."

Garry nodded and would have telegraphed an answer, had not a peculiar expression in the eyes of his chum warned him to watch the teacher.

Glancing toward the desk, Garry found the eyes of Trompet Shrugg fixed upon him in a disapproving stare. Garry met the stare steadily though respectfully, and in a moment the English teacher turned away to speak to one of the other boys.

"All set to pick on me," said Garry to himself resentfully. "He seems to think I kicked the pigskin at him on purpose. It begins to look as though I'd have to watch my step while I'm in this class, anyway."

The English period dragged interminably, with Professor Shrugg addressing the boys in his painfully precise English, outlining the course for the term, and declaring in no uncertain manner what would be expected of the boys in his classes.

There was a sigh of genuine relief when the bell sounded through the hall announcing the end of that period and the commencement of the next.

When finally the work of the day was over and the boys were strapping their new books together, his chums expressed their solicitude over the outlook for Garry.

"Gee, Garry, that sure is hard luck about old Shrugg," condoled Ted Dillingham.

"It is, for a fact," agreed Garry. "That old boy has it in for me, all right. I could tell it by the way he looked at me."

"I see where you'll have to be a model for all the rest of us roughnecks," grinned Nick. "You will have to be so very, very good that Shrugg will stop suspecting you of secret plots against his health and happiness."

"And shirt front," added Rooster. "I guess from the look of him, we'll all have to walk as though we were treading on eggs. That guy has an eye like a snake's."

"I bet he'll be about as popular as one, too," predicted Bill.

The prophecy proved to be not far from the truth. Trompet Shrugg was a scholar, a highly educated man. But to his students he was stern, abrupt, sometimes insultingly sarcastic.

A large part of this sarcasm was directed at Garry in the days that followed. But the more Shrugg picked on him, the greater was Garry's popularity among his schoolmates. Nick and Rooster had been careful to circulate the story of the muddy football and the martinet of a teacher. This delighted the boys and made Garry into something of a hero, while much secret fun was poked at the stiff, pedantic Trompet Shrugg.

Garry, however, found nothing amusing in the dislike the teacher of English had for him. He was subjected almost daily to numerous small slights and subtle bits of sarcasm, which he found it difficult to laugh off. He knew himself constantly watched, and his very eagerness to make no mistakes sometimes tripped him up.

Garry had his worries outside the classroom as well as in. After the run-in between him and Sandy Podder the latter's enmity against the former captain of the Hill Street eleven grew, if possible, still more active.

Podder and his cronies lost no opportunity to annoy and exasperate the lad. Sly winks and sneering glances passed between them when Garry was present, though their respect for his courage and strength prevented them from deliberately provoking him to hostilities.

Strangely enough, Lent Stewart, the constant companion of Sandy during those first days at school, seemed to share the latter's enmity for Garry.

"Though the only thing you ever did to that chump was to save his life," Ted said one day when they had chanced to overhear an insulting remark of Lent Stewart's directed covertly at Garry. "That's a fine thing to hold a grudge about."

Things were very much in the same state when about a week later Garry and his friends entered the hall of the school to find an excited crowd about the bulletin board.

"Something's up!" cried Garry. "Let's have a look!"

As he and his friends pushed forward, some of those nearest stepped back so that the newcomers could have a good look at the board.

At the same moment that Garry recognized Sandy Podder and Lent Stewart in the crowd he came face to face with quite another type of boy, Pete Maddern, the former captain of the Cherry Street football team.

"Hello, Grayson!" Pete greeted Garry in a hearty voice. "Here's good news. First call for the gridiron."

Garry's heart leaped and enthusiasm showed in his tone as he answered his "friendly enemy" in the same spirit.

"Something doing at last, is there?" he said. "Suppose you're going to try for the team?"

"Am I? You bet!"

"And it's a team worth trying for, I tell you," came another voice.

Garry turned to see Tom Allison at his elbow.

Many who had witnessed the redhot games between the three grammar schools during the previous season watched the reunion of the trio with interest.

It was evident from their faces that these boys who had been deadly enemies on the gridiron, striving against each other with all that was in them, were the best of friends now that they were off the field, each admiring the good qualities of the others.

The worth-while boys in the group about the bulletin board that day recognized good sportsmanship when they saw it, and the popularity of the three, already marked, grew in consequence.

"Lenox has always stood well," Garry said, in answer to Tom's observation. "It's up to the boys this year to get the championship back again."

Garry referred to the fact that the year before Lenox High had lost the championship in the league of six high schools which for the two years preceding that it had held against all comers. Naturally, all Lenoxites were eager to wipe out the loss of the year before by a smashing victory during the present season. So at Garry's words there was an eager murmur of assent from the boys and cries of:

"That's the stuff!"

"Lenox forever!"

"We'll rip the league wide open this fall!"

Then from the outside of the crowd came Sandy Podder's sneering voice:

"Sounds fine. Grayson's got it all mapped out. Now that he's here, Lenox is all right."

An angry murmur arose, and Pete Maddern swung on his heel and regarded the speaker coldly.

"Say, you'd better sing small, Sandy Podder," he said. "What have you ever done for football, I'd like to know? When you've captained a champion team like Grayson here you can begin to talk."

There was a laugh at Sandy's expense. As Garry walked off with Tom Allison, Pete Maddern and his other and older friends, eagerly discussing the prospects of the team, Podder turned with a scowl to Lent Stewart.

"Let's get out of here," he growled. "That Garry Grayson's got a worse swelled head than ever. He makes me sick. The whole bunch of 'em make me sick. I don't see why they want to let freshmen on the team, anyhow. Colleges don't do it."

"Don't worry," replied his companion. "Wait till Grayson tries to make the team—Allison and Maddern too, for that matter. They'll find they're up against a mighty tough undertaking. Kicking the pigskin on a high school gridiron is a different thing entirely from grammar school games. When they find that they can't make the team, maybe they'll be the ones to sing small."

"Let's hope they will," muttered Sandy, and grinned maliciously at the thought.

Meanwhile Garry and his friends had forgotten Sandy's outburst and his consequent discomfiture in their excitement over the call for gridiron recruits.

Would they answer the call? Would a bee buzz?

"See you this afternoon in the gym," Garry said, as Tom and Pete parted from him in the hall.

"Gee, how are we going to stick it out till two-thirty?" exclaimed Ted Dillingham.

"Anyway, we'll soon know the worst," remarked Nick.

"Or the best," added Rooster, a little more optimistically.

It looked at one time in the afternoon as though Garry would have to "stick it out" a good deal longer than two-thirty. The trouble was in Mr. Shrugg's class, as usual. Following his policy of hectoring Garry, the teacher called him to book on the charge that he was skylarking with the boys back of him, thus wasting the time that should have been spent in writing a short essay.

Possibly the teacher was honest enough in this case. He was nearsighted, and may have failed to see that the trouble was with the two boys seated directly behind Garry, who, in fact, was attending strictly to business.

If, however, it was persecution that prompted the teacher's action, it failed of its object, for the two boys at fault at once shouldered the blame and declared that Garry had taken no part in the disturbance. Still Shrugg appeared to be, or really was, unconvinced. He was one of the small minds that hate to confess to a mistake.

"In that event," he said in his dry voice, "perhaps Grayson will read to us the result of his concentrated effort. Come out to the front of the room, if you please, so that we may hear you better."

As Garry, red and wrathful, made his way to the front of the room he saw the eyes of his friends fixed upon him sympathetically. If Shrugg should think the composition not up to the mark—and he would seize upon the slightest pretext for thinking so—then Garry would probably be kept after school to write another and could not attend the meeting of football candidates.

No wonder the eyes of his chums followed him fearfully. No wonder, either, that Garry's lips were set as he came to the front of the room and met the satirical glance of the teacher.

"Now read, if you please," directed the latter.

Garry detected a gleam of pleasant anticipation in the fishy eyes fixed upon him, and his resentment against the narrow-minded man grew hotter.

It happened fortunately that the topic given out by Mr. Shrugg for the essay was one that especially appealed to Garry. Always good in English, with an ability to express his thoughts clearly and concisely, the composition Garry read to the class that day under the supercilious stare of the teacher was an example of the boy's best work.

Even the boys were interested, and when Garry finished and looked at the teacher there was an involuntary murmur of applause.

There was the proof that Garry was not guilty of the fault of which he had been accused. He could not have written so much in so short a time and with such evident concentration on his subject if he had been involved in the mischief-making imputed to him.

Mr. Shrugg's comment was curt.

"That will do, Grayson. You can return to your seat."

Not a word of appreciation of the really excellent work! Not a generous admission that he had been wrong!

Garry returned to his seat, glad that he had vindicated himself, but more resentful than ever of the small-minded ways of his instructor.

"Gee, Garry, that was a close call!" remarked Nick Danter at the end of the period when the boys were in the hall passing from one classroom to another.

"Thought you were a goner that time for sure," put in Rooster.

"But say, wasn't Shrugg sore? And wasn't that a classy spiel that Garry gave us in his essay?" exclaimed Bill Sherwood, giving Garry a thump between the shoulders. "I begin to think this young feller's wasting his time on football. Ought to be an orator."

Garry grinned cheerfully. His anger against Trompet Shrugg was beginning to evaporate and he was beginning to appreciate more his lucky escape from the pedantic tyrant.

"Wouldn't be half so much fun," he said in response to Bill.

---

The clock seemed to lag dreadfully as the hands made their way to two-thirty, but they got there at last, and then the eager Garry and his chums made a dash for the gymnasium where they found that a large number of their classmates had already gathered.

The Lenox High first team had been rather severely crippled by the graduation of some of its best players the preceding June. There were several important positions to be filled, and the scrubs of last season were on tiptoe as they figured their chances of selection.

Greb, in the position of left half, had been one of the most reliable ground gainers of the eleven. Now he was gone, together with several other scarcely less important players.

Both tackle positions would have to be filled, as well as that of right end.

Garry and his friends, following the fortunes of Lenox High in a general way during the preceding fall, had heard rumors that the scrubs were pressing the regulars hard. Some of the boys brought in from the bench during tight games had done remarkably good work, as good, some said, as the first string players themselves.

But here was an unfortunate fact for Lenox. Graduation had taken toll not only of some of the best regulars but of some of the finest players on the scrubs as well, the boys who had worked their heads off in the effort to secure places on the first team, only to leave school with their ambitions ungratified.

This, while hard for Lenox, was fortunate for the aspiring boys just entering the high school and eager to make the eleven. Since so much new material was needed, there was more chance for the freshmen than would ordinarily have been the case.

Still the captain, Ralph Wynn, was not particularly encouraging on that point. While they were waiting for the coming of the coach, Wynn talked to the would-be players on the subject that was of the intensest interest to the freshmen at that moment.

"Some of you fellows may be first-rate material to work with," he said, addressing the freshmen, who had grouped themselves together as though for moral support. "In fact, we know some of you are from your records on the grammar school elevens. But of course," he added, just as some of the freshmen were beginning to throw out their chests a little, "the old players have the first call. That's only fair. It's common sense too. In the first place, they have had more experience and training. It takes some time to break in raw material to new rules and methods and trick plays.

"Then too, as a rule, the upper classmen are older and bigger and heavier. They furnish more of the beef that is needed in hard games. Lots of you boys are husky specimens, but you haven't filled out as much as you will in a year or two. You'll all be pounds heavier and inches taller next year, and therefore worth that much more to the team. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and where newcomers show themselves quick to learn," he added, as the coach entered the gymnasium, "they have a chance. But it takes a pretty good fellow to get on the team the first year."

This was not particularly encouraging to Garry and his friends. Still it left a loophole, and they looked with a gleam of hope at the coach as he entered the room.

The coach was a tall, rangy young man named Al Garwin. He had a sleepy manner and a drawling voice, which the boys soon came to find were only a cloak for the fiery energy he possessed. He was one that mixed praise and blame with a liberal hand. He could raise a player to the heights one moment and drop him to the depths the next with no more personal feeling than if the subject had been a puppet pulled by a string.

There was a sparkle in his half-closed eyes as he approached the boys, regulars and aspirants, who looked at him with a touch of misgiving as the arbiter of their fate.

"Hello, fellows," he greeted. "Going to pull Lenox up to the championship again this year?"

There was a roar of assent that brought a smile to the lips of the coach.

"All right," he said. "Now let's see who's going to do it."

A murmur of excitement ran through the group of aspirants. At last they were to get a line on their chances.

But this was not to come in a hurry. Coach Garwin seated himself in a convenient chair, crossed one long leg over the other in leisurely fashion and ran his eye over a lengthy list that had been furnished him by Ralph Wynn.

On this paper was a list of all the aspirants for the team with a brief statement of the experience they had had—if any—on the gridiron.

The coach took so long at this that the boys fidgeted about uneasily.

"I should think he could have done that just as well before he came here," Rooster whispered in Garry's ear. "I wish he'd hurry up and make a choice and get the agony over with."

"Maybe after he's made the choice we'll wish he hadn't," replied Garry.

At last Coach Garwin straightened up, uncrossed his legs, and regarded the boys intently.

"I'll have to ask you to answer to your names," he said. "I want to get a good look at you fellows."

Something in his voice told the boys that he was interested. Each one asked himself if the interest related to him. The prospect of action made them eagerly alert.

As the coach called them each by name the boys stepped forward, answering the brisk, keen questions fired at them as clearly as they could.

Bill Sherwood was called and stood modestly before the coach, face red, as Mr. Garwin looked him over.

"You played center on the Hill Street team," remarked the coach, referring to his list. "I attended a couple of those games and noted your work, Sherwood. You certainly have the beef. All right. I've got my eye on you."

Rooster was also given a word of commendation for his record on the gridiron, and Nick and Ted were each commended for his work on the Hill Street eleven.

Tom Allison and Pete Maddern were each given a word of approbation.

"It's part of my work to keep my eye on the up and coming grammar school elevens," Al Garwin drawled; "especially those that are apt to graduate their members into Lenox High. It isn't often," he added with a smile, "that we enter three ex-captains of grammar school teams at the same time."

By this remark Garry knew that his own name and record had not been overlooked. This was made a certainty a moment later when the coach called his name and looked him over with quizzically uplifted eyebrows.

"Rather a swift worker, aren't you, Grayson?" he asked. "Worked your raw team up to winning pitch in a single season. Not such a bad record."

"We had mighty good material to work with," said Garry loyally. "And if anybody deserves credit for the work of our team, it's Mr. Phillips, our teacher in English. He coached us and taught us all we knew."

"Which seems to be considerable," soliloquized the coach, looking Garry over with more minute attention. His glance wandered to Tom Allison and Pete Maddern and then back again to Garry.

"You three boys good friends?" Garwin asked.

"I hope so!" Garry's reply was instant and hearty.

"Off the gridiron you can bet we are!" exclaimed Pete, and Tom Allison added a hearty assent.

"That's lucky. Because you'll probably have some work to do together. But this time you'll be fighting alongside and not against each other."

As the coach bent frowningly over his list the three ex-captains exchanged elated glances.

"Looks like business," Garry telegraphed in dumb show, and the others nodded.

Mr. Garwin made some hurried notations on his paper and then rose purposefully from his seat, calling the boys around him.

"I've filled in the positions on the first and second teams," he declared, waving the slip toward them. "Roughly, of course. You boys have got to work your heads off to show me that you are capable of filling the positions I have marked out for you and to keep them once you've got them. My selection has been guided of course by the records of you fellows. But those I don't name to-day need feel no discouragement, because there's a chance for you all. As I said, this list is tentative."

"Gee!" whispered Rooster, "I'm tingling all over."

Then utter silence fell on the gymnasium as Al Garwin spoke again.

"Of course our first team—that is, the vacancies on it—will all be filled by our scrubs of last year," he began.

Garry, who had cherished a wild hope of getting a position on the regulars—any position—felt his heart sink. A swift glance at his friends told him that they were equally disappointed.

"As our quarterback and captain," the coach continued, "we shall still have Ralph Wynn."

There was a spontaneous cheer from the boys, for besides being a brilliant player on the gridiron Ralph was an all-round good fellow and was firmly established in the esteem and affection of his schoolmates.

Coach Garwin held up his hand, and again silence descended upon the boys before him.

"We lost two of our linemen by graduation," the coach went on, "Jim Cooney and Tom Andrews, and we've never had a better guard or tackle on the Lenox team."

There was a disconsolate murmur from those who had known the missing players, and Nick Danter grinned at Garry.

"Sounds as if they'd died instead of just graduating," Nick remarked.

"Mournful enough," assented Garry, and again turned his attention to the coach.

"We will fill these positions from last year's second team," Coach Garwin continued. "McCarty, you will play right guard, and Payne, you will take Andrews' position at left tackle. Those shoes will be hard to fill and I don't want you to rattle around in them. See that you justify my choice."

The two boys, grinning from ear to ear with glee, promised to do their best.

"Lucky dogs!" muttered Ted. "But there doesn't seem to be much nourishment for us in all this."

"I'm going to move Fred Walker up to center," stated Garwin. "Painter, from the scrubs, will take his place. Now there remains just one position to be filled, and since that's an important one I'm going to lend it—not give it, get that?—to a player whose work on the scrubs last year was worthy of the first string."

"Benny Knapp!" came from the old players in chorus.

"Come up, Benny, old boy, and stop your blushing," called a wag from the throng.

Benny Knapp, a rangy, muscular lad with red hair and a great quantity of freckles, looked hesitantly at Coach Garwin.

"You mean me, sir?" he queried.

"Sure, I mean you, Benny," replied the coach, his eyes twinkling. "Why so modest all of a sudden? Think you can fill Freddie Greb's place?"

"Gee, nobody could!"

The compliment to Greb was so spontaneous and so honest that the boys broke into fresh cheering, mingled with laughter.

"Well then," amended the coach, "will you try to fill Greb's place?"

"You bet your life, Mr. Garwin!" the boy replied enthusiastically. "I'm only too glad to get the chance."

"All right, then. Benny Knapp at left half. Now we've got our first team—that is, if they make good. Suppose you line up, boys, and let's have a look at you."

The fortunate members on whom the choice had fallen lined up for inspection.

"All right," pronounced the coach, turning from what appeared to be a satisfactory inspection of his new team. "Now we can turn our attention to the scrubs. And don't let any of us forget that the scrub of to-day may be the regular of to-morrow."

Garry saw Rooster, Ted, Nick and Bill stiffen as the glance of the coach swept over them. He had a sudden realization of what it would mean should any of his friends fail to make the second team, now that they had failed of the first.

"I'd about as soon be dropped myself as to have one of the gang left out," he said to himself, and then listened with an almost painful attention as the coach began to name the boys for the vacancies on the scrubs.

Bill Sherwood was the first to be called.

"Our center graduated in June and I'm going to put you in that position, Sherwood, because you're one of the biggest fellows that we have left to choose from," said Garwin.

Bill's chest swelled visibly. Coach Garwin went on rapidly.

"We are minus ends, and I'm going to give those positions to two boys who made a good record for themselves on the Hill Street team. Nick Danter, you will take right end and you, Ted Dillingham, will go to left."

Garry began to breathe more easily. Here were three of his chums accounted for anyway. Of the five of them only Rooster and himself had not been called.

And then a sudden thought came to him that threw him into a cold sweat.

Suppose of all his chums they should be the only ones not chosen!

---

Tom Allison was called next, to fill the post of fullback, and Pete Maddern went in at right tackle. Then the coach shifted about some of the old players on the scrub team and completed his line formation with Hick Dabney.

Only two positions remained unfilled—quarterback and right half.

Garry and Rooster exchanged gloomy glances. Their chances seemed to be vanishing into mist.

"For the position of right halfback," Mr. Garwin went on, through a silence tense with expectation, "I've chosen a boy who has had some experience in the backfield and who, from the look of him, ought to be a pretty good punter. Yes, I mean you, Long. Don't look as though the moon had dropped into your lap."

Rooster grew red as a chorus of laughter greeted this sally. He tried to stammer something, but stopped short in the middle of a sentence, gulping.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" shrilled Ted Dillingham, and there was more laughter.

"Good old Rooster," said Garry to himself. "At right half he'll have a chance to show his stuff."

All but him! All but him! Was he going to be left out?

Coach Garwin was looking at him, a twinkle in his eye.

"Thought I'd forgotten you, Grayson?" asked the coach, while Garry thrilled with a sudden, fierce excitement. "Well, you'll be apologizing to me for that in just a minute. I've got to have a quarterback. Think you'll do?"

Garry took a quick step forward. His face glowed.

"I'll do my best," he said earnestly.

Coach Garwin looked at him steadily for a moment, then nodded as though satisfied.

"Yes, I think you will," he said. "Now, second team, line up."

They shaped up considerably lighter than the regulars. But there was a look in their eyes that warned the haughty first string players that they would have to watch their step.

The coach now addressed both teams, including in his remarks also the crestfallen boys who had failed to make either.

"You boys," he said, "understand of course that the positions I have assigned you to-day are by no means my final selection. Each one of you has got to work to keep his place and work hard. I play no favorites. If I see a boy isn't doing his best, or perhaps is not qualified to hold the position, he will have to surrender it to some one else. Lenox High has held the championship before, and this year we are going to win it again."

A spontaneous cheer broke from the boys, and the coach smiled.

"But to get that championship," he went on, "we've got to work hard—not only each boy for himself in his own position but each boy for the team in every position. We've got to develop a love for the team and a loyalty to the team that goes beyond all personal ambition. If a fellow is dropped for the good of the team, he must take his medicine smiling and cheer the boy who takes his place with all his heart—for the good of the team. That's all that counts. Each one of the eleven players is only a cog in the machine where everything depends on each cog doing its best. Forget personal ambition in ambition for your team, think and act to the limit of your ability, be ready to fill not only your own position but any position on the field, if necessary, and we'll have a Lenox team this year that will sweep all before it.

"What do you say? Are you with me? Are you going to play that kind of football?"

The answer was a great shout that rose to the very roof of the gymnasium and seemed to crash against it. There was no doubt that the coach had caught the boys' imagination and aroused their enthusiasm. They crowded about him, already itching for the feel of the pigskin, impatient to get out on the field.

"Too late to-day for any real practice," he said. "Meet here to-morrow afternoon after classes and have your suits with you. I'll assign each of you a locker then, and we'll get some real practice that will tell me how right or how wrong I've been in picking you out. And you fellows," he called after the group of rejected aspirants who were making their way more or less dejectedly out of the gymnasium, "be on hand too. It's likely enough that I'll want to make some changes after I've seen the teams in action, and that's where your chance will come in. Don't give up too soon. The season's just commenced and anything is liable to happen."

"Sounds almost like a threat for the rest of us," remarked Garry, as, with his friends, he made his exit from the gymnasium.

"A tip to us to be on our good behavior if we don't want to be bounced," agreed Nick.

"I have an idea we'll have to play like all possessed to keep on the right side of Coach Garwin," put in Ted. "He'd just as soon drop a fellow from the team as he would an ash from a cigar."

"All the more reason for us to work like beavers," cried Garry, tossing his cap in the air as they reached the street and freedom. "We may not be on the regulars, but that's all the more reason why we've got to make Mr. Garwin sit up and take notice. Say, fellows—" He paused and the others looked at him expectantly.

"What's on your mind?" queried Rooster.

"Or what you call your mind," chaffed Ted.

"I may be a nut, probably I am," said Garry. "But I have an idea that we may get a chance to play on the first team yet."

"Come off the perch!" admonished Bill.

"How do you get that way?" asked Nick.

"Oh, let him rave," counseled Ted.

"All right, you gloom hounds," retorted Garry. "Just watch and see who's right. My hunch tells me that I'm going to have the last laugh."

It was hardly correct to apply the term "gloom hounds" to Garry's friends, for on the whole they were considerably elated.

Though they had had a faint hope that one of them at least might make the first team, their judgment had told them that anything like that was wholly improbable.

Then, later, in the gymnasium when they had sensed the possibility that they might not be chosen either for regulars or scrubs, a place even on the second team had seemed highly desirable.

This, however, they had achieved. They were in the running. So by the time they had reached home they had practically forgotten their original vaulting ambition and were almost as jubilant as though they had made the regular team.

Ella was in the library reading. She looked up as Garry entered, with an expression of lively interest.

"I saw the football call on the board," was her greeting to him. "I've been staying at home purposely this afternoon to get the news at first hand. Any luck?"

Garry flung his cap on the table and stretched out luxuriously in a deep leather chair. He grinned at Ella.

"Made the team," he said.

"The first? Why, Garry—"

"Hold on. I didn't say the first, did I? Old Shrugg says that the habit of jumping at conclusions is the sign of an inferior mind—"

"Say, listen, Garry Grayson, leave my mind alone! It belongs to me, and I like it anyhow. Go on and talk football. If you didn't make the first team, what did you make?"

"Mud pies," grinned Garry. Then as Ella flopped about indignantly in her chair and picked up her book again he condescended to explain.

"There are two teams, sis. I thought you knew that—first and second. I made the second."

Ella looked at him with interest.

"What position?"

"Quarterback."

"That's good, Garry! I didn't think a freshman would have much of a chance to make either team. That's what they were all saying up at the school."

"They don't very often. Not but what a fellow always has an idea that he may be the exception," he added. "Of course, on the second team I'm only a doormat for the regulars to wipe their feet on."

"What a horrid way to put it!" ejaculated Ella. "All the same, I'd be willing to bet something right now."

"What's that?"

"That you won't be a doormat, as you call it, very long, and that before the end of the term you'll be on the regulars."

"Thanks for them kind words," returned Garry. "Gee, sis, I wish you were right." He shook his head dubiously. "Seems a pretty tough problem though, this getting on the first team when you're only a poor downtrodden freshman. But you can better believe I'm going to do my best."

"How about Pete Maddern and Tom Allison?" asked Ella.

"They're on the scrubs too," replied Garry.

"I'd like to see you boys take the conceit out of the regulars by beating them!" exclaimed Ella.

"You said it," replied Garry. "Swell chance though. Still we'll muss their hair a little, if I'm any judge. And I'll bet that more than once this season we'll throw a scare into them."

The next morning Garry called for Bill at the Sherwood home, which lay between his own house and the high school.

As he stepped up on the porch he noticed that the front door was ajar. As the boys were accustomed to have the run of each other's houses, Garry did not ring but pushed the door open and stepped into the hall ready to sound his halloo for Bill.

The moment he found himself inside he was sorry. In the room just off the hall that served as a library he heard the sound of voices.

If they had been the voices used in ordinary conversation, Garry, so much at home in the household, would have tapped on the door and made his presence known. But the voices were angry and high-pitched, and Garry knew at once that the subject must be a private one, not to be intruded upon by any one outside the Sherwood family.

While Garry stood hesitatingly, hardly knowing whether to advance and make his presence known or to back hurriedly to the porch and ring the bell, he could not avoid hearing a sentence that gave him the key to the trouble.

"I tell you, Frank," came from Bill, in a voice tense with excitement, "you've got to lay off that poolroom crowd before it's too late!"

---

"Oh, you make me sick," came in another voice, lower-toned but angry, the voice of Bill's older brother, Frank. "Do you think I'm going to have a kid like you bossing me? The crowd's all right. They make a lot of noise, that's all, and all the old crabs in town take turns in picking on them."

As Garry backed out on the porch and was pulling the door shut behind him he heard Bill say:

"That sounds just like Sandy Podder or Lent Stewart. You can think I'm a crab all you like, Frank, but I'm telling you that if you don't leave that bunch alone they'll get you in Dutch some day. That's as sure as my name's Bill Sherwood."

Garry, once outside, pressed his finger on the bell button.

Bill himself answered the ring a moment later, his face wearing an angry frown.

"Hello!" he said, his face clearing as he saw Garry. "Why didn't you come right in? I left the door open on purpose."

Garry did not tell Bill that he had overheard part of the conversation between him and Frank. But he thought of it a good deal during the day and wished there were some way in which he might add his warning to Bill's.

Ugly rumors of dirty work about Mooney's poolroom had been circulating ever since the trouble over Mr. Podder's three thousand dollars that had so mysteriously disappeared while in Sandy Podder's possession. Garry's father was a lawyer, and Garry had heard at the home table of many things unknown to his mates. A movement was taking form among the better citizens of the town to have the poolroom wiped out as a public nuisance. Garry felt with Bill that if Frank did not break with the fast crowd that hung out at the resort he might soon find himself in trouble, involved in some ugly scandal that might prove a bad blot on his reputation.

However, in the days that followed Garry had a great deal to think about besides Frank Sherwood's recklessness.

For football was in the air and engrossed all the time of the players that could be spared from their studies.

On the day after the appointments for the two teams had been made, the boys met in the gymnasium to don the suits they had brought with them, eager for the feel of the gridiron under their feet and the pigskin in their hands.

Coach Garwin was there, eyes alert and keen behind their half-closed lids.

He assigned each boy a locker and directed them curtly to get into their togs as soon as possible.

"That guy means business to-day," said Rooster to Garry, as he pulled on his cleated shoes. "He'll make us work for our positions even on the scrubs, let me tell you."

"And past reputations won't cut any ice with him," affirmed Nick.

"It matters not what once you were, it's what you are to-day," chanted Ted.

"Well, we weren't so bad last year, and we ought to be better now," remarked Garry.

"To hear us tell it, yes," declared Nick. "But Coach Garwin's the doctor now, and he may take a different view of the case."

Out on the gridiron in the crisp air and the bright sunshine the boys found that Coach Garwin was a hard taskmaster. But they liked him and worked beneath his forceful driving as they never had worked before.

"We'll have practice in punting, blocking, passing, and tackling to-day," he announced. "Also we'll have a short scrimmage between the two teams. But we'll postpone the real games until we've warmed to our work a bit more. Now then, you fellows, I want you to show your stuff."

The boys went to work with a will. Under Mr. Garwin's direction they broke up into groups of three and four, some blocking, some tackling, others trying to place kick and punt.

The coach watched their work with a critical eye and caustic tongue. He abused them far more liberally than he praised and for that reason the boys worked like mad to get even the crumbs of his approbation.

Bill Sherwood was one of the first to be rasped by the rough edge of Al Garwin's tongue.

Bill, while endeavoring with another boy to tackle a runner, made a great leap for the flying knees, only to fall flat on his face in the dust as the runner dodged. The miss was by only a fraction of an inch, but still it was a miss.

The coach's scorn was scathing.

"That's one of the best examples of tackling I ever saw," he remarked, as Bill picked himself up, red and sheepish. "Suppose that had been a member of an opposing team legging it for the goal! You'd have let him get by, wouldn't you, Sherwood? You'd have lost the game perhaps for your team. Tackling! That's a joke. You've got to do better than that."

Bill's face became scarlet. His hands clenched at his sides. He was fighting mad.

"My foot slipped," he said in self-defense. "I'd have got him if it hadn't."

"Maybe," replied the coach, his keen eyes mercilessly raking Bill's dusty figure, "with a couple of men to help you. Ploughing up the gridiron never saved a goal yet."

"I don't need a couple," declared Bill. "That fellow wouldn't get away from me another time! Give me another chance at him!"

Coach Garwin wheeled.

"Dittler," he called curtly to one of the regulars. "Take the ball and start running from the forty-yard line. There's your chance, Sherwood. Let's see you stop him."

Dittler picked up the ball with a grin and started off like a hound slipped from the leash. Bill started to meet him with equal speed and vigor. His blood was up. His resentment lashed him on toward the flying figure. To reach him, tackle him, and bring him to earth was at that moment the great object of his life.

Dittler was one of the best runners on the first team. The coach for that very purpose had chosen him in order to test Bill's mettle.

Long and thin as a greyhound, Dittler was flying across the field in a long, diagonal slant, trusting to his agility and his dodging powers to evade the figure bearing down upon him.

The boys were shouting, the regulars urging Dittler on, the scrubs yelling for Bill.

The eyes of Coach Garwin narrowed as the opponents neared each other.

Just as Bill was within a few feet of him, Dittler halted, swerved and was off like a flash at another angle.

But Bill had sensed the strategy and himself had turned so that Dittler found him right in his path.

Dittler dodged, squirmed, tried to run around his adversary. For a moment it looked as though he would get past those outstretched arms.

"Get him, Bill! Get him!" cried Garry, wild with excitement.

"Come on, you Dittler!" came from the throats of the regulars.

With muscles as tense as whipcord, jaw set, the blood pounding in his ears, Bill put all his strength in one magnificent leap. His arms closed joyfully about the legs of his opponent. Tackler and tackled came to the ground in a cloud of dust.

"Another Indian bit the dust!" crowed Rooster.

"I'll say that Bill is poor!" chuckled Ted.

Dittler, wiping the grime from his eyes, looked up grinningly at the coach as he approached.

"This boy sure can tackle, coach," he said generously. "I thought a house fell on me. You've sure got to hand it to him."

"So it seems," drawled Garwin. "You've redeemed yourself, Sherwood. Any one who can bring Dittler to earth is good."

As a climax to the afternoon's practice, the coach lined the two teams up against each other in a series of short scrimmages. In these, as was to be expected, the regulars had the advantage, owing to their weight and experience. But all the same the scrubs gave them plenty to do. It was a hot, pell-mell, ding-dong fight. The regulars were out to show that the coach was right when he picked them. The scrubs were equally determined to show that the coach had made a mistake in not putting them on the first team.

In this the scrubs did not quite succeed. But they did at least give Al Garwin food for thought. Those sleepy-looking eyes of his missed nothing that took place. Oftenest, perhaps, they were fixed on Garry Grayson.

For that young man was nothing less than a wildcat that afternoon. He fought for every advantage, was quick as a flash, as cold and hard as steel. He was here, there, and everywhere, instilling his own fighting spirit into his team. Twice he himself got through for what would have been a sure touchdown in a regular game.

Tom Allison and Pete Maddern played finely. Ted, Rooster, Nick and Bill gave a good account of themselves. But it was Garry who shone as the bright particular star of the scrubs.

When at last Al Garwin called it a day's work the coach walked off the field with a smile of satisfaction on his face, which, however, he was careful to conceal from the boys.

"It looks as though I had two good teams instead of one," he mused.

In the gymnasium, as the boys shed their dusty togs, got under showers, and slipped into their street clothes, there was a babble of excited conversation between Garry and his friends.

"Old Hill Street didn't show up so badly this afternoon," chuckled Bill.

"That tackle of Dittler was a peach, Bill," observed Nick Danter. "And the way Garry broke through their defense has given the regulars something to think about. Gee, Garry, you just ran rings around those fellows."

"Oh, I don't know," said Garry modestly. "I had some lucky breaks. But one swallow doesn't make a drink, you know, and we may stub our toes the next time out. We've just got to keep working like the mischief all the time."

On their way home the boys passed Trompet Shrugg, who gave them a stiff nod in response to their salutations and glanced disdainfully at the football that Garry carried under his arm. Then the cold dislike in his eyes shifted to Garry's face.

"He just loves you, Garry," chuckled Ted.

"Yes," grinned Garry, "as he loves poison ivy!"

---

"Trompet Shrugg's after your scalp and won't be satisfied until he gets it, Garry," warned Nick Danter.

"He hasn't lifted it yet," returned Garry carelessly. "He tried to yesterday, but he didn't get away with it."

"All the same he'll bear watching," surmised Bill. "He's one of the kind that never forgives and never forgets."

"I never had a teacher that I disliked so much," declared Ted Dillingham fervently.

"He may be a boon to his family, but he's only a baboon to me!" sang Rooster.

"Rooster, I'm ashamed of you," said Garry, with mock sternness. "Is that the way to speak of our dear teacher? It is not!"

But in the days that followed there were many times when Garry was inclined to believe that Rooster had struck it right. Trompet Shrugg certainly "had it in" for Garry, and lost no opportunity of annoying and humiliating him.

In his position of authority this was comparatively easy. Garry was well up in the studies of his grade, in fact was one of the very best scholars of the class. Any fair, legitimate question that came within the scope of what he was supposed to know he could answer clearly and promptly.

But Mr. Shrugg had a habit when it came to Garry of suddenly shooting at him some difficult question more appropriate for a college than a high school class, something that was away over Garry's head and clearly intended to be so. And when the boy had to confess ignorance, Trompet Shrugg would appear disgusted and get off some bit of the sarcasm in which he was an adept. Then Garry would take his seat, flushed and irritated, with his heart full of resentment against his tormentor.

He was in a position where he could not answer back, any more than a private in the army can give back talk to his captain. Mr. Shrugg had the whip hand, and he knew it. His petty nature delighted in punishing the lad who had unwittingly affronted his dignity.

It is probable that Garry might have had some redress had he appealed to Mr. Allen, the principal, and laid the matter before him. He could have easily been backed up by the testimony of his fellow classmates, who shared his indignation at the way he was treated.

"It's a shame the way that fellow is treating you," snorted Bill on one occasion when Trompet Shrugg had been especially tyrannical "He isn't fit to be a teacher. He ought to be thrown out of the school on his head."

"I wish that football had been filled with pig iron when it struck him!" declared Ted, with a vicious gritting of his teeth.

"You ought to carry the matter up to Mr. Allen," suggested Rooster.

"Nothing like that," returned Garry gloomily. "I won't peach on him. But I wish that he was a fellow of my size and age so that I could get a crack at him."

Trompet Shrugg learned that Garry had been chosen a member of the scrub football team. This was his opportunity. He had not a drop of sporting blood in his veins anyway, and regarded athletic games as a waste of time. He had an especial antipathy to football, which had been strengthened by his experience on that fateful day in the open lot.

He knew that the practice took place after the lessons of the day were ended. Then the boys were off with a whoop that was discord to his ears. What could be a sweeter morsel under his tongue than to keep Garry from the game in which he delighted?

So when he had caused Garry to fail on some unfair question he did not content himself with a sarcastic remark, but gave the boy as a penalty long compositions to write that detained him in the building after hours. He knew that he could not do this too often without bringing on an investigation of his methods. But he did it as often as he dared, and on several occasions Garry sat within toiling and listening to the shouts that came from his companions on the field.

More than once Garry was goaded to such desperation that he came almost to the point of open defiance. But by a great effort he mastered his anger. A flare-up would do him more injury than benefit. He knew that in such cases the teacher was supposed to be right and the pupil wrong. The discipline of the school had to be maintained at all hazards. For the time he was the under dog. But even at that he comforted himself by the adage that every dog has his day. When would his day come?

When he did get out on the field after some such exasperating session he would find the practice half over or nearing its end. His place would have been taken by some one else, and at times he could not get into the game at all.

But there were many days when even Trompet Shrugg could find no excuse for detaining him, and then Garry made up for what he had lost in the way of practice. As a matter of fact, the persecution to which he had been subjected had its compensations. For with the blood boiling in his veins from the sense of injustice he was all the more formidable on the field. He tackled his opponents as though he were tackling the English teacher, and when he went through the line it was with the force of a catapult.

Coach Garwin watched him with those sleepy eyes that seemed to see little, but in reality noted everything. But he was puzzled at his frequent absence from practice. He had questioned the lad about it and Garry had simply told him the truth, that he had been made to do work after school for having failed in his recitation. Garry was too proud to explain further. If he hated anything, it was a telltale.

"Too bad, Wynn," Coach Garwin remarked to the captain of the regulars, "that young Grayson isn't keeping up in his scholarship. He's the most promising young player I've seen in years, almost good enough for the regulars, if he weren't a freshman."

"Quite good enough, I should say," returned Ralph, with a wry smile. "I'm sore yet from the way he tackled me a few minutes ago. He goes into a fellow like a battering ram. But what do you mean about his scholarship? I thought he was one of the brightest young fellows in the school. He stood at the head of his class in Hill Street."

"Seems a clever lad," said Garwin, "but he's told me himself that he's had to stay after school several times because he failed in his recitations."

"Do you know why?" came a voice from behind them.

They turned to see Bill Sherwood, who had come up in time to hear part of this conversation.

"I'll tell you why," went on Bill, his voice shaking with indignation. "It's because Mr. Shrugg has it in for him! He's riding him all the time! There isn't a fellow in the class that he treats as he does Garry! In every other class in the school Garry's right up at the top. Why isn't he in the English class? Because Mr. Shrugg won't let him. He asks him questions no one in the class is expected to know, things away beyond the grade. He takes delight in flunking him."

Coach Garwin and Ralph Wynn exchanged amazed glances.

"That's very strange," said Ralph. "I know Mr. Shrugg is rather eccentric and not very popular with any of the boys. But it doesn't seem as if any teacher could be as small as that. I know that Mr. Allen wouldn't stand it for a minute if he knew. Are you sure that he's riding Grayson deliberately?"

"There isn't any doubt of it," replied Bill. "Ask any fellow in the class. They're all talking about it."

"Grayson didn't tell me anything about that," remarked Mr. Garwin.

"That's just because he's a thoroughbred and won't tell tales," declared Bill. "He takes his medicine and lets it go at that. But I'm giving you a straight story. Garry's getting it in the neck."

"What do you suppose the reason is?" asked Ralph, a frown of perplexity on his brow.

"Oh, I know the reason all right," explained Bill. "A bunch of the fellows were practicing in an open lot near Garry's house and Garry let go a punt just as Mr. Shrugg came around a corner into the lot. The ball was muddy and it caught him in the face. He was a sight, I must confess. Of course it was all an accident. Garry was mighty sorry, apologized to him, and wanted him to go into his house and clean up. But Mr. Shrugg was as sore as a boil. He's never forgotten that muddy football, and ever since school began he's been making Garry sweat for it."

"It's a bad thing for Lenox High to have a teacher of that kind in it," said Ralph in disgust. "The sooner it gets rid of him the better."

"And as for keeping Garry after school," went on Bill, "Mr. Shrugg does that for two reasons. He knows Garry is on the scrubs and is crazy about football. So he keeps him away from practice all he can. Then, too, when the question of scholarship comes up, he'll be able to point to the many times he's had to keep him in, and that will give him a chance to say that Garry doesn't stand high enough to be permitted to play. Oh, he's a foxy guy, that Trompet Shrugg!"

"I'm glad that you told me all this, Sherwood," said Coach Garwin. "It explains a lot of things that have puzzled me. And I think all the more of the lad for not making excuses. He's the right stuff."

"And don't let the question of Garry's scholarship keeping him out of the game worry you," put in Ralph Wynn. "If that thing ever comes to an issue, I'll see that the truth is told. I think the amiable Mr. Shrugg will find that he has overreached himself."

All of this was balm to Garry Grayson's troubled heart when Bill narrated the conversation to him on the way home. He had been standing up under Mr. Shrugg's persecution without a whimper. But it had galled him horribly, especially the fear that he might not be allowed to play on account of the marks that the teacher of English was giving him. Loyal Bill Sherwood had done for him what his own pride would not permit him to do for himself.

"It was mighty good of you, old boy," he said to Bill gratefully.

The next day, Mr. Garwin told the boys that on the following Saturday there would be a real game between the first and second teams.

"I haven't hurried to bring you boys along," he said. "I wanted to get you limbered up and get some of the kinks out of your muscles. Then, too, I've wanted to size you up. But now I think you're in shape for a regular game."

There was a murmur of assent from the eager boys who wanted nothing better than to show the stuff of which they were made.

"I want each team to play against the other as hard as though they were tackling Pawling or Wimbledon," went on the coach, referring to rival teams in the High School League. "If there's any let-down I'll be on hand to see it. You regulars have got to try to walk all over the scrubs—"

"Swell chance," piped up Ted Dillingham, and there was a general laugh from his comrades on the scrubs. Mr. Garwin smiled quizzically.

"That's the spirit I like to see," he said. "I was just going on to urge the scrubs to take some of the conceit out of the regulars."

On the following Saturday the two teams faced each other, each full of determination to show the other up.

"Now, fellows," said Garry, as he gathered his scrubs about him just before the game began, "those fellows think we are easy meat. They think they're going to walk all over us, beat us to a frazzle, throw us to the lions. It's up to us to show them that they have another guess coming. How about it? Are you with me?"

---

There was a cheer from Garry Grayson's mates as they crowded closer to their leader.

"We'll show that team where it gets off," promised Bill Sherwood, as he flexed his muscles.

"We'll eat 'em up," declared Ted.

Practically all of the Lenox High students were on the field that day, reinforced by a sprinkling of boys from the grammar schools who had come to see how their old-time favorites performed. These latter, together with the freshmen, were about the only ones who were rooting for the scrubs. The upper classmen were partisans of the regulars and looked for nothing less than a sound beating for the scrubs. And they greeted the latter with unflattering comments as they came out on the field.

"Lambs coming to the slaughter!"

"What the regulars won't do to them!"

"Call for the ambulance to carry them home!"

Sandy Podder and Lent Stewart were foremost among those who sent these and other contemptuous gibes at the second string team.

"Here's where that false alarm, Garry Grayson, gets his," Sandy remarked to Lent. "Now he's playing against a real team. That swelled head of his will be a mighty sight smaller when he gets through."

"There won't be anything left of him but a grease spot at the end of the game," predicted Lent.

It had been arranged that the periods would be for twelve minutes each instead of the usual fifteen, as the coach did not want to take too much out of the boys at the start of the season.

Garry won the toss and elected to kick off. The teams lined up on the scrubs' forty-yard line and Rooster Long sent the ball hurtling down the field for thirty yards. Dittler gobbled the ball and ran it back for five yards before he was downed by Nick.

The ball was in the possession of the regulars on their thirty-five yard line. Ralph Wynn passed the ball to Knapp, who plunged through the line for four yards. Another try netted him only one additional yard. Dittler found a hole between tackle and guard that was good for three yards more, and on the fourth down Wynn himself got through for three.

The regulars had made their distance and still retained possession of the ball.

"What did I tell you!" chuckled Sandy.

"Ye-e-s," admitted Lent hesitatingly. "But after all they had only a yard to spare."

"I tell you it will be a massacre," declared Sandy, who now settled down comfortably to watch the fulfillment of his prediction.

"Brace up, fellows," Garry panted to his companions. "They're not such a much. We nearly held them that time. Next time we'll get the ball."

But the regulars had already awakened to the fact that the scrubs were not going to be such a "pudding" as had been anticipated, and they summoned all their energy to make the next four downs yield a more impressive result.

It seemed as though they were going to do it, too, for on the first try Dittler plunged through a hole between guard and tackle for six yards. That was so good that he tried again, but Pete Maddern tackled him savagely and threw him back for three yards.

Wynn himself took the ball for the next play, but though he launched himself at the line like a thunderbolt he made only two yards.

With five yards to go on the fourth down and such a stiff defense to combat, Wynn tried a forward pass to Minter. But Minter, usually reliable, fumbled it and the ball fell to the ground.

Garry pounced on it like a flash and, tucking it securely under his arm, skirted the right end, running like a deer.

He was nearly forced out of bounds by Thomas, but dodged adroitly to the left, and with Ted and Rooster running as his interference sped down the field.

The action had been so quick and unexpected that the regulars were taken completely by surprise. Knapp made a dash for Garry, but Rooster gave him a stiff shoulder block that rolled him over and over. Dittler made for him, but Garry straight-armed him and kept on.

But now the whole team of the regulars was on his trail like a pack of wolves. On he went like the wind, the cheers of the crowd sounding in his ears, his eyes on the goal posts.

Twenty yards away! Fifteen! Ten!

Wynn himself now was close on his heels. He was a fast runner and was desperate to prevent the threatened touchdown.

Five yards, and Garry felt rather than saw that Wynn's outstretched arms were reaching for him. With one last tremendous effort he threw himself toward the line and went over it, still holding the ball a foot in advance of him.

Wynn had hurled himself at him and came down on top of him. But he was too late. The touchdown had been made, and the score was 6 to 0 in favor of the scrubs!

Garry rose from the ground, panting, bruised, all in, but radiantly happy.

"Well run, Grayson!" said Wynn generously, as he clapped the boy on the shoulder.

"You almost got me though," returned Garry. "It was a mighty close call."

Rooster kicked the goal, adding one more point to the score of the scrubs.

The latter were jubilant, while the regulars looked sheepish and discomfited.

Sandy Podder rubbed his eyes as though he could not believe what he saw.

"He wouldn't have made that if Minter hadn't fumbled," he said. "Any one can pick up a ball when somebody else muffs it."

"You've got to admit that he was the only one who did pick it up though there were twenty-one others who might have done it," said Stewart. "I suppose now he'll have a bigger swelled head than ever."

"He'll get his just the same before the game's over," prophesied Sandy. "It was just a bit of beginner's luck."

Thompson kicked off to Dittler, who caught the ball on his ten-yard line and ran it back twenty-four yards before he was tackled so hard by Maddern that he was knocked breathless. The ball was recovered by Payne and it was the regulars' ball on the scrubs' thirty-three yard line. Knapp broke through the scrub line for a twelve-yard gain and a first down on the scrubs' twenty-one yard line. Not satisfied with that, he made a further gain of three yards between left and tackle. A forward pass failed, but on the fourth down Wynn dropped back and made a drop-kick that sailed over the bar like a bird, scoring three points for the regulars.

This was equalled five minutes later when Nick also kicked a field goal.

Both sides were fighting hard now, and the ball went back and forth, mostly in the territory of the scrubs, till the period ended with the score 10 to 3 in favor of the despised scrubs.

There was plenty of cheering from the freshmen and the grammar school boys, while the upper classmen were for the most part glum and silent.

The face of Coach Garwin was as inscrutable as that of the Sphinx. But he was not averse to seeing the regulars take their medicine—it would be a good thing to have some of their overconfidence knocked out of them—and it pleased him to see the kind of material he had on the scrubs. The time might come when he would need it all.

In the minute of rest between the first and second period Wynn passed among his men, spurring them on to avoid the disgrace that threatened of being beaten by the scrubs.

Garry, too, improved the opportunity to give his jubilant mates a word of warning.

"Don't get too chesty, fellows," he admonished. "We've just started to fight. The hardest part is yet to come. Seven points to the good is seven points, but the game is young yet. They're more dangerous now than they were before, because they know they've got to work to beat us. Keep it up, fellows, keep it up!"

The first period had ended with the ball only twenty yards away from the scrubs' goal line and in the possession of the regulars.

The latter started off with a savage rush that almost swept the scrubs off their feet. Evidently Wynn's exhortations had had their effect. Knapp went through for seven yards on the first down. Dittler tried next but was thrown back for a loss of two. Knapp was called on again to carry the ball, and justified the choice by getting through for three more with the whole of the scrub team on his back. With only two to go Wynn made a gain of four, the regulars thus holding possession of the ball on the scrubs' eight-yard line.

Garry called on his team mates desperately to brace. But the regulars were too close now to be denied. Dittler plunged through for three, added two more on the second try, and on the third Payne crossed the coveted line for a touchdown. Thomas was called on to kick the goal, but the ball hit one of the posts and was deflected. But the regulars had added six points to their score and were only one behind the total of the scrubs.

For the rest of the period the fighting was fast and furious. At one time the scrubs came dangerously near scoring when Rooster, who was carrying the ball, was downed within ten yards of the regulars' goal. But Payne kicked the ball out of danger, and the period ended without further scoring, with the pigskin in the middle of the field.

The twelve minutes of rest between the second and the third periods was welcomed by both teams. They had been playing at the top of their speed and were thoroughly winded.

On the whole, honors had been even. Both teams had played good ball considering that it was the first real game of the season. Fumbles had been few and only two of them had been costly. Coach Garwin was secretly elated, though his sleepy-lidded eyes betrayed little of his real emotions.

The scrubs sprawled out on the gymnasium floor, more exhausted perhaps than the bigger and older boys on the regulars. But what they lacked in breath they made up in exultation. They had held the regulars down! They were a point ahead!

"How dared we do it?" grinned Ted.

"Mighty impudent of us, if you ask me," replied Rooster.

"Did you see Sandy Podder biting his nails?" asked Nick. "Gee, I'd like to win if for nothing else than to make that boob sore."

"Lent Stewart seemed just about as grouchy," added Bill.

"Let's make them grouchier yet," urged Garry. "Let's go in and lick the tar out of the regulars. All we've got to do is to hold them safe and the game is ours. That one little point we have looks to me as big as a house."

It looked that big to the regulars, too, though from a different angle, and they started to wipe it out from the very beginning of the third period.

Thompson kicked off to Knapp, who returned twenty-two yards. Dittler shot around the scrubs' right end for nine yards. A forward pass made the yard that gave the regulars their distance. McCarty made a yard, but Knapp lost ground on an attempted end run. Dittler shot through the scrubs' right side for a five-yard gain. Knapp then punted to the scrubs' twenty-five yard line, Rooster signaling for a fair catch.

The scrubs failed to gain, and Rooster dropped back for a punt. The regulars' linesmen hurried the kick, and the ball went up almost straight in the air, netting the scrubs only ten yards and giving the regulars the ball on the scrubs' twenty-nine yard line. On two plays Wynn gained five yards. Then he broke loose and got the ball through to the scrubs' fifteen-yard line.

This was dangerously close, and the scrubs braced desperately. Dittler failed to gain around the right end. Knapp lost ground on an attempted run around left.

It was third down with eleven yards to gain. Then Dittler went back to try a forward pass. He was smeared, however, and the scrubs took the ball on downs on their own twenty-five yard line.

Tom Allison lost eight yards on an end run. Then he punted to Knapp, who was downed in his tracks by Rooster before he could make a move. Garry, aided by splendid interference by Bill, who bowled over his opponents one after the other, made a run of thirty-eight yards, bringing the ball well down in the enemy's territory.

The scrubs gained only two yards on the first two downs. Then they were penalized five yards for off-side play. An attempted forward pass was incompleted and on the fourth down they made only two yards, the ball going to the regulars.

Then the latter began a steady march down the field. They were fighting like mad to make a touchdown before the period ended. They wanted to smother that one point lead to which the scrubs clung with such desperate tenacity.

Twice in succession the regulars made their distance, aided by a splendid run of Benny Knapp's, who ran twenty-two yards before Bill Sherwood downed him.

Closer and closer they came to the scrubs' goal. The superior beef of the older and better trained boys was beginning to tell. Their lighter opponents fought frantically to hold them back. What they were fighting for now was time.

Twenty yards! Ten yards! And the regulars still held the ball!

"Hold 'em, fellows, hold 'em!" gasped Garry, whose nose was bleeding while one of his eyes was closing from the furious mix-ups in which he had ever been foremost. "For the love of Pete, hold 'em!"

---

With victory so near, the regulars declined to be held. Dittler plunged through between right end and tackle for four yards. Wynn took the ball—

And just then the referee's whistle blew! The period had ended!

"The score's still 10 to 9 in our favor! Gee, that's great!" gasped Rooster, as he threw himself down on the ground to rest.

Garry was too winded to say anything. He had almost reached the limit of his endurance. That whistle seemed to him the sweetest music he had ever heard.

"We're still ahead," Nick agreed with Rooster, but with well-founded anxiety in his tone. "But look where they'll be when the next period begins. Only six yards to go and three downs to do it in."

"We'll make that six yards look like six miles," declared Ted, with a confidence in his tone that, however, he was far from feeling.

On the bleacher seats Sandy Podder and Lent Stewart looked on with eyes smouldering with discontent and apprehension.

"Gee, I'd give fifty dollars to see the regulars knock 'em cold," muttered Lent gloomily. "Lenox won't hold those scrubs if they down the first string team."

"That fellow Grayson certainly has luck," growled Sandy. "If he lost a time-table, they'd give him the railroad."

But the disgruntled soreheads had an opportunity to cheer within two minutes after the fourth period began, for the regulars came out with a fierce determination to make that six yards that alone separated them from a touchdown. It would not do to throw away that chance in the very shadow of the enemy's goal posts.

For this desperate effort they chose their best material, Wynn, Knapp and Dittler.

Dittler came first, and, lowering his head, he plunged like a bull in a hole made for him between guard and tackle. The play netted three yards. Knapp came next, but Bill Sherwood threw him back for the loss of a yard. Then Wynn took the ball and made two yards more.

"Brace, fellows! Brace!" yelled Garry.

The line stiffened. Dittler bucked it with all his might. There was a furious mix-up, but when the mass was disentangled Dittler was over the line with a yard to spare.

There was frantic cheering from the upper classmen, which deepened in volume when Wynn kicked the goal.

16 to 10 in favor of the regulars and the final period well on its way!

Now superior weight and age and condition began to tell. The scrubs had almost shot their bolt. Their strength was ebbing, although their courage still remained.

Encouraged by having regained the lead, the regulars now put into play all that they possessed. Almost from the kick-off the ball was in their possession. They started down the field in a triumphal march. Time after time they made their distance, and when they had come within striking distance of the goal by a series of mass plays, a brilliant run about the right end by Benny Knapp carried the ball over the goal for another touchdown. Dittler kicked the goal and the score was 23 to 10 in favor of the regulars.

"I guess they've got us," mourned Rooster.

"Snap out of it!" returned Garry. "The game isn't over till the whistle blows."

One of Garry's eyes was closed now, but he made the other do the work of two. When he got the ball a moment later he broke through for a first down on the scrubs' forty-yard line. Nick added two yards and Garry again made his way through for twelve yards taking the ball beyond mid-field. Here, however, the scrubs were penalized fifteen yards for holding, and Garry saw his gain go for nothing—less than nothing.

But this, far from discouraging him, only added to the fierce energy of which he felt himself possessed. Grimy, bleeding, half blind, again he got through the middle for fourteen yards. Tom Allison made four yards on the first down. Then Garry shot around the left end for a seventeen-yard gain. He was downed by Dittler on the regulars' thirty-yard line. A moment later he again broke away for another first down placing the ball on the regulars' eighteen-yard line.

Nothing could hold him now. He was practically the whole team, though Tom Allison and Pete Maddern gave him royal support. In two more tries he made nine yards more. Here his team was penalized five yards for holding.

But in his present mood, fourteen yards counted for little to Garry Grayson. Once more he plunged through the bewildered line of the regulars and by a superb effort hurled himself over the goal line for a touchdown. Nick kicked the goal.

Just then the whistle sounded. The game was over and the regulars had won by a score of twenty-three to seventeen!

"Gee, but you gave us a battle!" laughed Ralph Wynn, as he helped Garry with his bruised eye.

Coach Garwin came up and grinned as he looked at Garry.

"Somewhat disfigured, but still in the ring, I see, Grayson," he said. "You played a good game and ran your team well. You've certainly given the regulars something to think about. In this last quarter you did about all the ground-gaining. They found you hard to stop. Keep it up! Keep it up!"

It was high praise from Al Garwin, who was usually chary of words—especially words of praise—and Garry found enough in them to compensate him for all his efforts.

By this time the bleachers were empty and the crowd was spread over the field, the freshmen and grammar school lads clustering about Garry and his team, whom they cheered to the echo. Even some of the haughty upper classmen condescended to clap Garry on the shoulder and congratulate him on his showing.

"Well, we had a moral victory anyway," Ted Dillingham comforted himself, as the scrubs were slipping into their street clothes. "We were beaten, but not disgraced."

"If we'd had five periods instead of four, I bet we would have beaten them anyway," declared Rooster. "That is," he added, "if Garry could have kept up the pace he was going in the fourth. Gee, Garry, you were as slippery as an eel!"

"I had dandy interference, or I couldn't have made it," replied Garry. "All you fellows were on your toes. But the score stands, and we're licked. But one thing is certain. Those upper class fellows will never hold us cheap again."

---

Ella Grayson gave a little squeal as Garry came into the living room that afternoon. She had of course seen the game, as had every other high school girl, but this was her first close view of her brother.

"Garry Grayson!" she exclaimed. "Of all things! Mother, just look at him!"

Mrs. Grayson looked, and hurried with an exclamation to her son's side.

"Oh, Garry, what has happened? Your nose! That eye! Have you been in an accident?"

Garry laughed as he flung his cap into a chair.

"Don't worry, Mother," he said giving her an affectionate hug. "I never felt better or happier in my life. Is dinner nearly ready? Gee, but I'm hungry."

"But, Garry, you haven't told me—"

"Just been in a football game, Mother," Garry explained. "And I got my share of the hard knocks. But it was a peach of a game. We scrubs sure gave the regulars a tough fight. At one time it looked as though we had them licked."

"I suppose the next thing you'll have is a cauliflower ear," remarked Ella, as their mother hurried off to find a soothing lotion with which to dress the boy's hurts.

"I heard something about your football game on my way home," remarked Mr. Grayson, who entered the house a few minutes later. "I heard, too, who made the touchdowns for the scrubs. Seems to me his name was Grayson or something like that."

Garry flushed and Ella giggled.

"I think Garry's cut out for an editor," she said. "He's always saying 'we' when it ought to be 'I'."

"The other fellows played as hard as I did," declared Garry. "If it hadn't been for the interference I had, I wouldn't have made the touchdowns. The whole team fought like tigers."

"Well, I'm glad you made a good showing," said his father. "It's fine to win, of course: but, after all, the main thing is to play the game, play it honorably, squarely and with all your might. And from all I've heard that's the way you played it to-day."

"But look at his nose and his eye!" said Mrs. Grayson.

"I guess his injuries won't be fatal," laughed Mr. Grayson.

"I'm going to take a snapshot of him and show it to the girls," said Ella, making a dive for her camera.

"Not on your life you won't!" returned Garry, as he forestalled her and held the instrument out of her reach until she promised to be good.

On Monday morning the school was agog with interest over the result of the Saturday game. The stock of Lenox High football went up with a bound. Up to that time there had been a good deal of pessimism as to the standing of Lenox in the High School League, owing to the loss of Greb and other stars. But now it began to look as though Lenox would have a good store of reserve material to draw on for the hot contests that were promised in the future.

There were six teams in the High School League of which Lenox was a member. All of them were within a radius of thirty miles, so that there was not much traveling to be done, and almost the entire membership of the schools that were playing on any particular day could be depended on to be on hand to cheer their favorites. The rivalry between the different teams was intense, and feeling ran high whenever the teams clashed.

Besides Lenox, there were the Wimbledon, Pawling, Bass Lake, Greenfield and Thomaston high schools represented in the league. Of these, Greenfield was the most to be feared, and they had always given Lenox the hardest opposition. After Greenfield came Pawling. The others also were, as Ralph Wynn said, "not to be sneezed at," and no game was counted as surely in Lenox's hands until the referee's whistle blew.

Just now Coach Garwin was "pointing" the team for the Greenfield game. Of course, he wanted as many of the others too as his team could win, but he recognized Greenfield as his strongest opponent. Reports that had come to him indicated that Greenfield had retained most of its former stars, and in addition had added a fullback who was said to be a wonder.

So, with this struggle in view, it was no wonder that the coach was elated by the showing made by his scrubs. He knew now that, in case of injury to any of his regulars, he had a second line to draw from that would be almost or quite as good as the boys they replaced.

He smiled pleasantly at Garry as he met the lad on the school steps, but made no reference to the Saturday game. No one under his control was going to get a swelled head if he knew it.

Garry's nose was still swollen, and his eye had a purple ring around it.

"Gee, but you wouldn't take a beauty prize just now," chuckled Ted.

Trompet Shrugg eyed Garry sourly as the lad entered his room. He seemed about to speak, but for the moment restrained himself.

During the first quarter of an hour lessons went on as usual. But it was noticeable that the teacher was fidgeting and most of the time kept his eye on Garry's disfigured face. At last he seemed to have reached a resolution and rapped on the desk for attention.

"It is of course my chief duty to teach you English," he said to the expectant boys, who sensed that something unusual was coming. "But it is also my duty, as I conceive it, to oversee your conduct. And from that duty I shall not flinch. I am surprised—perhaps I should say I am disgusted—that one of your number should have been engaged in an unseemly brawl. It would seem to me to be only common decency that he should not intrude his presence here until the shameful evidence of that brawl has disappeared."

He paused and fixed his eyes on Garry.

---

Garry Grayson flushed to the ears. The attack was so venomous, so unwarranted, that he was hardly able to believe that he had heard aright. His eyes blazed as they encountered Trompet Shrugg's.

His comrades were equally amazed. Their impulse was that of indignation. The second was to laugh. Knowing the real reason for Garry's disfigured appearance, the mistake of Mr. Shrugg in attributing it to a brawl seemed to them comical.

"This is no laughing matter," said the teacher sternly, as a ripple of amusement ran around the class. "Rowdyism is a thing to be condemned severely."

Garry by a great effort had gained a measure of self-control.

"I suppose you are referring to me, Mr. Shrugg," he said, rising and trying to speak respectfully.

"I am mentioning no names," said Trompet Shrugg primly. "Any one that the shoe fits can put it on."

"But I think that you must have meant me," persisted Garry, "because I am the only one in the class that has a swelled nose and a black eye."

"Well, you are correct in assuming that you were the boy I had in mind," snapped the teacher. "And I do not hesitate to say again that such conduct is disgraceful."

"What conduct?" asked Garry.

"Fighting," replied Shrugg.

"What makes you think that I have been fighting?" asked Garry.

"Your appearance shows it. And what is more, I want no impudence from you, Grayson. I am not here to be subjected to cross examination."

"I am not impudent," replied Garry. "I only want to say that you are mistaken. I have not been fighting. I got these injuries in the football game on Saturday."

Trompet Shrugg was so taken aback that for a moment he did not know what to say. He looked so discomfited, so disconcerted at the way his spite had proved a boomerang that a roar of laughter that could not be quelled rose from the class.

The teacher rapped angrily on his desk for order.

"If that be true," he said, "it simply confirms the opinion I have always entertained of the brutality of football. It is nothing less than organized fighting, and it's unworthy of our civilization. That will do, Grayson. You may take your seat."

At this moment the door opened and Mr. Allen, the principal, entered on his daily tour of inspection of the classes. He was a genial man and very popular with the boys. He was also a great friend of Mr. Grayson's and often visited at his home.

His eye lighted on Garry, who was just taking his seat.

"Hello, Garry," he said quizzically. "You look as though you had been through the wars."

"I got roughed up a little in the football game on Saturday," replied Garry, grinning.

Mr. Allen threw back his head and laughed.

"Well, they're honorable scars," he remarked. "I saw part of that game, and was especially struck by the way you made that last touchdown. It was splendid work, and I hope you'll keep it up. I want to say to all you boys that football is a great game. Any one with red blood in his veins can't help liking it. It develops courage, self-reliance, discipline and quick thinking—all the qualities that go into the making of the best type of manhood. I am sure that Mr. Shrugg will agree with me in this. Of course you must not let it interfere with your studies. Scholarship comes first. But as long as you maintain a good rank in your studies you can't do anything better in the hours devoted to pastime than to play good hard football, the harder the better. An occasional black eye won't do you any harm. It's a badge of honor, as in Garry's case."

During this talk, Trompet Shrugg's face was a study. Chagrin, embarrassment, consternation chased themselves across his features. As for the boys, they nearly choked in restraining their mirth.

Of course, had Mr. Allen had any idea of what had preceded his entrance, he would have foregone his eulogy on football for the sake of discipline and to spare the feelings of the teacher. But, wholly unaware of the situation, he made one or two more routine inquiries and left the room.

Study was resumed, but the work of the rest of that hour did not amount to much. Mr. Shrugg's face was as red as a peony. His pettiness had met with a just reward. The persecution he had heaped on Garry had returned to plague him. Never had the teacher felt such relief as when the gong sounded the signal of dismissal.

The boys poured out into the hall and then for the first time dared to give vent to their emotions. Peals of laughter echoed through the corridors, and the sound of it penetrated to the room in which Trompet Shrugg sat.

"Did you ever see such a face?" gurgled Ted Dillingham.

"And to think Mr. Allen should have come in just at that minute!" rejoiced Rooster. "Garry, you old rascal, I'll bet you had it all cooked up in advance!"

"Not guilty," declared Garry with a grin. "But it sure was a bit of good luck for me."

"I guess that ends Shrugg's riding you," conjectured Pete Maddern. "He won't dare rag you any more."

"Things were getting to such a pass that I'd just about made up my mind to draw up a round robin to Mr. Allen and get all the fellows to sign it," put in Tom Allison.

The story spread like wildfire through the school, and was greeted everywhere hilariously, for Trompet Shrugg had succeeded in making himself intensely unpopular. That Mr. Allen himself eventually heard of the incident no one knew for a certainty, but events that followed shortly afterward indicated that he had.

The first game of the league season—that with Wimbledon—was now rapidly approaching and the boys were looking forward to it eagerly. That team had usually put up a stiff fight, and the year before Lenox had beaten it only by a lucky field goal as the last quarter was nearing its end.

Coach Garwin did not hold it cheaply—indeed, he never made that often fatal error in regard to any games on the schedule—and he drove his boys on remorselessly in practice. By this time they had become pretty well seasoned, and the coach had no hesitation in making them go the limit.

He compelled the scrubs, too, to be on their toes all the while. Not that the second string men needed any urging. The close call they had given the regulars in the first game was ever present with them, and they were frantically eager to win a game from their opponents.

Victory, however, never came as close to them as it had in that first game. The regulars then had been over confident and had come near paying the penalty. Now that they knew the stuff the scrubs were made of, the regulars went in every time expecting a stiff struggle, and their superior weight carried them through to triumph.

"Looks less likely than ever that we'll get on the first team this year," mourned Rooster.

"You never can tell," replied Garry, with his unconquerable optimism. "I don't wish the regulars any bad luck, but accidents are likely to happen at any time. Sometimes three or four fellows are knocked out in a single quarter, and then our chance may come. All we've got to do is to keep on plugging with all our might."

There was no doubt that Garry himself was putting that principle in practice. He was out almost every day on the field working to his utmost. He was among the first to get on the playing oval and among the last to leave. And very frequently he and some of the Hill Street bunch would get together after supper and practice in the lot back of his house until darkness forced them in.

He was happier now than he had been at any other time since school opened. His persecution by Trompet Shrugg had greatly diminished. Ted conjectured that some one had "put a flea in the old boy's ear," as he disrespectfully phrased it. More likely it was the recollection of the humiliation he had suffered when Mr. Allen had unwittingly spiked his guns that made the teacher of English more careful in his dealings with Garry.

On the day set for the Wimbledon game Garry was as hard as nails and ready for the call, if the call should come.

The game was to be played at Lenox, which gave a slight edge to the home team. They were on familiar ground, and the larger part of the crowd would be rooting for them.

But Wimbledon was only eight miles away, and practically the whole school came over to encourage their football team, most of them bringing horns and cowbells along with which they were prepared to make a din whenever the occasion required.

Garry, with his comrades of the scrubs, was on the side lines with a blanket thrown over his shoulders. As the Wimbledon boys romped out on the field for practice, he had a good chance to size them up.

What he saw made him a trifle uneasy, for the visitors were a husky bunch and showed up extremely well in their ten minutes of practice. To his eyes they seemed trained to the minute and to have somewhat more "beef" in their line than the Lenox boys.

Lenox won the toss and elected to kick off. The teams lined up on the home forty-yard line, and Wynn sent the ball hurtling down the field for thirty-five yards. Beebe, the red-headed fullback of Wimbledon, ran the ball back for five yards before he was downed, and the game was on.

The teams lined up for the scrimmage, with Wimbledon having the ball. Johnston, their left halfback, plunged through left guard and tackle for a gain of four yards. Beebe tried the other side and made two more, and on the next down went through for five, making the distance with a down to spare.

It was an auspicious beginning for the visitors, and the yells and cowbells of their rooters drowned all other sounds.

"First blood for Wimbledon!"

"Show these fellows where they get off."

"Wimbledon, Wimbledon! Our team weighs a ton!" they chanted in chorus.

But their yells died down a moment later when Wynn intercepted a forward pass and made a pretty run of twenty-two yards around the Wimbledon right end.

Now the Lenox backs got in their work. Dittler bucked the line for two yards. Wynn went through for three. Knapp was good for two more, and then Dittler again took up the Lenox burden for four more.

Lenox had made the distance and still had the ball, with the Wimbledon goal only about nine yards away.

This time the Lenox rooters had their turn at yelling, and it made that of the Wimbledon partisans seem weak in comparison.

But now the staying qualities of the visitors was put to the test, and they responded gamely. With their goal in danger, they put up a furious resistance. Dittler, on the first down, was thrown back for a loss of three yards. Knapp was good for only two. Wynn duplicated this with two more.

With eight yards to go on the fourth down, Lenox tried a forward pass. But a magnificent leap of Beebe's intercepted it and the prospect of a touchdown went glimmering.

Beebe dropped back and kicked the ball nearly to the middle of the field. Knapp ran it back for eight yards, and the teams lined up for the scrimmage, with Lenox in possession of the ball.

---

For the rest of that first period it was a case of seesaw, first one and then the other of the teams getting the ball, but neither being able to make any notable advance. The referee's whistle ended the period with the ball in the middle of the field. The quarter had demonstrated nothing more than that the teams were unusually well matched.

"Doesn't look like a walkover for either one," remarked Rooster to Garry, while the panting warriors tried to get their breath in the brief minute of space between the first and second periods.

"Righto," responded Garry. "Our boys have got their work cut out for them, if they expect to win. That red-headed Beebe is a terror. He's as good as any two of their other men."

"He's there with the goods all right," admitted Nick. "But he isn't a bit better than Dittler, although I think he's a trifle heavier."

"It's a mighty good scrap so far," observed Bill. "May the best team win. Provided, of course," he added with a grin, "that team is Lenox."

"That goes without saying," agreed Garry.

In the next quarter Wimbledon resorted to an aerial game and relied more on forward passes than mass play. It was soon evident that they had been well coached in this feature of the game, and for a time they gained ground consistently.

Steadily they advanced the ball down the field until they got within striking distance of the home team's goal. Then Lenox gained possession of the ball and showed that they too could do some forward passing themselves.

Wynn took the ball for a brilliant run of twenty yards about right end, very narrowly escaping being forced out of bounds. Dittler, not to be outdone, made eighteen more yards around left. Twice following this, Lenox, by hard line smashing, made their distance on downs.

It was classy work, and it set the Lenox rooters to yelling vociferously in the stands. A moment later the noise became pandemonium when Benny Knapp dropped back and kicked a field goal, scoring the first three points of the game.

"Here's where we get them!" yelled Bill Sherwood bringing his big hand down with a resounding slap on Garry's knee.

"For the love of Pete, keep that big ham off me!" ejaculated Garry, as he rubbed the spot. "Do you want to cripple me! Yes, it does look good, but the game is young yet. Those Wimbledon guys will take a lot of beating."

That Bill had been premature in his exultation was shown a few moments later when Beebe, his red head shining in the sun, intercepted a forward pass and by a superb exhibition of running carried it for forty yards across the Lenox line for a touchdown.

Johnston kicked the goal and the score was 7 to 3 in favor of Wimbledon. And now the horns and cowbells set up a din that could be heard a mile away.

"Tough luck!" groaned Rooster.

"Luck, nothing!" returned Nick. "That red-headed rascal earned every inch he covered. His mates gave him good interference, too! We've got to hand it to them, much as we hate to. That was good football, and nothing else."

Wimbledon seemed to have taken on a new lease of life, now that they had the lead. As though to show that there was nothing like a fluke in the first touchdown, they made another in the last minute of the quarter, Johnston this time being the happy warrior to scoop up the ball when Knapp fumbled and scamper like a jack rabbit over the goal line.

Marsden's try for goal failed, but the Wimbledon rooters made little of that. Six more points had been safely stowed away and they were wild with enthusiasm. The Lenox partisans, glum and silent, breathed sighs of relief as the whistle blew.

"Ten points ahead and the game half over!" muttered Ted disconsolately.

"They're outplaying us," growled Nick. "They were like wild men in that quarter. We'll be lucky if they leave us our shirts."

"Snap out of it," admonished Garry. "There's plenty of time left to win."

"I wonder what Coach Garwin's saying to the boys," remarked Bill, as he looked toward the gymnasium where Wynn's battered warriors were resting and wondering what had hit them.

"What he's saying is plenty," returned Nick. "He's got the finest command of language of any one I know. He's got the boys raw and bleeding by this time."

That Al Garwin had been doing something of the kind was evident when the Lenox team trotted out for the third quarter. The players' faces were red and the glint of rage was in their eyes.

"I can almost hear them gnashing their teeth," commented Bill.

"So much the better," remarked Garry. "The coach has told them they were dubs. They're going to show him that he didn't know what he was talking about."

That Al Garwin's tongue had rasped the boys to the quick was made evident from the start. Beebe kicked off for thirty yards and Dittler signaled for a fair catch. He made it and the ball was in the possession of Lenox on their own thirty-yard line.

Then the home team commenced a triumphal march down the field. Their line smashing was irresistible. Again and again they made their distance, despite the frantic opposition put up by Wimbledon. And seeing the spirit and power that animated his boys, Wynn kept to the bucking game.

Through they went, now on the left and again on the right side. All the players of the opposition looked alike to them. The Lenox boys plunged, smashed, bored their way through, while their rooters in the bleachers went mad.

On their ten-yard line Wimbledon braced desperately. But it was of no use. Dittler went through for three, Knapp for four more, and Minter capped the plays when he tore through guard and left tackle for a touchdown.

Garry and his fellow scrubs were pounding each other and babbling incoherently.

"I guess our boys are poor!" chortled Garry. "Oh, yes, they're poor! Did you ever see such line bucking?"

"If they only keep that up, it will be a massacre," rejoiced Bill Sherwood. "They'll simply snow them under."

But joy was of short duration. Out once more in the middle of the field, Wynn passed the ball to Knapp, who started off to skirt right end, but slipped as he dodged to evade a tackler and fell heavily, the ball shooting out from his arm with the impact.

The irrepressible Beebe, who had so often that day blighted the hopes of Lenox, was on the ball like a hawk and scooted down the field for a magnificent run of forty-two yards for Wimbledon's third touchdown. Johnston kicked the goal and the score was 20 to 10 in favor of the visitors.

"They have all the breaks," groaned Rooster, though his voice could scarcely be heard in the terrific din that rose from the Wimbledon section of the stands.

"That fellow Beebe must have a rabbit's foot in his pocket," gloomed Nick.

"He's got brains in his head, you mean," amended Garry, "to say nothing of speed in his feet. That fellow can ran rings around a streak of lightning."

For the rest of that period the fighting was furious on both sides, but neither made an additional score.

When their brief breathing spell ended, Lenox came out determined to do or die. That they were more likely to die than do was indicated by the score. But they were a fighting bunch and at least would sell their lives dearly.

Wimbledon, fairly content with what she had gained and confident that her lead could not be overcome in the short time remaining for play, resorted to a defensive game that was more cagey than sportsmanlike. All that she had to do was to prevent any further scoring by Lenox and the game was hers.

But Lenox, on the other hand, threw caution to the winds and battered furiously at the enemy's line. Again and again she threw herself against that line and would not be denied. The first time the Lenox boys got possession of the ball they made their distance on downs with two yards to spare.

Again they lined up for the scrimmage and the ball was passed to Dittler for a plunge between left end and tackle. He went through like a bull for four yards before he went down with almost all the Wimbledon team on top of him.

When the pile was disentangled, Dittler did not rise, and after he had been helped to his feet it was found that his right ankle had been so severely strained that he could hardly bear his weight on it. Consternation reigned in the Lenox ranks, for Dittler was one of the pillars of the team.

"There goes the game!" mourned Nick.

"They had little enough chance before," groaned Ted. "They haven't any at all now."

"Just when the boys were going like a house afire!" grumbled Rooster.

Time was called while Dittler was assisted from the field amid the sympathetic applause of the rooters, not excluding those from Wimbledon who knew a good sportsman when they saw one.

"I wonder whom they'll put in his place," murmured Tom Allison.

"Search me," replied Pete Maddern. "He'll have to be good to fill Dittler's shoes."

Coach Garwin walked over to the group.

"Get in there, Grayson," he directed.

---

Like a flash Garry Grayson threw off his blanket and sped out into the field. His heart was beating like a triphammer. He was really playing on the first team! He was playing in the place of Dittler, a star! Could he really fill the position? Or would he fall down on the job?

A shout of encouragement went up from the Lenox rooters as he took his place.

"Grayson! Grayson! Go to it! Eat 'em up! Turn 'em inside out! Lenox forever!"

Two voices were lacking in this chorus. Sandy Podder and Lent Stewart fumed and growled when they saw who had been chosen as a substitute.

"That four-flusher!" snapped Sandy. "Now the game's gone for fair."

"Garwin must be off his nut," declared Stewart. "Picking out a freshman when he's got lots of better material."

For the second down Knapp was chosen to carry the ball. But the Wimbledon line, more certain of victory than ever now that such a formidable enemy as Dittler had been removed, threw Benny back for a loss of two yards.

On the next snapback Wynn passed the ball to Garry, and, lowering his head, the recruit from the scrubs went through like a catapult. He was fresh while his adversaries were panting, and he hit the line with such force that he made seven yards before he was downed.

With fourth down and only one yard to make for the distance, Wynn again gave the ball to Garry, and this time he made four yards with almost the whole Wimbledon team piled up on him.

Cheers went up from the Lenox rooters and the cowbells of the Wimbledon men remained silent.

"Fool's luck!" growled Sandy.

"The Wimbledon fellows thought so little of him that they didn't try hard enough to stop him," returned Lent. "He'll get his the next time he tries it."

Again the teams lined up for the scrimmage. Minter made two yards between right guard and tackle. Knapp went through for one more. The Wimbledon line had braced and Wynn signaled for a forward pass.

The ball was snapped back to him and he made the throw to Garry, who was running at full speed toward the right of the line. The pass was beautifully timed and Garry gathered it in on the run and, with Minter and Knapp as his interference, ran like a deer down the field.

Red-headed Beebe made a rush for him, but Garry straight-armed him and ran on. Minter blocked Johnston neatly just as he was on the point of diving for the runner.

On, on, Garry went, squirming, dodging, twisting, slipping through the ranks of his enemies like a ghost. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Beebe, who was at his left, launch himself at him. At the same moment Garry hurled himself through the air, and, evading Beebe's outstretched arms, came down with a thump just across the line for a touchdown.

A thunder of yells from the Lenox rooters swept across the field as Garry, flushed and panting, rose to his feet.

Minter kicked the goal, and the score was 20 to 17 in favor of the visitors.

A field goal by Lenox would tie the score. A touchdown would win, provided they kept Wimbledon from increasing its tally.

But the time was now perilously short.

Both teams were wound up to the highest fighting pitch. Every inch that was gained had to be fought for. Again and again attempts to buck the line by either team proved unavailing, and the ball changed hands repeatedly.

With only three minutes left for play, Johnston fumbled the ball and Garry pounced on it and ran for a gain of twenty-three yards, bringing the ball within eight yards of the Wimbledon goal.

But with victory almost in sight and the Lenox fans shouting like mad, the referee ordered the ball brought back and in addition penalized the Lenox team. One of their team had been off-side, and the run went for nothing—even less than nothing.

Lenox's case was almost desperate then, but still the team fought on. With but one minute left for play, Wynn tried for a goal from the Wimbledon thirty-five yard line.

The ball soared through the air like a bird, and for one breathless minute it seemed as though it were going over the bar. But it struck the right goal post and bounded back in the field where Beebe fell upon it, and before it could again be put in play the referee's whistle blew and the game was over.

Wimbledon had conquered by a score of 20 to 17!

The Lenox boys were game, and lined up and gave three cheers for the victors. Wimbledon, who knew that they had been in a fight, responded with three more cheers, and then the teams retired to their respective quarters.

Sandy Podder was jubilant, though he did not dare show it.

"Gosh, I would have been sore if that kid had made another touchdown!" he whispered to Lent.

"Y-e-e-s," responded Lent dubiously. "But it would have won for Lenox."

"Lenox be hanged!" replied Sandy, "I'd rather she'd lose than have Grayson win it for her."

Garry's chums crowded around him, patting him, thumping him until he was sore.

"Gee, but you were wonderful, Garry!" exclaimed Ted.

"Those runs of yours were peaches," put in Rooster.

"If that game had only lasted ten minutes longer!" groaned Nick.

Others now came forward to congratulate the scrub player.

"You did dandy work, Grayson," was Ralph Wynn's tribute.

"Well played, my boy," Coach Garwin contented himself with saying, at the same time placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I made no mistake in sending you in."

"But we lost the game," mourned Garry, as, later on, he was walking home with his chums. "The first game of the league season, too! I was hoping we'd get the jump on them."

"It was too bad," agreed Bill. "But if Lenox was beaten she was not disgraced. The boys played great football in the last half."

"There'll be a different story to tell next time," predicted Rooster.

"Too bad Dittler was hurt though," said Tom Allison. "He's one of the best men on the team."

"As it happened, though, he wasn't missed," declared Pete Maddern. "Garry more than made up for him."

"That's because I was fresh while he was tired," protested Garry. "He can run rings all around me."

"You're the only fellow in Lenox that thinks so then," put in the loyal Ted.

The coach had a heart to heart talk with the members of the team the next school-day afternoon. He went over the game in detail, pointing out a mistake here, giving full credit for a good play there, and making the boys wonder how on earth he had managed to see so many things with those sleepy eyes of his.

"On the whole you played a fair game of ball," he summed up. "But no game is really good unless it's good enough to win. Don't kid yourselves into thinking that the other fellows had the breaks of the game. That's the excuse of faint hearts. You had as many breaks as they did. They won the game on its merits. That's the way I want you to win the next one. And every one of you fellows has got to work like the mischief if you want to hold your jobs."

Garry was not present at this gathering, and for a sufficient reason.

Trompet Shrugg had been in an execrable humor that day. He was usually grumpy, but now he was ferocious. For some reason, which the boys could not fathom, he had apparently thrown discretion to the winds. He distributed stings and sarcasms with a liberal hand—or rather, tongue.

"The old boy's as full of poison as a rattlesnake," whispered Ted to Garry.

"And seems as if he was in a hurry to get rid of it all at once," replied Garry.

The teacher caught the motion of Garry's lips.

"Talking again in class, Grayson?" he snapped. "You'll stay and write a composition of fifteen hundred words this afternoon."

"Stung!" Garry muttered forlornly to himself.

So it was that he rejoined his chums only as they were coming from the gymnasium after the talk by Mr. Garwin.

"So the old crab got you, did he?" said Bill consolingly, as he threw his arm around Garry's shoulder. "But don't care, old-timer. It's the last time."

"No such luck," returned Garry moodily. "He'll ride me till the end of the term."

"I said it was the last time," repeated Bill.

Something in his voice made Garry look at him quickly.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Trompet Shrugg leaves to-morrow," replied Bill.

---

Garry Grayson stared at Bill as though he could not believe his ears.

"Wh-h-at?" he stammered.

"Don't roll your eyes like a dying fish," admonished Bill "Trust old Doc Sherwood. He knows. And if you feel like crying, you can weep on my shoulder."

"Bill knows what he's talking about," broke in Ted, who, with a number of other boys, had been watching Garry's face with amusement as the news was imparted to him. "It's straight goods. This is old Shrugg's last day in Lenox."

"Glory, hallelujah!" cried Garry, throwing his bundle of books in the air and catching it dexterously on its return. "That's the best news I've heard since school opened! It seems too good to be true! How did you find it out?"

"Just got the tip from Ralph Wynn," replied Nick. "And it came straight to him from Mr. Allen, too! Oh, it's true all right! That's the reason that Shrugg was so full of gall to-day. It was his last chance to work it off."

"Where's he going?" asked Garry.

"He's got a position away off in the upper part of the State," put in Rooster. "It seems that this thing's been brewing for some time. Mr. Allen and the school board have heard so many complaints of Shrugg's tyrannical methods that they decided to get rid of him, though they let him stay until he could get himself fixed. But now we're through with him."

"I feel sorry for the poor dubs that will be under him," put in Rooster. "Our gain will be their loss."

"Oh well," returned Nick, "why should we have to take all the bad medicine?"

"I wonder whom we'll get in his place," conjectured Garry. "Though it doesn't much matter. Any change is bound to be for the better."

Garry's chums looked grinningly at each other.

"Shall we tell him!" asked Rooster.

"Better go slow," admonished Ted.

"He oughtn't to have two shocks in one day," added Nick.

"Let me see," said Bill, assuming a professional air and feeling Garry's pulse. "Hum! Hum! A little fast, but not dangerously so. Yes, I think it will be safe to tell him. Trust old Doc Sherwood. He knows."

Garry made a pass at him, and Bill ducked with a loss of his professional dignity.

"Quit your kidding," demanded Garry. "Spill it. Who's coming in Shrugg's place?"

"Mr. Phillips," replied Ted.

Garry's heart gave a bound and his face became radiant.

"Not our Mr. Phillips of the Hill Street school?" he exclaimed.

"That's the one," Nick assured him. "You'll see him at the desk when we go into the English class to-morrow morning. Shrugg shakes the dust of Lenox from his shoes to-night."

"What a change it will be to have a regular fellow for a teacher!" exulted Garry.

"And as good a scholar as Shrugg ever was," put in Rooster. "I understand he was a star in his classes at Amherst, as well as on the football team."

"I'm glad, too, for Mr. Phillips's own sake as well as ours," remarked Ted. "It will be promotion for him to come from a grammar school to a high school. He'll be a professor in a big college before he's through."

"Let's hope that won't be until we get out of high," put in Garry. "Gee, I feel as though some one had given me a million dollars!"

"We sha'n't hear any more about the brutality of football," laughed Bill. "You've got through being a disgraceful brawler, Garry."

"You can intrude yourself now into the society of gentlemen without feeling out of place," added Rooster, grinning.

The boys were early in their places in the English class the following morning, and when Mr. Phillips entered there was a ripple of applause that swelled in volume as other pupils followed the lead of the former Hill Street boys. It was a sincere tribute, and Mr. Phillips flushed with pleasure as he bowed and took his seat.

He made no formal speech, simply expressed his thanks at the welcome and his hope that he and the boys would enjoy their studies together and that his pupils would feel free to come to him with any of their problems, whether bearing on the lessons or not. There was no stiffness nor pedantry about him, and coming after the primness of Trompet Shrugg, the contrast was refreshing. In that little two-minute talk he got close to all the boys in the class, and it was evident that the English class, instead of being dreaded as before, was to be looked forward to with pleasure.

At the close of the hour he held an impromptu reception as the former Hill Street boys crowded around him.

"Gee, but we're glad to see you here, Mr. Phillips," said Garry, his face shining with pleasure, and his comrades expressed themselves with equal warmth.

"You can be sure that I am very glad, too, to have so many of my old pupils in the class," responded Mr. Phillips warmly, as he shook hands with each. "I could see from the work you did this morning that all of you have kept well up in your studies. That's fine. You look, too, as though you were in fine physical condition. I suppose with some of you a part of that is due to football."

"We fellows who play are at the game whenever we get a chance," replied Garry, with a smile.

"I've kept track of you in that to some extent," said Mr. Phillips. "I saw that game with Wimbledon, and I was proud of the way you played, Garry, when you were called on to take the place of Dittler. And I saw you boys when you came so near to taking a game from the regulars. You all did good work."

"That's because we had such a good coach when we were in Hill Street," declared Garry.

"Oh, I don't know about that," laughed Mr. Phillips. "What little I did wouldn't have amounted to much if I hadn't had such good material to work with."

"But after all we're only on the scrubs," put in Rooster, with a wry face.

"That's a great deal in itself," replied Mr. Phillips. "You're right in line for promotion to the regulars. Of course you couldn't expect to make the regulars the first year, no matter how well you played. That's a tradition of high school and college that's very strong and seldom broken. But I look for all of you to be first string boys before you finish your course."

"Here's hoping," said Garry, and after a little further talk on general matters the boys took their leave.

The next morning, as Garry Grayson was eating breakfast, he heard a startled exclamation from his father, who was glancing over the morning paper.

"What's the matter, Dad?" asked Garry, laying down his knife and fork.

"Matter enough," replied Mr. Grayson gravely. "Frank Sherwood has been arrested!"

---

At his father's announcement Garry Grayson was startled and horrified.

"Frank Sherwood, Bill Sherwood's brother?" he gasped.

"That's the one," replied Mr. Grayson.

"What was he arrested for?" asked Garry. "Speeding?"

"Far worse than that," was the answer.

"Worse?"

"He's charged with theft."

"What?" fairly shouted Garry. "Theft? Frank Sherwood a thief? Oh, Dad, he can't be! He's been wild and has been running around with that poolroom gang, but he'd never do anything like stealing!"

"I hate to believe it myself," replied his father. "I used to like Frank a lot. And of course a charge isn't proof. But he's been arrested just the same. He's to have a preliminary examination in the police court this morning."

"Poor Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson. "Their hearts will be broken over this."

"And poor Bill," mourned Garry. "He won't be able to hold his head up. He thinks the world of Frank."

"I'm heartily sorry," declared Garry's father. "The Sherwoods are among the best people of the town. It's too bad Frank ever got in with that poolroom gang. You can't keep bad company and stay clean. Mooney's place ought to be closed up," he added, with a grim tightening of his lips. "I'm going to get the decent people of the town together and see if it can't be done. Mooney is an unprincipled scoundrel."

"What is it they say Frank stole?" asked Garry, whose appetite for breakfast had vanished utterly.

"The paper doesn't give many details," replied his father. "Those will probably come out in the hearing this morning. The case concerns the disappearance of that three thousand dollars or thereabouts that belonged to Mr. Podder."

"Mr. Podder!" exclaimed Garry. "Why, I know something about that matter, Dad! And so do you! Rooster told me about it last fall. Mr. Long gave the money to Sandy to take to his father in pay for some horses Mr. Long had bought of Mr. Podder. Sandy says he stopped at the poolroom on his way home, hung up the coat containing the envelope with the money in it while he shot a game or two at pool, and when he put on his coat again he found only the empty envelope, with the money gone. He was scared, and told his father that Mr. Long hadn't given him the money.

"I don't know whether his father believed him or not, but at any rate he tried to get the money again from Mr. Long and said he'd sue him if it wasn't paid. But as luck would have it, Mr. Long had a witness in Rudolph, the gypsy, that he'd paid the money to Sandy, and so the matter ended. Or I thought it had ended."

"Amos Podder isn't the kind to pocket a loss of that sort if he can help it," replied Mr. Grayson thoughtfully. "He's probably been investigating, and at last he's fixed the thing on Frank Sherwood."

"I don't believe that Frank had anything to do with it!" declared Garry heatedly. "I'll bet the Podders are charging Frank with it just because they know the Sherwoods are well off and will pay the money to get Frank out of trouble. I wouldn't trust either of those Podders any further than I could see them."

"I don't know that I would myself," responded Mr. Grayson. "I hope you're right and that Frank is innocent. We'll know more about it after the examination this morning."

Garry's heart was heavy when he met his chums on the way to school that morning. A quick glance told him that Bill was not among them.

The rest of the bunch had learned of the matter too, and were as much upset over it as Garry himself.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Nick Danter.

"Nor I, either," echoed Rooster. "Frank may have been wild, but he's no thief."

"That dirty crook, Sandy Podder, is at the bottom of this!" pronounced Ted.

"Anything he's connected with smells bad," declared Garry. "Probably the chase was getting hot and he picked on Frank as the goat. I'd like to wring his neck!"

Garry went through his work mechanically that morning, and the sight of Bill's empty seat sent a stab through his heart every time he looked at it.

He knew that his father had planned to attend the examination that morning, and he could hardly wait till evening for his return. The moment Mr. Grayson entered the house Garry opened a fire of questions on him.

"What about that matter of Frank Sherwood, Dad?"

Mr. Grayson shook his head.

"It doesn't look good," he replied, as he hung his hat on the rack and came into the living room.

Garry's heart sank.

"You don't mean that they proved anything against him?"

"Not proved as yet," was the reply. "But there was enough evidence to justify the judge in holding Frank for trial. Of course, this was only a preliminary examination, and the evidence may be disproved when the real trial comes."

"Just what did they say against him?" asked Garry.

"Well," replied Mr. Grayson, "two witnesses testified that they had seen Frank take an envelope from Sandy's coat, open it, transfer something from it, and put the envelope back again."

"Who said that?" asked Garry.

"Gyp Mooney, the proprietor of the poolroom, and Piker Anson, as I believe he is called," replied Mr. Grayson.

"Those bums!" exclaimed Garry hotly. "I wouldn't hang a yellow dog on anything they might say."

"They've got an evil reputation, right enough," admitted Garry's father. "But when a theft takes place in a resort like Mooney's that's about the only kind of witnesses you expect to have. Unless it's refuted, their testimony goes for what the jury thinks it's worth. Then, too, there was Sandy Podder—"

"Oh, that sneak testified against him too, did he?" sneered Garry.

"Yes," replied Mr. Grayson. "But he was very cautious in his testimony. He said he remembered seeing Frank hovering about the place where the coat was hanging, but thought nothing of it at the time. All he really knew, he admitted, was that the money was in the envelope when he hung the coat up and wasn't there when he put it on again. Sandy impressed me all through as knowing more about the matter than he cared to tell."

"You bet he does!" declared Garry. "He's yellow right down to the ground. But what did Frank have to say to all this?"

"Denied the theft utterly," replied Mr. Grayson. "Said he knew nothing at all about it. He admitted that he was in the poolroom that night. Also admitted that Sandy was in his shirt sleeves, so that his coat must have been hanging somewhere. But he denied emphatically that he had taken the money."

"Well, why, then, didn't the judge let him go?" asked Mrs. Grayson. "His testimony ought to be as good as that of those worthless fellows."

"You forget, my dear, that a man charged with crime will almost always deny it," replied her husband. "Against the direct testimony of two men, however worthless, who swore they saw him take the money, and the indirect testimony of still another witness who remembered that he had acted suspiciously, the judge had no recourse but to hold Frank. And that's what he did. Mr. Sherwood furnished bail, and the boy was released from custody. His trial comes up a few weeks from now."

There was a sad silence in the Grayson living room. All were thinking of the terrible heartache that must be the lot of the Sherwood family. Garry especially was thinking of poor Bill.

It was Garry who broke the silence.

"What did you think of it, Dad?" asked Garry. "You've seen a lot of accused people on the witness stand. Did Frank act to you as if he were guilty or innocent?"

Mr. Grayson for once relaxed his usual lawyer's caution.

"Innocent," he stated emphatically. "His face, his actions, his talk, all impressed me that way. I think he's the victim of a conspiracy. I'm going to try to prove it, too, for Mr. Sherwood has put the case in my hands."

"Hooray!" shouted Garry, who had unbounded faith in his father's ability. "Then you'll get Frank off sure!"

"I hope to," replied Mr. Grayson, smiling at his son's enthusiasm. "But one never knows what a jury may do," he added soberly. "I'll do my best to establish Frank's innocence, and I hope enough will develop in the course of the trial to put those poolroom rats out of business."

---

Bill Sherwood turned up the next morning, his face drawn and pale, his steps lagging and dispirited.

His chums gathered eagerly around him and gave him the warmest of welcomes.

"Still willing to speak to me, eh?" he said, looking at them shamefacedly and with a wan attempt at a smile.

"Look here, Bill Sherwood!" exclaimed Garry, as he threw an arm over his friend's shoulder. "If you ever say a thing like that again, I'll slug you, big as you are. You're the best old pal that ever lived, and we're with you till the cows come home. Aren't we, fellows?"

"You bet we are!" came from the group in chorus.

"Snap out of it, old boy," admonished Nick affectionately. "Everything will turn out all right."

"We know that they're trying to frame Frank," put in Ted. "They might do that to any one of us."

"It's all that sneaking Sandy Podder and his crowd!" declared Rooster. "I know what they are! They tried to cheat my father last fall, but they didn't get away with it. And they won't get away with this, either."

"Not on your life they won't!" exclaimed Garry. "And now, Bill, forget all about it. We're not going to think of it or speak of it. Before this thing's over we'll get that Sandy Podder by the nape of the neck and shake the truth out of him. Trust my dad for that."

Such a welcome as this was balm to poor Bill's wounded feelings and heartened him immensely. From that time on the subject was avoided, and the bunch settled down to their lessons and their football practice.

Although they did well in the former, the latter was foremost in their thoughts, for the game with the Bass Lake high school was coming on apace and the Lenox boys were consumed with a frantic desire to win. The loss of the Wimbledon game rankled. It had been a blot on their escutcheon. It must be wiped out, and they had determined to do this by making Bass Lake their victims.

But here hard luck intervened and threatened for a time to do all the victimizing.

An epidemic both of measles and mumps broke out in Lenox. As a rule, these attacked the younger pupils in the schools, but they became so virulent in the Cherry Street school that the whole institution was closed for a couple of weeks.

Most of the high school students were immune because they had already had these diseases in earlier years. Still, there was a comparatively large number there that suffered, and the classes were considerably reduced in size.

Mumps and measles rarely have a serious result, and are regarded more as nuisances than as real afflictions. Garry and his especial chums viewed the matter lightly enough until the football teams were threatened. Then indeed their faces grew long and they were affected with something akin to panic.

Bass Lake had no such visitation, and their boys were going along strongly in practice. But in Lenox Hick Dabney, right guard of the scrubs, was taken down with the mumps and Pete Maddern had an attack of measles. Tom Allison, too, had one or the other coming on and was compelled to stay at home.

Substitutes were found for their places, but none so good as those they replaced, and the scrub line was seriously weakened. Still this would not have mattered greatly had the regulars remained intact.

Dittler had recovered from his sprained ankle and was as good as ever. But Walker, the heavy center, and Minter, the right halfback, were out of the game temporarily, the one by mumps and the other by measles, and even if they recovered in time for the game they would be in too weakened a condition to play.

This left two big holes in the team that Coach Garwin plugged up with Rankin and Bellows, two boys of the junior class who had played well on the last year's team but had left the preceding June, not expecting to return. Their plans had been changed, however, and they had returned several weeks after the term opened to complete their course. They were good players, but had lost several weeks of practice, and even at their best were not as good as Walker and Minter.

But the schedule had to be met regardless of mumps and measles, and when the appointed day came the coach took his weakened team over to Bass Lake where the game was to be played. The distance was not far, and almost the whole pupil body of Lenox High went over to cheer their favorites.

The Bass Lake boys showed up full of pep and ginger in practice, and it was apparent to the visitors that a hard game was in prospect.

But they buckled to the task with determination, and for the first quarter held their opponents even. Lenox seemed once on the verge of scoring, when by repeated rushes down the field she had come within twelve yards of the Bass Lake goal line. But on the next down a fumble by Rankin gave the ball to Houston of the home team, who promptly kicked it out of danger, and the period ended scoreless for either team. The second quarter told a different story. For ten minutes of play the battling lines swayed back and forth with neither having a pronounced advantage. Then with the quickness of a kaleidoscope things changed.

Bartlett, the right half of the Bass Lake team, emerged with a rush from the mass of grappling combatants, skirted the right end, and with a magnificent run of forty-two yards carried the ball over the Lenox line for a touchdown amid the terrific cheering of his mates. Ashley kicked the goal and seven big juicy points went up on the Bass Lake score!

---

"Gee, but that's tough!" muttered Garry Grayson, as he sat on the side lines muffled in his blanket and looking at the score just marked up for Bass Lake.

"The team surely misses Walker and Minter," grumbled Nick.

"Right you are," agreed Ted Dillingham. "If Rankin hadn't made that fumble, we'd have scored, sure. And if Bellows had made the right kind of a tackle, he could have downed Bartlett."

"Stop your grouching and look at that!" cried Rooster Long excitedly. "Go it, old boy, go it!"

The yell was directed at Dittler, who had made a superb leap in the air and intercepted a forward pass. Now he was legging it down the field like a jack rabbit, aided by splendid interference on the part of Knapp and Wynn. Bartlett made a dive for Dittler, but the latter straight-armed him and, dodging Ashley on the other side, made a touchdown. Wynn kicked the goal and the score was tied!

The Lenox rooters made the welkin ring, and the subs on the sidelines performed an Indian snake dance.

"That, Abe, is something else again!" chortled Garry. "What a pair of legs that boy has!"

"He didn't run, he flew," exulted Rooster. "It would have taken an airplane to catch him."

Neither side scored in the remaining minutes of play, and when the teams trotted off to the clubhouse for the rest between halves honors were even.

Coach Garwin had been doing some hard thinking during that second quarter. He knew that there were two weak spots in his team that needed to be plugged, center and right halfback. In addition to the faults that the boys on the side lines had noted, he had detected others that they had failed to see.

Rankin at center had been too inaccurate in passing and too slow in charging. Moreover, he was excited, and several times had lost his head at critical moments.

Bellows at halfback had lacked speed in getting down field under a punt in the second or third wave. Also he hesitated at times when he should have been off like a shot.

"No, they won't do. Not in this game, at least. They are short on practice," decided the coach.

He looked over the bunch of subs. There was big Bill Sherwood, a bit heavier than Rankin and experienced in playing center. He would take a chance on him.

For right halfback he hesitated for a moment between Garry Grayson and Rooster Long. He had more confidence in the former, and had the game been at a critical stage would have chosen him. But it was a tie, with two quarters yet to play. Besides, he wanted to see how Rooster would bear himself in a regular league game. Garry had already proved himself. Rooster was an unknown quantity. He would try him, anyway, and if he failed to make good, there was Garry ready to jump into the breach.

So he called on Bill and Rooster to go in at center and right half respectively, and they galloped joyously into the fray.

In that third quarter they justified Al Garwin's choice. They were fresh, ambitious, eager. Here was the chance for which they had hardly dared to hope, and now that they had it they were determined to make the most of it.

Bill snapped the ball accurately and was like a bull on the charge and on defense. Rooster's nimble feet made him a great ground gainer. The rest of the team, feeling that the weak places had been plugged, took on a new lease of life.

Steadily, against fierce opposition, they advanced down the field until they were within eighteen yards of the Bass Lake goal. Then, on a delayed pass that bewildered their opponents for a moment, Rooster got the ball and skirted the left end for a touchdown.

A burst of frenzied cheering from the Lenox rooters greeted the feat.

"That's going some!"

"Oh, you Rooster!"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Knapp missed kicking the goal by the merest fraction of an inch, and the score was 13 to 7 in favor of Lenox.

But the Bass Lake boys were far from beaten, and before the period closed they had evened the score and more, for an unfortunate fumble by Payne enabled Ellis to scoop up the ball on the run and make a splendid run of twenty-two yards that carried him over the Lenox goal line. The try for goal was successful, and Bass Lake was ahead by the scant margin of one point, and the period ended with that score unchanged.

"Not so good," muttered Garry, who had been in the seventh heaven of delight when Rooster had made his touchdown.

"Only one point ahead, but that means an awful lot at this stage of the game," mourned Nick Danter.

After a brief minute of rest the opposing warriors were at it again. For a time it looked as though neither team could gain. The ball passed from one side to the other repeatedly, and most of the time remained near the middle of the field.

Then it seemed as though Lenox's hopes had indeed gone, for Wynn was so badly knocked out in a collision with Bartlett that time had to be called while he was assisted off the field.

"That's curtains for us," muttered Ted.

"And only six minutes left to play!" moaned Nick.

"Get in there, Grayson," called the coach.

Off went Garry's blanket, and he sped out into the field.

A strange feeling came over the lad as he took Wynn's place. He was at quarterback, his old position, the one in which he had led the Hill Street school to the championship. The position fitted him like a glove.

The confidence he showed in every move put new life into the Lenox team. Bill at center was passing the ball to him, and they worked together like the two blades of a shears.

Lenox had the ball, and Rooster plunged through for four yards. Knapp was good for two more. Dittler was thrown for no gain, but on the fourth down Garry himself went through for four, just making the distance.

Now Lenox was within thirty yards of the enemy's goal. But the Bass Lake boys had braced grimly and desperately. Knapp made but one yard on the first down. Dittler gained three more, but on the next try he was halted in his tracks.

The time was growing perilously short. With six yards to go on the fourth down against the stiffened resistance of the foe, Garry took a desperate chance.

Bill snapped the ball to him. Garry dropped back and kicked.

The ball sped toward the Bass Lake goal twenty-eight yards away. At first it looked as though it might go under the bar. But it rose as it progressed and just cleared the bar.

A field goal! Three points! Before the ball could again be put into play the referee's whistle blew and the game was over with Lenox two points to the good!

---

The air resounded with cheers from the frantic Lenox rooters as they poured down over the field, hoisted Garry on their shoulders, despite his laughing protests, and carried him to the clubhouse. Their joy was all the greater because their case had looked so hopeless that they had resigned themselves to defeat.

"A narrow squeak," commented Garry happily, as he was getting into his street clothes.

"But you made it!" exulted Nick. "And Rooster here and Bill covered themselves with glory. Old Hill Street was in it to-day with both feet."

It was a triumphal return that the Lenox boys made to their home town, and their delight in the victory was increased when they learned that Wimbledon had been defeated on the same day by Pawling, while Greenfield, their most feared opponent, had had to lower its colors to Thomaston. The first especially was balm to their spirits, as it seemed a sort of vicarious revenge for the defeat that Wimbledon had handed to Lenox.

On the following Monday their high spirits took a sudden drop when they learned that Mr. Garwin had suddenly been summoned out of town. There was serious illness in his family, and it was impossible to predict when he would be back.

Gloom settled over the teams like a pall. But though his heart, equally with others, was filled with consternation, Garry Grayson was the first to see that the cloud had a silver lining.

"Mr. Garwin was a crackajack coach," he said to his chums, as they were excitedly discussing the matter. "No mistake about that. But what's the matter with Mr. Phillips! They don't come any better than he is."

"He's there with the goods, all right," agreed Nick.

"But perhaps he won't be willing," came from Ted.

"Trust him to do anything he can for the school," said Garry confidently. "And he's a fiend for football. He doesn't think it's a brutal game unfit for gentlemen."

There was a general laugh at this reminder of the unlamented Trompet Shrugg.

"Of course we're only freshmen and we can't butt in," added Garry. "Perhaps Mr. Garwin has already made arrangements for some one to take his place. If he hasn't it's up to Ralph Wynn to take the first step."

"Who's taking my name in vain!" said a jocular voice behind them, and they looked up to see Ralph himself.

"I'm the guilty wretch," answered Garry, smiling. "We were wondering who was going to coach the team now that Mr. Garwin has gone."

"Mr. Garwin arranged for that before he left," replied Ralph. "He pressed an old friend of yours into the service."

"You don't mean Mr. Phillips?" cried Garry eagerly.

"No one else," answered Ralph, with a smile.

Mr. Phillips took up the reins that same afternoon, when he gathered the first and second teams together in the gymnasium. He gave them a little talk full of hard sense and inspiration, paying a graceful tribute to Mr. Garwin, whose shoes he said modestly he could not hope to fill. It was a genial talk, but firm, and his hearers readily guessed that there was an iron hand in the velvet glove. No one could shirk and get away with it while he was at the helm.

That the boys were going to support the new coach royally was evident from the very start. They were full of pep and ginger in practice. The two league games they had already played had gotten them into their stride. Now many weaknesses were eliminated, many new plays perfected. So when the day came for their match with Pawling they were at the top of their form.

From the first it was a battle of rush lines, and the aerial attack seldom figured. Lenox proved to have the heavier, the more aggressive, and the best-trained line. Pawling was very generally outplayed and outrushed. Time and again the Lenox forwards would break through on plays and repeatedly spoiled the Pawling cut-in dashes of its fast backs whose end sweeps were blocked because of the Lenox drive into the interference.

Lenox gained the lead in the first quarter, when after about five minutes of play, it staged a steady march down the field for a touchdown, aided by two beautiful end runs by Dittler. Knapp kicked the goal, and the home boys had got off to a flying start.

That was all the scoring done in that period, but shortly after the beginning of the second the visitors threw a scare into the home team by advancing the ball as far as the Lenox eighteen-yard line. There Lenox got possession of it, and although Knapp's kick was blocked the visitors could not rush it over the line. A little later a fine run back by Wynn put the ball on the Pawling fifteen-yard line, where the visitors put up a stubborn defense and were finally saved when a forward pass was incompleted in the zone.

It was not until the third that Pawling scored. A Lenox pass was intercepted, and the Pawling fullback drove ahead to the Lenox twenty-yard line. Then Abbott, the visitors' quarterback, tossed a forward pass over to the left and Wilson, sweeping in on the ball just beyond the scrimmage, carried it over the line for a touchdown, tying the score, and with the tally still unchanged the period ended.

Knapp was limping when he came in for the minute's rest between periods, and it developed that he had strained a tendon in the last mix-up.

Mr. Phillips's eye swept the line of substitutes on the bench and he beckoned to Garry.

"You take Knapp's place," he directed. "Remember that I'm depending on you to break that tie."

"I'll do my best," promised Garry, as he hurried out with the rest of the team.

Though the boy threw himself heart and soul into the struggle, no special opportunity came to him until ten minutes of the period had passed. Then Wynn threw a wide diagonal forward pass from his own nineteen-yard line and well beyond scrimmage. The ball went off into the open where Garry was uncovered and in the midst of several of his own teammates. Garry received the ball on his own forty-one yard line and streaked down the field on a gallop for a sixty-yard run, outstripping Abbott by a hairbreadth and plunged over the line for a touchdown. Wynn missed kicking the goal. But now the score was 13 to 7 and only three minutes left for play.

The Pawling boys were determined to die, if die they must, in the last ditch. After several line plunges had failed to gain distance Wilson made a gallant run of twenty-two yards where he was downed by Dittler. Before the ball could be put in play the whistle sounded, and a second victory was chalked up for Lenox.

The fans went wild, and Garry had to make a run for the shelter of the gymnasium to escape the mauling and pounding of the enthusiasts.

"Johnny-on-the-spot as usual!" exulted Ted.

"A bit of luck," said Garry modestly. "Most of the Pawlings were on the other side, and I had almost a clear field."

"They simply can't keep you off the regular team, if you keep on playing that way," declared Rooster.

"Oh, yes, they can for this first year, I'm afraid," answered Garry. "That freshman tradition is mighty strong at Lenox. We're lowly scrubs to be used in a pinch, but not good enough for the first string. Gee, but I'd be glad of a chance to play in a full game from start to finish!"

"I'm afraid our chances are worse than ever now," put in Nick Danter thoughtfully. "You see, Mr. Phillips may be especially leary in using any of us on the regulars, because, since we were members of the old Hill Street team, it might be thought a bit of favoritism."

"That is, you think Mr. Phillips will stand up so straight that he'll fall over backwards," said Garry. "Well, I don't. I think he'll do just what he thinks is best for the team, no matter what any one says. That's the kind of man he is."

A few days later, as Bill and Garry were going along a rather secluded street in the outskirts of the town, they saw, a little way ahead of them, Sandy Podder and Lent Stewart, together with a crony of theirs of the same stripe, Garry's old enemy, Chat Johns. Sandy turned at the sound of footsteps, saw Garry and Bill, and then held a low but animated discussion with his companions.

"Let's get ahead of them," suggested Garry. "The very sight of them makes me sick."

"Same here," agreed Bill, and the two boys quickened their steps.

As they passed the three cronies, Sandy remarked to Lent:

"Aren't you glad you're not a thief, Lent?"

"I sure am," was the reply. "I've no ambition to get behind the bars."

"I'd hate even to have a thief in the family," put in Chat, with an evil grin.

The slur was so evidently directed at Frank Sherwood and was so wanton and deliberate that Garry's blood boiled. Bill turned around like a flash and approached the group, his eyes blazing.

"You're a bunch of curs," he said hotly.

"And that goes double," chimed in Garry, at a white heat.

An ugly look came into the faces of the young rascals. They were not only three to two, but, with the exception of Chat, were older and heavier than either Bill or Garry.

"I'll make you eat those words, Garry Grayson," threatened Sandy Podder.

For answer Garry's fist shot out and caught Sandy full in the jaw.

---

At the same moment that Garry struck Sandy Podder, Bill tackled Lent Stewart and gave him a blow that sent him staggering.

The bullies recovered themselves in a moment, and, with Chat, were about to rush on their opponents when a voice close at hand startled them.

"Three to two," said the voice of Jerry Cox, who had come around a corner. "That doesn't seem exactly square. Count me in on this."

"You keep out of this, Jerry Cox," snarled Sandy.

"It's none of your funeral," growled Lent, sourly.

"Seems to me that there'd have been flowers at your funeral, Lent Stewart, if Garry Grayson hadn't saved your life," returned Jerry coolly. "And now here you are trying to beat him up. Nothing doing, Lent. You know I can lick you and perhaps help a bit in licking your pals. So come along if you're ready."

But the bullies were not at all ready. What had seemed easy had suddenly become hard. They stood growling and disconcerted for a moment, and then decided to move on.

"I'll get square with you yet, Garry Grayson," called back Sandy.

"Any time you like," replied Garry quickly. "Put a bit of arnica on that jaw of yours. It sometimes helps."

Jerry looked at Garry and Bill with a broad grin.

"They're yellow clear through," he remarked. "Didn't like the game at all when the chances were even. What was the trouble, anyway!"

"Oh, they made a dirty crack and we came back at them," replied Garry evasively. "It was mighty good of you to pitch in on our side."

"I thought they were friends of yours," said Bill, though with less of coldness in his tone than he had previously used in speaking to Jerry.

"I've cut 'em out," replied Jerry soberly. "No more of that poolroom gang for me. I was a fool for playing around with them as long as I did. But I've got the right slant on things now and I'm hunting for a real job, and when I get it, you bet I'm going to stick to it."

"Anything special in view?" asked Garry cordially.

"Not yet," answered Jerry. "But I'm looking for it with both eyes. I need it badly, too, because there's been sickness at home and my father's out of work. Well, so long, fellows, and good luck."

He went away with a friendly wave of the hand. Garry and Bill looked at each other.

"Seems to have the right stuff in him, after all," admitted Bill.

"Glad he's cut loose from that bunch," said Garry. "He sure proved a friend in need just now, and I think it's up to us to find him and his father jobs. I'll put it up to my dad and you speak to your father about it. They know almost everybody in town, and they ought to be able to help Jerry if any one can."

Bill agreed to do this and later both fathers promised to do what they could. The consequence was that within a week Jerry's father had secured a position in Mr. Sherwood's large manufacturing establishment, while Mr. Grayson got Jerry himself a place in a lumber concern down on the river front.

The young fellow was immensely grateful, and from that time on Garry had no firmer friend in Lenox, outside of his own immediate chums.

Lenox now had played three games on its football schedule and had but two remaining, those with Thomaston and Greenfield, which were to be played in that order. Like Lenox, the Greenfield team had lost but one game, and its victories had been by scores much more impressive than Lenox had been able to muster.

Lenox therefore feared Thomaston much less. It was a good team—in spots. And it also played well—in spots. It was an in-and-outer, sometimes rising to great heights and again playing football far below the high school standard.

None the less, Mr. Phillips drove his team hard for the Thomaston game, which was to be played on the enemy's grounds, and Lenox was in fine fettle when it went over, determined to bring back the scalps of the foe and fasten them on the Lenox wigwam.

It proved to be the only game of the season in which Lenox did not have to work hard to win. It was not a game. It was, rather, a massacre. The Thomaston boys had one of their bad days and played like a lot of dubs. Their passing was wild, their line bucking weak, their fumbles frequent.

Lenox scored almost at will, making two touchdowns in the first period and a touchdown and field goal in the second, while Thomaston never came within striking distance of the Lenox goal.

With the game securely stowed away, Mr. Phillips in the third period took out his first string men with the exception of Wynn, Dittler, and Knapp, and sent in substitutes from the scrubs.

Pete, Tom, Nick, Ted, Rooster, Bill, Hick Dabney, and Garry were those chosen, and they made the most of the opportunity. It was the first time that so many of them had been used in any one game, and they went in to play their heads off.

The first string men resting on the side lines looked on patronizingly. They told themselves that they had really won the game and it would do no harm to let the scrubs take up the burden. Of course, they would not do much, but it would give them exercise.

Garry sensed their feeling and caught their condescending smiles.

"Now, fellows," he exhorted, "let's show those first string boobs where they get off. They've made twenty-four points. They're counting on us to do not much more than hold Thomaston even. Let's give them the surprise of their lives."

This they promptly proceeded to do. They ran wild. Nothing could stop them. Under the delighted eyes of Mr. Phillips and the now sober looks of the first string men, they piled up touchdown after touchdown until, when the last period ended, they had added thirty-five points to the twenty-four already scored, making the final tally 59 to 0. It was the worst Waterloo that Thomaston had ever encountered.

The Lenox boys were filled with joy, and none more so than the once-despised scrubs.

"Just doormats, are we?" laughed Pete.

"We've given them something to think of," chortled Tom Allison. "Did you see their long faces while we were piling up the score?"

"We put a dent in that freshman tradition, anyway!" exulted Nick.

"And now for Greenfield!" exclaimed Garry, turning from the present to the future. "That's the only obstacle left. If we hurdle that, we win the championship."

"And it will take some hurdling," predicted Nick. "They won't be the pudding that Thomaston was to-day."

That seemed more likely than ever when the boys learned that on that same afternoon Greenfield had fairly smothered Bass Lake, the same team that Lenox had beaten by only a scanty margin.

The contest for the league pennant was now clearly defined. Lenox and Greenfield had each won three games and lost one. The other teams were out of the running. The Lenox-Greenfield game would decide the championship.

In the meantime Mr. Grayson was busy preparing to defend Frank Sherwood in his trial for theft, which had been put on the docket for an early date. The more the lawyer delved into it the more confident he felt that Frank was innocent. Yet there was the definite evidence of Mooney and Anson, each corroborating that of the other, and despite the bad character of the men there was no knowing what effect it might have on the jury.

Jerry Cox had several times met Garry on the street, but each time the latter had been accompanied by friends, so that Jerry had just spoken to him and passed on.

But one afternoon toward dusk Garry happened to be alone as he encountered Jerry at the intersection of two streets.

"Hello, Garry," Jerry greeted him. "How's tricks?"

"Everything fine," replied Garry. "How are things going with you?"

"Dandy," responded Jerry. "I like my work and the boss seems to like the way I do it. At least, he hasn't fired me yet," he added, with a grin.

"My dad saw your boss the other day, and he said you were doing good work," said Garry.

"I'm doing my best," declared Jerry, "and I'm tickled to death to get away from the poolroom gang. By the way, Garry, speaking of poolrooms—" He hesitated.

"Yes," said Garry encouragingly.

"It's about that Frank Sherwood matter," went on Jerry slowly. "I've been meaning to speak to you about it for some time, but have never been able to catch you alone."

Garry was all alert in an instant.

"Do you know anything about that case?" he asked eagerly.

"I know that Frank Sherwood didn't steal that money, and I can't stand by and see a fellow framed for something he didn't do," replied Jerry.

Jerry's words had the effect on Garry of an electric shock.

"What's that?" he cried excitedly. "Tell me all you know! For the love of Pete, Jerry, spill it! I was sure that Frank didn't take the money. But do you know who did take it?"

"Yes," replied Jerry. "It was Gyp Mooney himself."

"Gyp Mooney!" exclaimed Garry. "The dirty crook! But are you sure? How do you know?"

"Well," said Jerry, "it was this way. I saw Mooney hanging around Sandy's coat, but thought nothing of it. It was late and most of the fellows had gone. I was leaving myself when I saw Sandy put on his coat, feel in the pocket and turn pale. Then he called Mooney outside. I was taking a short cut through the lot where there were plenty of bushes, and it was dark. Sandy and Mooney were walking in the same direction. They were arguing so angrily I thought there might be a scrap coming, and I slowed up to see what might happen.

"They stopped nearly opposite me, but didn't see me. Sandy was accusing Mooney of having robbed him. Said he'd seen him taking something from his coat. Mooney denied it, but Sandy insisted. Then Mooney turned ugly. Seems he had a hold on Sandy. He knew of a barn that Sandy had set fire to. Mooney said he'd have Sandy sent to jail for that if he didn't keep quiet. Told Sandy that all he'd have to do would be to tell his father Mr. Long hadn't put the money in the envelope. Then Mr. Long would have to pay over again. Anyway, Podder was rich and could stand it. If Sandy kept his mouth shut, Mooney would see that Sandy would get a bit of the money for himself. If not, he'd tell about that barn fire and Sandy'd go to jail.

"So it ended that way. Sandy caved in. Mooney admitted he had taken the money and that just as soon as it was safe he'd see that Sandy had his bit. They went on then and I didn't hear anything further, but I suppose Sandy told his father the story that Mooney had coached him to tell."

"I know he did!" cried Garry. "But Podder didn't get the money again from Mr. Long! I suppose he's been trying to find out where the money went, and the thing got so hot that Mooney got scared and cooked up this thing about Frank Sherwood.

"That's it, as sure as shooting," went on Garry. "They picked on Frank as the goat, and Mooney got Piker Anson to back him up. That skunk would swear to anything for ten dollars!

"But come right along with me, Jerry, and see my father. He's in charge of Frank's case, you know. Gee, but I'm glad I met you!"

Jerry went along willingly. There was a long conference in the Grayson home that night. At its conclusion Jerry Cox went away with a strong injunction to keep tight-lipped till the trial.

And Mr. Grayson's face was beaming.

---

"I understand we have a great little detective among us," remarked Ella, as Garry came down to breakfast the next morning.

"Well, I got the clue, didn't I?" replied Garry, throwing out his chest a little.

"Yes, when the clue marched right up to you and asked to be taken in," chaffed Ella.

"Stop your scrapping, you two," commanded Mr. Grayson, with a smile. "The fact is that what Garry found out yesterday is of great importance. I'm sure that Jerry Cox is telling the truth. I tested him in every possible way, turned him inside out, so to speak, and I'm sure that his story will stand up under any cross examination. But I want to warn you youngsters not on any account to let a syllable of this get out. Mooney or Anson or any of that crowd mustn't get an inkling of it. I want not only to clear Frank but to put those perjurers and scoundrels where they belong. And that pest of a poolroom is going to be put out of business."

"Of course, I suppose you've let Frank and the Sherwoods know all about it," remarked Garry.

"Certainly," reported his father. "I went over there last night. You can imagine the reception I got with such news to take them. I tell you there is a happy family to-day."

"Good old Bill!" exclaimed Garry. "It will be a new lease of life for him."

He met Bill that morning as he came along with the rest of the bunch. It was indeed a transformed Bill, jolly, laughing, full of the highest spirits. The rest of the boys noticed the change and wondered. But Bill and Garry alone knew the secret of the change, and, though their lips were sealed by promise, the look that passed between them spoke volumes.

Football practice went on under a full head of steam. It was made all the harder by Mr. Phillips because he feared that the easy victory over Thomaston might give rise to false overconfidence and prompt a let-down. So he drove the two teams ruthlessly until, when the day arrived for the great game with Greenfield, the game that was to decide the championship of the High School League, the Lenox boys were as hard as nails.

All but Ralph Wynn, their captain, quarterback, and main reliance, the brains of the team!

Ralph had been feeling under the weather for a day or two, and on the fateful Saturday on which the game was to be played Lenox was stricken with consternation by the news that Ralph had taken the mumps and was confined to his bed.

The school staggered under the shock. The team without Wynn was like a ship without a rudder. It looked as though Greenfield would have a walkover. She would have been hard to beat under the best circumstances. Now her victory seemed certain.

But the panic that shook the team did not extend to their coach. Not that Mr. Phillips was not seriously disturbed, but he had been watching the practice very closely for the past two weeks and felt that the predicament was not a hopeless one.

The teams were to gather that morning at ten o'clock for a brief practice, just to run through the signals and limber up for the afternoon game.

They came together, regulars and scrubs, their hearts heavy and their faces anxious. Mr. Phillips wasted no time in preliminaries and went straight to the point.

"Grayson," he said abruptly, "you play at quarterback this afternoon."

Garry caught his breath and a murmur of surprise ran through the group of players.

"I'm as much a stickler for school tradition as any of you," Mr. Phillips went on. "But there come times when tradition must go down before common sense. Grayson is a freshman. But he knows football and knows how to run a team. I want you regulars to give him as loyal support as you have given to Wynn. Wynn himself would be the first to ask it if he were here. I want you to whip Greenfield this afternoon. That's all that counts. Will you do it?"

The shout of assent that went up showed the spirit of the boys, and the coach smiled.

"I knew I could count on you," he said. "Now go in and win."

The half hour of practice that followed was spirited and snappy. Garry, his head in a whirl at first, soon got his bearings and ran the team in a way that brought a glint of satisfaction to the eyes of the coach.

That afternoon the Greenfield team came over chock full of confidence, bringing a brass band with them to celebrate the expected victory. They had heard that Ralph Wynn was out of the game and that a freshman was to run the team.

"A freshman! It is to laugh!" shouted one of Greenfield's rooters. "Lenox must indeed be hard up! It's only a question now of the score that Greenfield will run up! It'll be like taking candy from a baby!" And with this many agreed, not all of them Greenfield rooters, either.

But before the game had been long in progress it became evident that the baby was quite a lusty youngster after all.

Greenfield won the toss and elected to kick off. Kearny kicked to Knapp, who came back eleven yards to the Lenox thirty-yard line. Dittler made a yard through the Greenfield line. A forward pass by Minter was grounded. Knapp kicked for forty-nine yards and the ball was grounded on the Greenfield forty-yard line without a return.

Two passes by Greenfield were knocked down. Wallace, the enemy quarterback, kicked twenty-five yards, and Knapp was downed on the Lenox forty-five yard line before he could take a step. Dittler cut through left tackle and got away for forty-two yards before he was driven out of bounds by Holcomb on Greenfield's thirteen-yard line. Here, with their goal threatened, Greenfield took a mighty brace, and three successive line plunges failed to gain an inch. On the fourth down Payne tried for a field goal but his drop-kick was short. But Garry recovered the ball on the Greenfield nine-yard line.

Again Greenfield braced and two line smashes gained only two yards. On the third down, Minter plunged between right guard and tackle but was met so furiously that he was thrown back for a four-yard loss. On the fourth down Lenox tried a forward pass but it was intercepted by Rogers, who ran to the Greenfield thirty-yard line.

Bush made two through the line and Wallace punted forty-five yards, Garry being downed in his tracks on the Lenox twenty-two yard line.

Knapp made three yards in two line smashes. Garry punted for thirty-seven yards and Holcomb came back fifteen yards before he was downed. He fumbled as he was tackled, and Lenox recovered on its thirty-eight yard line.

Again Lenox plunged at the Greenfield line, Dittler going through for three yards. A forward pass from Minter was grounded. Knapp found a hole at left tackle and slid through for four. On the fourth down Garry himself took the ball and went through for five yards, making the distance and still keeping possession of the ball.

On a crisscross play Dittler was thrown for a loss of three yards. And just then the whistle blew and the period ended with the ball in Lenox's keeping near mid-field.

It had been a furious struggle, with honors about even. If anything, Lenox had a slight edge, as most of the time the ball had been in the enemy's territory and twice she had come within striking distance of the Greenfield goal.

The "baby" had come up to scratch, and roars of frenzied applause went up from the Lenox rooters, led by their cheer leaders, who, dressed in white, went through all sorts of acrobatic antics before the stands.

Answering roars went up from the Greenfield section and their brass band added to the tumult as the players, panting and breathless, took their minute of rest, sprawled out on the turf.

Garry was covered with dust, his nose bleeding, his hands scratched, his chest heaving from his exertions.

"Oh, look at Garry!" squealed Ella. "He's hurt!"

"Hurt nothing!" retorted Jane Danter, her face flushed with excitement. "He's as happy as a clam. Go it, Garry!" she called in her shrill treble. "We're all rooting for you!"

Garry looked at her and grinned. Jane sure was a nice girl.

When play was resumed Lenox still had the ball and Garry punted fifteen yards, the kick being partially blocked and Greenfield recovering the ball on its own forty-five yard line. Lenox was off-side, and the five-yard penalty brought the ball to the middle of the field. Wallace knifed off tackle for ten yards for first down. A long pass, Bush to Rogers, was completed for a thirty-yard gain, giving Greenfield first down on the Lenox ten-yard line.

Rogers went through for three yards. Bush added three more through right guard. Holcomb smashed the line hard, but Lenox had braced desperately and he gained only a yard. On the fourth down, Sayles dropped back to the thirteen-yard line, and though the angle made the feat seem impossible, sent the ball over the bar between the posts for a field goal for the first three points of the game.

Greenfield had drawn first blood and her rooters went crazy while their band struck up "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!"

"Let them cheer," called Garry to his mates, by no means dismayed. "It's the last chance they'll have."

In the Lenox stands there were downcast looks and heavy hearts. Probably there were but two exceptions, Lent Stewart and Chat Johns. There would have been three, but Sandy Podder was attending the trial of Frank Sherwood, which was in progress that day.

"Here's where that four-flusher gets his," muttered Lent, his eyes glowing with ill-concealed elation.

Kearny kicked off to Knapp, who fumbled and then came back for eleven yards to the Lenox twenty-six yard line. Two line plays gained seven yards, and on third down Garry broke through for twelve yards, with the whole Greenfield line piled on his back.

Having made its distance and more, Lenox again had the ball for first down on its own forty-five yard line. Dittler went through tackle for three yards and Knapp added four more through a big hole in the Greenfield line. On a fake plunge and a pass, Dittler to Minter, Lenox got within thirty yards of the Greenfield goal.

Minter plowed through for four yards and Knapp added one more, but a penalty for unnecessary roughness cost Lenox fifteen yards and pushed it back to Greenfield's forty-yard line. Minter's pass over the center of the line fell to earth untouched. Another long heave was battered down by Bush.

For the rest of that period the game was fast and furious, with first one side and then the other having possession of the ball, and when the first half of the game was over the score still remained at 3 to 0 in favor of the invaders.

---

Though on the wrong side of the ledger, Garry still retained his indomitable spirit.

"Are we down-hearted?" he cried to his mates as they trotted off to their quarters for the rest between halves.

"No!" came in a roar from his comrades.

"You bet we're not!" returned Garry. "We've just begun to fight!"

The bruising battle had not been without its casualties. Knapp in the last mix-up had twisted his leg and could barely more than limp. Painter at right guard was badly winded. So Mr. Phillips picked Nick Danter to take the place of Knapp and Rooster Long to fill the vacancy at guard.

The Greenfield ball carriers were unchanged, though two changes had been made in the line.

"Now, boys," was Mr. Phillips's last injunction after a short but inspiring talk, "go out and eat those fellows up. They haven't a thing you fellows haven't. I've watched their play, and I know. Get after them and bring home the bacon."

Garry kicked off to Bush, who came back eighteen yards to Greenfield's thirty-three yard line. Rogers broke through the right side of the Lenox line and ran twenty-four yards to Lenox's forty-three yard line before he was downed. Greenfield failed to gain through the line and Wallace was stopped without an advance on an attempted end run. Bush punted to the Lenox twenty-yard line.

Lenox made an ineffectual try on a line plunge by Dittler. Nick gained a yard off tackle. Then he made a superb punt of forty-five yards, Bush being thrown without a return. Rogers made a yard on a plunge, but a pass from Wallace was intercepted by Garry on the Lenox forty-five yard line.

Dittler threw a pass into the ground. Minter fumbled on a line plunge and Bush recovered for Greenfield on the Lenox forty-yard line. Wallace failed to gain through the line. Bush swung wide around the end for a five-yard gain. A Greenfield pass was battered down by Rooster. Another Greenfield pass was completed, but Garry threw Wallace for the loss of a yard and Lenox took the ball on its own thirty-six yard line.

Two stabs at the line gained four yards for Lenox. Garry plowed through the line for fifteen yards. An attempt by Dittler was stopped without a gain and Lenox was penalized five yards for off-side play. Nick gained three yards on a wide end run. While trying to get away a punt Dittler slipped and Greenfield recovered the ball.

Rogers was thrown for a four-yard loss by Rooster. A Greenfield pass was grounded. Garry intercepted the next toss and reached the Greenfield fourteen-yard line before he was downed.

The visitors braced doggedly to defend their goal. Nick went through center for two yards. Dittler made three more off tackle. A third attempt by Minter resulted in no gain, and Garry dropped back for a kick.

The ball sailed through the air in a beautiful spiral and came down on the other side of the bar, while pandemonium broke out in the Lenox stands.

Three points and the score was tied! Before the ball could be put again in play the referee's whistle sounded the end of the quarter.

While the stands fairly rocked with applause, Lent Stewart and Chat Johns sat glum and silent.

"If that fellow fell overboard, he'd come up with a fish in his mouth," grumbled Lent.

"The town won't hold him if he wins this game," growled Chat. "Gee, I wish he'd break a leg," he added viciously.

Ella and Jane fairly hugged each other, radiant with delight. And the other girls who lent a splash of color to the Lenox stands were quite as jubilant as the male rooters.

"Now, fellows," adjured Garry, as his team again took the field, "on your toes! That quarter we tied them. This quarter is where we lick them."

Rooster kicked off, Rogers returning the ball to Greenfield's forty-yard line. Bush threw a pass to Holcomb for a fifteen-yard gain and first down on Lenox's forty-five yard line. Rogers battered his way through the line for five yards. He gained two more off tackle, but Wallace was halted without a gain. A long Greenfield pass was grounded and Lenox took the ball on its own thirty-eight yard line.

Nick slid off tackle for two yards and then swung wide around the end for two more. Dittler gained three off tackle and then Garry punted the ball for twenty-six yards, the ball being downed on Greenfield's thirty-five yard line.

Rogers was driven out of bounds after gaining seven yards on a wide end run. Wallace failed to advance and Bush was thrown back for the loss of a yard. Rooster broke through and blocked Bush's kick, regaining the ball for Lenox on the Greenfield twenty-nine yard line.

Nick made four yards through tackle. Dittler was halted in his tracks. A pass from Garry to Nick was completed for a five-yard gain. But Nick's next attempt was thrown back for a loss of two yards.

Greenfield got the ball then and, fighting desperately, made their distance twice on downs, advancing the ball to their own forty-five yard line while their rooters cheered their encouragement and the band broke out in tumultuous strains.

"Hold 'em, fellows!" panted Garry. "Hold 'em, for the love of Pete! They mustn't get past! We've got to win for Lenox!"

But Greenfield was now frantic for victory and put up a bitter fight. Rogers plunged through tackle and end for three yards. But Bush was thrown back for the loss of a yard and on his next try made but two.

With fourth down and six yards to make the distance, Greenfield tried a forward pass, Wallace to Rogers. But Garry leaped high in the air and intercepted the ball. He tucked it under his arm and scurried down the field, with Rooster, Nick and Dittler acting as his interference.

How he ran! His feet seemed to have wings. The wind fairly whistled in his ears.

Rogers dived at him, but Garry straight-armed him and ran on. Nick blocked off Wallace on the right while Rooster gave Bush a similar dose on the left. And Garry kept on, on, his eyes fixed on the goal, while the whole Greenfield team thundered behind him.

And now Holcomb was the only one who stood between him and that coveted line. The husky fullback darted toward him on a slant with arms outstretched. He dived for Garry, but the latter dodged, and with one last summoning-up of all his speed and strength hurled himself over the Greenfield line for a touchdown!

Then rose such yells as the Lenox field had never known. The home rooters went mad. The boys shouted, the girls screamed with delight. Caps were thrown in the air, some never to be recovered by their frenzied owners. But that did not matter. Lenox had scored a touchdown!

A moment later Rooster kicked the goal and the yells were repeated.

With barely a minute left for play the game was cinched. The ball passed back and forth a few times and the whistle blew.

The score was 10 to 3, and Lenox had won the championship of the High School League!

The crowd swarmed over the field, and Garry was fairly smothered by his admirers, all seeking an opportunity to touch and hug their idol.

Finally, in the safety of the gymnasium, his mates surrounded him, and there was a scene of enthusiasm that had never been paralleled in the history of Lenox High.

"What's the matter with Garry Grayson?"

"He's all right!" came back in thundering chorus.

Garry himself, though he bore his honors modestly, was elated beyond words. Would he ever again find triumph so sweet? How that unspoken question was answered will be told in the next book of this series, entitled: "Garry Grayson's Football Rivals; or, The Secret of the Stolen Signals."

If there was any fly in the ointment of that great victory to Garry's mind it was that Bill Sherwood had not been present to see the game and rejoice in the triumph. Bill, of course, had been at Frank's trial.

But that his chum was quite as happy as himself was evident to Garry when Bill rushed to meet him as he was on his way home.

"He's free!" cried Bill. "He's free! We've won! Frank's acquitted!"

"Glory hallelujah!" shouted Garry, as he grasped Bill's hand so tightly that the other winced. "That's bully, Bill! Bully! I knew Frank was innocent. Tell me all about it."

"You ought to have been there," cried Bill. "Gee, Garry, your father was splendid. The way he tied Gyp Mooney and Piker Anson up in knots! Jerry told his story and the other side couldn't make a dent in it. Then Sandy broke down under cross examination and gave the whole thing away. The jury freed Frank without leaving their seats. The judge held Mooney and Anson for theft and perjury, and Sandy is held as a material witness. Gee, Garry, I'm so happy that I don't know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels!"

"You're on your own big feet all right," laughed Garry. "Gee, this news is all I needed to make it a perfect day! And now for the big celebration to-night! The boys are going to have a blow-out that will make Lenox howl!"

THE END

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GARRY GRAYSON

FOOTBALL STORIES

By ELMER A. DAWSON

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

GARRY GRAYSON'S HILL STREET ELEVEN
OR THE FOOTBALL BOYS OF LENOX

GARRY GRAYSON AT LENOX HIGH
OR THE CHAMPIONS OF THE FOOTBALL LEAGUE

GARRY GRAYSON'S FOOTBALL RIVALS
OR THE SECRET OF THE STOLEN SIGNALS

GARRY GRAYSON SHOWING HIS SPEED
OR A DARING RUN ON THE GRIDIRON

GARRY GRAYSON AT STANLEY PREP
OR THE FOOTBALL RIVALS OF RIVERVIEW