On Tuesday all but one of the Alton football squad reported for practice, the exception being Greenough, a substitute end, who had sustained a badly wrenched ankle in the Southport game. To be exact, there were twenty-nine khaki-trousered youths on hand when three o’clock struck. Of this number, nineteen were linemen, one of them a second team fellow named Cooper who had that day been snatched to the first as a substitute guard, that Fillmore might go to the backfield to understudy Tennyson. To-day new emphasis was laid on throwing and catching, end, tackle and backfield candidates to the number of seventeen being put through a long drill. Subsequently, during signal work, forward passes were more frequent than usual. Jim’s knee bothered him at first, but he speedily forgot about it, and when the afternoon’s session was at an end it seemed just as good as ever. The second was cocky that day and twice held the first inside her five-yard line, and, since Coach Cade had ruled out field-goals, there was no scoring until, just before the end of the second period – two halves of fifteen minutes constituted the practice game – Plant, at right half for Billy Frost, got away on his own twenty-four and raced some seventy-six yards for a touch-down.

Jim played through all of the last half and pleased himself thoroughly. Those second-team fellows weren’t so hard to handle to-day. He had three men opposed to him while he was in and none outplayed him in his opinion. To be sure, no one stopped proceedings to tell him he was doing well, but Jim had learned that praise, even commendation, was dealt out sparingly, and that so long as a player got along without being scolded it could be assumed that he was performing very creditably. Although he had been at training table but two days he found things not a little different on the field. He was no more a part of the squad than before, but it seemed that being taken to the table had served as an initiation that had admitted him to an inner sanctuary. Fellows who had never recognized him three days ago now hailed him as “Slim” – possibly without always knowing his last name – quite in the off-hand manner of age-old acquaintances. At first it embarrassed him greatly, but he liked it even then. He felt of importance for the first time since he had begun to play. He was, at last, somebody in the football world of Alton! Before, he had thought of himself as being there on sufferance; now he belonged. The sense of camaraderie helped a lot, too. Somehow, now when Pep Kinsey or Latham or Barnhart, playing quarter, yelped at him for playing too far in or too far out or, as once happened, starting before the signal, he didn’t take it to heart. The quarter was just one of his own crowd!

It was still light when Jim got back to Haylow that afternoon, and Clem was sprawled on the window-seat, reading, his book held close to the pane. “There’s been a gentleman here to see you, Jim,” he announced. There was faint emphasis on the word “gentleman,” and Jim’s brows contracted as he turned to the closet to hang up his cap. “Said he’d be back again.”

“What did he look like?” asked Jim soberly.

“Well, to tell you the truth, old son, he looked rather seedy. Slight chap, about twenty-four, perhaps. In case he’s a particular friend of yours, I won’t be too detailed.” Clem grinned. “Anyhow, he’s coming back, and if I were you, Jim, I’d pay the bill.”

“What bill?”

“How do I know?” chuckled Clem. “Perhaps the bill you owe his poor old widowed mother for the washing. He struck me as the sort of guy who’d be likely to land you one on the nose if you didn’t settle prompt. How did football go?”

“All right.” Jim seemed rather thoughtful. Instead of sitting down he walked twice between the window and the door, his hands in his pockets. Then, “All right,” he said again.

“Still all right, eh?” asked Clem. “That’s fine. When a thing’s all right I do love to have it stay that way.” Jim looked at him in puzzlement. “If it happened to change, you’d let me know, wouldn’t you?” pursued Clem anxiously.

“What are you talking about?” asked Jim, frowning perplexedly. But he didn’t hear Clem’s reply, for just then the sound of footsteps in the corridor caused him to swing expectantly toward the door. But the steps went by. Clem was still talking.

“If it’s anything serious, I’ll be glad to help any way I can. You know that, Jim. I haven’t much influence with the police, but what I have will be gladly exerted in your behalf. Perhaps a confession would ease your mind, old son. Where and when did the crime take place, and what motive induced you to kill the beautiful girl?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” protested Jim worriedly. “You asked about practice and I told you – ”

“‘All right.’ Quite so. But if ever a fellow had guilt written all over his phiz, you’re the fellow, Jim. You’ll have to do better than that when you face the jury!”

Jim managed a laugh. “Oh, I thought you were talking serious about something.” He sat down then, but he didn’t relax as he might have been expected to after as strenuous an afternoon’s work as he had put in. It became apparent to Clem that he was really uneasy, and probably about the visitor.

“If you’d rather not see that chap when he returns,” said Clem carelessly after a moment’s silence, “if he does return, I’ll send him away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was just some one trying to sell books or something, you know.”

“Yes,” replied Jim vaguely. “Thanks.” After a pause he added: “Guess I’d better see him, though.”

“Have your own way, but you won’t be seeing much. He struck me as – ”

But at that instant there was a knock on the door, a knock that had been preceded by no warning footfalls outside. “That’s probably he now,” said Clem. “Want me to – ”

But Jim had sprung up and was already at the door. He opened it no more than a foot, and from where Clem sat the visitor was invisible. “Hello,” said Jim. There was no pleasure in his voice, and Clem smiled even as his curiosity increased. There was a subdued response from beyond the portal which Clem couldn’t catch, and then: “But I asked you not to,” said Jim accusingly. “You ought to do like – ” Then Jim slipped through into the corridor and the door closed tightly behind him.

Clem pursed his lips and shook his head. “Now what the dickens?” he asked himself. “Mystery, by gum! Conspiracy even! And old Jim acting like the villain in ‘A Guilty Secret’! What do you know? Gosh, you never can tell about these innocent-looking chaps. Wonder what that cheap skate wants with Jim.” No sound came from the corridor. Probably the two had moved away from the door. Some five minutes passed, and Clem, staring into the darkening world, was watching the campus lights come on one by one and had forgotten Jim and his mysterious caller when the door opened once more.

Jim came in alone, thrusting the door back behind him. Clem said: “You might switch on the light if you don’t mind, Jim.” Jim did so, and the yellow radiance that still showed through the crack of the door and proclaimed the corridor lights going, paled. “Well,” continued Clem gayly, “did you have to pay him hush-money?” Then he saw Jim’s troubled and embarrassed countenance and the raillery died out of his voice, “What’s up?” he asked.

“Clem, I hate to ask you, but I – ” Jim stopped, gulped and went on. “Can you lend me five dollars, Clem?”

“Great Scott! Is that all it is?” Clem laughed with relief as he jumped up. “I thought murder had been done and you wanted me to help conceal the body! Five dollars? Ten if you want it, old son. I happen to be in funds just now.”

“Five will be plenty,” said Jim in a subdued tone. “I’ll give it back to you just as soon as I can, but maybe it won’t be this week, because – ”

“There’s no hurry at all, Jim, so don’t be so down-hearted.” He opened a drawer in his chiffonier, found a bunch of keys and then went to his closet. “We will now open the strong-box,” he continued as he pulled a black leather suit-case from the shelf. “Say, I hope you aren’t being blackmailed, old son,” he added, chuckling.

From the suit-case, which apparently held only a discarded shirt and two ancient tennis balls, he magically produced a folded envelope. This he took to the table and opened. From it came several bills and four gold coins. “You may have gold if you’d rather,” he laughed. “That’s Christmas money from last year and the year before. I’ve got an uncle who always comes across with two of those, and somehow they never get spent. I meant to put them in the bank before I came back, but forgot it and I found them in my trunk when I landed. Here you are, old son. Sure five’s enough? Here’s two more if you say the word; or you can have one of these lovely gold coins.”

“This is plenty,” said Jim earnestly, his voice low. “Thanks, Clem. It’s mighty good of you.” He disappeared once more and again the door closed tightly behind him. Clem stared in a puzzled way, then shrugged his shoulders, returned the four gold pieces and two crumpled dollar bills to the old envelope and tossed the latter back into the bag. Then he turned the key, placed the suit-case back on the shelf and dropped the key-ring into the drawer in the chiffonier. When he had rescued his book from the window-seat and pulled the curtains across the casements, Jim had returned to the room. He had paused inside the door, his back against it, and was staring thoughtfully at the floor. Then, before Clem thought of anything to say, he roused himself and came to the table.

“I guess you’re wondering about – about that fellow,” he said slowly, “and me lending him money.”

“Well, curiosity won’t hurt me,” answered Clem cheerfully. “It’s no affair of mine, Jim, and you don’t owe any explanations.”

“He’s a fellow I used to know pretty well,” Jim went on. “He – we used to live close together and he was always mighty good to me when I was a little codger. He’s been having trouble lately; out of work and the like of that, Clem; and he’s sort of lost hold, I guess. I ran across him yesterday afternoon on State street. He was looking for me to get a little money to carry him along. I gave him three dollars and a half. That’s all I had. That’s why I had to ask you for that five dollars just now.”

“I see. But that chap doesn’t expect you to lend him money right along, I hope. Eight dollars in two days is fairly steep, isn’t it?”

Jim nodded. “He said yesterday he was going to Norwalk. Said he had a job promised him there. But it seems he didn’t have enough money left this morning for his ticket. So he wanted me to lend him some more.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Clem. “Let’s hope he gets his job. To speak right out in meeting, Jim, I didn’t like his looks much, and his hands didn’t seem to me to show many signs of hard and honest labor. Also, if you’ll pardon me for seeming disrespect to a friend of yours – or, let us say, acquaintance – I thought I detected an aroma about him that – well, it wasn’t exactly the odor of sanctity, Jim.”

“Yes, I noticed it, too,” replied Jim sadly. “I guess he’s been sort of up against things and – and discouraged, Clem. He’s had no job for more than a month, he says. But I made him promise me he’d behave if I let him have that five. And I guess he will. He used to be such a nice fellow, Clem!”

“Too bad,” said Clem sympathetically. “Lost his grip, I suppose. Well, maybe he’ll land on his feet again. I dare say it’s not any too easy to keep straight, Jim, when you’re on your uppers. Don’t you think of paying back that five, old son, until you get it back from that fellow, no matter if it’s ten years from now. I don’t need it.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather pay it as soon as I get my allowance,” Jim protested. “That’ll be about ten days from now.”

“You’re a stubborn old Maineiac,” said Clem sadly, “but have your own way about it. Meanwhile, has it occurred to you that the time is twelve minutes past six and that if we want food we’d better get a move on us? Of course, you, being on the training table, don’t need to worry so much, but where I battle for sustenance it’s a case of first come, first get it! And,” added Clem, waving a towel as he made for the door, “there are those at my table who have no conscience at all where another man’s butter is concerned!”

CHAPTER XI
THE ART OF LINE PLAYING

On Wednesday a stranger appeared at practice. He was a large, broad-shouldered man of perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years, with a jovial voice and a pleasant smile. He wore a nondescript assortment of football togs among which was a blue sweater bearing a white Y. He did not, however, retain the sweater long, for five minutes after practice had started he was down by the farther goal in charge of a bunch of guards and tackles. With the sweater he seemed to have discarded the jovial voice and the pleasant smile. Presently the rumor spread that the stranger was one Myers, an Alton guard of some years before and, more recently, the Myers who had helped put Yale back on the football map. Also, rumor had it, he was to remain at Alton until the Kenly game and take charge of the linemen.

That afternoon Jim added not a little to his knowledge of playing in the line. Myers spent much time showing his charges how to stand, both on attack and defense. After Hick Powers, invited by the coach to take his position on attack, had set himself, Myers charged into him and sent him sprawling on his back. “There you are,” said Myers. “You were all right for a straight-on attack, but your feet were too much on a line for a side-swipe. You can’t always tell how the other fellow is going to come at you. Try it again. Spread wider. All right. Hold it! Not too much weight on your hand, though. Just steady yourself with your finger-tips. Now you fellows study that position. You see that this man is set so that no matter how I may come at him he’s got stability. This right foot is far enough behind the left so that I can’t throw him off his balance by going straight into him, and far enough to the right so that I can’t throw him to his left by charging him sidewise. All of you take that stance. You fourth chap there, bring that rear foot out more. That’s better. Now look at your feet and see how you’re standing. Got it? Good! One thing more before we drop the attack position. Don’t anchor yourself by putting your weight on your hands. What you are doing is taking the position of a sprinter, and the sprinter doesn’t put the weight of his upper body on his hands. If he did he’d do one of two things when the pistol barked; he’d either plunge forward on his face or he’d have to shift his weight back to his legs before he left the mark. You’re using that position because it’s the position that will get you into play quickest. But your weight must always be on your feet. Never use your fingers to more than steady yourself. Myself, I like to put only one hand to the ground. I let my left hand point back. It seems to me that it helps me start. But that’s not important. Use both hands if it seems better for you. Only, and I’m repeating this purposely, don’t get anchored. And when I say put the weight on the feet, I don’t mean, of course, that you’re to distribute the weight evenly. The front foot carries most of the weight. It sets flat on the ground. The rear foot holds the ground only with the ball and the toes. But you know that, even if you don’t know that you know it!”

“Now let’s take the position on defense. The other side has the ball. Show me now. Not bad, the most of you. Several of you are too high. Remember this, fellows. Up and forward is the direction, not just forward. You must come from below and push upward first. Then forward. Up and forward! Remember that. Ever see a clay pigeon released from a trap? Well, that’s the way you fellows ought to charge. Just as though some one had released a spring and sent you straight and hard into the air. Straddle well, keep your head up, hold your arms wide and your hands open and then snap! Don’t go at it like a crane lifting a block of stone, slow and steady. Don’t try any tank warfare. Speed, fellows! Get the jump every time! Drive into him from below and push him up and back, and do it before he can throw his weight to meet you. And when you charge know what you’re going to do, where you’re going to apply your power. Be ready with your hands. They’ll get there before your body. And then don’t stride forward. Use the short, quick crawling steps you’ve been taught. Then you’ll get the power from low down. But if you don’t keep your back straight that power, originating in your legs, won’t reach your arms. There’ll be a break in the line of transmission. Now, then, let’s try it. Set wide and get steady. Elbows out, hands ready. Go! Not bad. You fellow with the long legs, you make your steps too long. Duck-walk it. This way. Waddle – waddle – waddle! See? Try it again. Better. All right for that. One more thing, though. Don’t neglect to hog every inch the officials will let you get away with. Your hand, the left if you use it to balance with, the right if you use but one, will be in advance of every portion of your body except your head. Find out how far forward you can set your hand without bringing your head beyond your scrimmage line and always put it there. The difference of even six inches counts. Now we’ll see how much you remember. Let’s have two lines here. I’ll snap the ball. This side’s attacking. Now remember that position first. All right. Get down to it. Here we go!”

Afterwards, during the thirty minutes’ scrimmage with the scrubs, Myers dogged the first team every moment. “Keep your back straight, right guard! Lock it! Watch your feet, right tackle! That’s not the way I showed you, not by a long sight! You played too high, left guard! You let your man under you! Charge from below! Great jumpin’ Judas! Use your hands, center! That man ought never to have got through!” And so it went, with Coach Cade making life merry for the backs, Captain Gus doing a little criticizing on his own hook and the quarter imploring the gray empyrean for just one man who could keep his signals straight! Jim played a long session that Wednesday afternoon, and he finished with the suspicion that football practice, as the season neared its climax, was going to be something quite different from anything he had imagined. But he was going to like it. He knew that!

That evening coaches and players met again in Mr. Cade’s quarters and a long session developed. Jim was not among the eight or nine players invited, and he spent most of the evening going over the affairs of the Maine-and-Vermont Society, which, with a present membership of nearly forty, was in flourishing condition. Last of all, he wrote politely imperative reminders to delinquent members on Clem’s small typewriter. Jim was not an accomplished typist and he spent a good deal more time than he would have consumed had he written the notes by hand. But there is no denying that the typed results possessed a certain air of authority that Jim’s sprawling writing would have failed to attain, and this in spite of many erasures and several misspelled words. Clem came back while Jim was still struggling with the envelopes and offered advice of no value and laughed immoderately at the way Jim’s tongue stuck out when he was hunting for what he called the “pedals.” Jim finally ended his task and assembled the half-dozen missives atop his chiffonier for delivery on the morrow, looking not a little triumphant.

“Aren’t you going to put stamps on them?” asked Clem from the depths of his arm-chair.

“Stamps cost money,” replied Jim, shaking his head. “I’m my own postman.”

“That’s a swell society! Doesn’t allow the secretary money for postage!”

“Yes, it does, but the secretary has good legs,” countered Jim. “It’s no trouble to dump these things in the letter boxes in the halls as I go by. You see, Clem, I was brought up economical!”

“That so?” Clem yawned and began to unlace a shoe. “Maybe they don’t have stamps in Maine. I suppose when you write a letter at home, Jim, you put your snowshoes on and hike across country with it, eh? Say, talking of societies, how would you like to join Janus?”

“Me?” said Jim. “That the one you belong to? What’s it cost?”

“Not much. Anyway, a fellow doesn’t generally ask the cost of joining, old son; he looks grateful and kisses his benefactor’s hand. Janus, Jim, is – well, it’s Janus. ’Nough said. If you belong to Janus you’re made for life.”

“Huh,” said Jim, “that’s what you hear about all of ’em. Guess it’s too high for my pocket-book, Clem. Much obliged, though.”

“Don’t be a goof! This, old son, is one of life’s fine moments. Why, dog my cats, you’re only the third senior that’s ever been proposed. Either you make it in your junior year or you don’t make it at all.”

“Mean that I’ve been proposed? Who did it? You?”

“Exactly. And I don’t think there’s any doubt about you getting through. Hang it, show a little enthusiasm, you cold-blooded fish! Don’t you understand you’re being honored? Say ‘Hooray!’”

“Yeah, but, honest, Clem, I don’t believe I could afford it. I’m sort of hard-up right now, and I guess likely I’ll be that way for some time.”

“Well, but I thought – It’s none of my business, Jim, but isn’t your father pretty comfortable?”

Jim shook his head. “No, he isn’t, Clem. Not lately. I guess you don’t know what a hard time country folks have nowadays, farmers especially. They can’t get money for what they raise like they could a few years ago. Up our way most farmers raise potatoes for their main crop, but they’re a good ways from the market and lots of times it don’t pay ’em to ship ’em. Right on our place I’ve seen more than two hundred bushels raised on a little piece of ground and piled in the cellar, and they’d be there, most of ’em, in the Spring. After you’d paid for bags and carting and freight to Boston and commission to the produce man you’d be out of pocket. Same way with hogs and most everything else now. There’s money in lumber, but it’s the fellows in the cities gets it. When folks haven’t got money to spend, they don’t spend it, and dad’s business ain’t very good any more. The only way I could come back here this year was by earning some money last summer. That’s why I went to that sporting camp. You see, I could have gone to college this Fall if I’d been willing to. I’d have had a couple of conditions, though, and I thought it would be better to come here another year. Besides, I – I got to liking Alton pretty well, and when you wrote you were willing to let me come in with you I just made up my mind I’d put in another year here. But I couldn’t very well ask dad to pay for all of it. I made enough at the camp to pay my tuition, and dad he allows me ten dollars a month for extras and spending money. Now I’m in debt to you five dollars, Clem, and I’ve got to go sort of careful or I won’t have enough money to get home Christmas time.”

“That’s kind of tough,” mused Clem. “Funny, but I had an idea that your folks were pretty well fixed. Anyhow, don’t you worry about getting home, old son. There’s still money in the strong-box!”

“I’d borrow if I found I had to, I guess,” said Jim, “but I guess I won’t have to. Giving that money to Webb – the fellow who was up here the other day, you know, – sort of put me short, but now he’s gone I guess I won’t – ”

“Gosh! That reminds me, Jim! I’d nearly forgotten it. Say, I don’t believe he has gone, that guy. This afternoon I’ll swear I saw him on West street. Or if it wasn’t him it was his double. I didn’t have a very good look at him, for he was going into that cigar store next to the express office, but it sure looked like him, clothes and all!”

Jim looked worried. “Maybe it was just some fellow who looked like Webb,” he said. But his tone lacked conviction. “He promised me he’d go to Norwalk the next morning, and I’d be right sorry to find he hadn’t. Besides – ” Jim didn’t finish the sentence.

“Well, you should worry,” said Clem cheerfully. “If he comes around here again just you hand him over to me, old son. I’ve got a system with pan-handlers and book agents and their ilk. How’s that for a word? ‘Ilk’! I’ll say that’s cute!”

But Clem couldn’t get Jim to smile. “It wouldn’t do him any good to come to me again,” he said soberly. “I haven’t got any more money. I do wish, though, he’d gone like he said he would. That is, if he ain’t.”

“Probably he has,” replied Clem encouragingly. “I dare say I was just fooled by a resemblance, Jim. After all, there’s quite a bunch of fellows of his style around town since they started the new factory up.” Secretly, though, Clem was convinced that he had not been mistaken, and two days later that conviction was strengthened.

Presently, returning to the original subject of discourse, he said: “About coming into Janus, Jim. Suppose you just let it rest for a while. There’s no great rush in the matter, anyway. I’ll let your name go over the next meeting. That will give you time to think it over. The expense isn’t much anyway. I’d tell you exactly, only it’s against the rules to give out information of any sort. You take a couple of weeks and think it over. I want you to come in if you can possibly do it, old son, so don’t say no now.”

So Jim didn’t say no. He merely shook his head and, so to speak, laid the question on the table. After that, while Clem, propped against his pillow, read in bed, Jim took his football from the closet shelf, snuggled it lovingly in his lap and started all over again on the rules book. When Clem’s book dropped from his hand and he turned over and closed his eyes, his room-mate was still fondling the ball and frowning over the apparent intricacies of the following: “Players of the side which did not put the ball in play may use (1) their hands and arms to push opponents out of the way in order to get at the ball and (2) their bodies or their arms close to the body to obstruct opponents who are going down the field from getting at a player of their own side who is endeavoring to get at the ball.”

Jim rubbed a hand across his eyes and read it again. There were, he thought, too many “get ats.” Maybe, though, he was too sleepy to – yes, to “get at” the sense. He’d try it again to-morrow.