Left End Edwards

And when Steve had tried it over, Marvin glanced at him sharply. It seemed to him that for almost the first time the candidate had really tried! He hadn't made a clean tackle, but he had profited by the instruction that had been heaped upon him for two weeks, and little Marvin mentally patted himself on the back and was very pleased with himself, for Marvin, although he would probably never play through a big game, and knew it, was as unselfishly devoted to the interests of the team as any fellow there.

"That's a heap better, Edwards," he said eagerly. "Now see if you can't do it just right the next time."

After that it seemed to Marvin that Steve tried harder and it seemed to Steve that the little quarter-back was more appreciative. On Tuesday, as the squad jogged away from the tackling pit, Marvin said:

"Edwards, let me see you after practice, will you?"

Steve, assenting, examined Marvin's face doubtfully. A week ago he would have expected trouble from such a request, but to-day Marvin's face held only good-will and a sort of eager friendliness, and while Steve wondered more than once during the remainder of practice what Marvin wanted of him he had no unpleasant forebodings.

There was to be a game on the morrow, the only mid-week contest of the season, and the first squad was released early. That gave Coach Robey a chance to give undivided attention to the second and third and he made the most of it. He and Andy Miller, the latter trailing a grey blanket after him, joined the third squad when the first team and substitutes had trotted away to the gymnasium and at once displayed a flattering but embarrassing interest. The Third was practising signals, eleven men in the line-up and two or three more following and watching. Marvin was driving them from a position at the rear, occasionally darting into the line, to correct a fault or illustrate a play. Unfortunately, Carmine, who was at quarter, noticed the coach's advent and immediately got flustered. When two plays had gone wrong Mr. Robey said:

"Marvin, you get in there and play quarter for a minute and give that man a chance to remember his signals. You come back here and look on, son."

After that the squad ran through plays with vim and snap. Now and then there was a mix-up, but the signals went pretty well. After each play the coach or Captain Miller, or sometimes both, criticised and explained. The plays were few and simple; straight plunges by the backs with an occasional forward pass; but almost every time the critics found some fault to correct. Steve was playing at left tackle, fighting valiantly against an imaginary opponent, and once, trotting back to his position after a short charge over the turf, he caught the eyes of Andy and Mr. Robey fixed on him speculatively. He hoped as he settled down again and listened for the signals that Captain Miller had not told the coach of that visit on Saturday night! He wanted to forget that himself and he wanted Andy Miller to forget it.

"That'll be all, Marvin," said Mr. Robey presently. He clapped his hands. "Everyone in, please!" he called. The players flocked to the bench and picked up sweaters and blankets, while Mr. Robey and Andy conversed over the coach's little black book. Finally: "We'll have a short scrimmage, fellows," he announced. "Second squad take the east goal and kick off to the third. Pick out your men, Brownell. You too, Marvin. Who do you want to start?"

It was the first scrimmage for the third squad fellows and they raced on eagerly. Steve was sent in as left tackle again and Tom beside him at guard. The pigskin soared away from the toe of a second squad forward, was gathered in by a third squad half-back near the twenty-yard line and was down five yards further on. "Line up, Third!" piped Carmine shrilly. "Give it to 'em hard now!"

There wasn't the finished skill displayed by the 'varsity team, but there was enough enthusiasm to almost make up for the lack of science. Back came the ball, the forwards sprang together, a half darted past right tackle, spinning like a top, faltered, went on, was stopped short by the Second's backs and borne back, grunting "Down! Down!" with all the breath left in his body.

"Second down!" proclaimed Joe Lawrence, the manager, jumping into the mêlée. "Six to go."

Mr. Robey and Andy Miller followed the teams closely, watching and shouting directions, the coach on the third squad side and Andy behind the second.

"Good work, you fellow!" applauded Andy, darting up to slap the half on the back and send him back to his place breathless but grinning. "That's the way to do it! Now, then, once more. You've got six to go. Let me see you get it. Play lower, you fellows in the line! Get down there! Lift 'em and throw 'em back! That's the ticket!"

But the gain was scant and Carmine walked back to kick.

"Get through and block this!" panted the second's quarter, dodging back and forth for a likely opening.

"You fellow on the end there!" cried Andy. "Play back further and stop that tackle!"

"Watch for a forward pass!" warned a second squad back. "Spread out, Billy!"

"Hold 'em!" shouted Carmine.

Then came the signals, back sped the ball—a poor pass—the second came tearing through, Carmine dropped the ball and swung his leg and away it floated. A second squad back caught it near the side-line, tucked it under his arm and started back. The third squad's right end had been blocked and now, eager to make up for lost time, he overran and missed his tackle entirely and the second's back came speeding up the field near the side-line, a hastily-formed interference guarding him well. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty, and then Carmine wormed through and brought the runner to earth.

"That's one on you, right end," said Andy sternly. "You got boxed to the king's taste that time. Now, third, see what you can do on the defence."

"Draw your line in, Carmine," called Marvin. "Look where you are, man! The ball's almost on the twenty yards! Peters, close up there! Now push 'em back, third!"

"Who's that right end, Dick?" asked Andy of Marvin.

"Chap named Holt. He isn't very good."

"How would it do to try Edwards there? He looks clever."

"That's his position, Andy, but the kid can't tackle. I'll give him a try, though. That's rotten, third! Blaisdell, where were you then? For the love of mud, man, watch the ball! Five yards right through you! Now get back there and stop them!"

"Second down, five to go," called Lawrence. "You left end on the second, you were off-side then. Next time I'll penalise you. Watch out for it."

"Same formation!" piped the second's quarter. "Make it good, fellows! Let's score now!"

"Hold 'em, third! Don't give 'em an inch. Get down there, Peters!"

"Third down!" called Lawrence a moment later. "You've got three and a half to go, second!"

"That's the stuff!" cried Carmine jubilantly, dealing blows of approval on the bent backs of the forwards. "That's the way to stop 'em! Now once more, third!"

Then, "Fourth down and a yard and a half to go," announced Lawrence.

"Kick formation!" called the attacking quarter. "Simmons back!"

"Block this! Block it! Get through now, fellows!"

"Hold hard there, second!" There was a moment of silence. Then the ball shot back. Simmons caught it waist-high, dropped it, kicked and went down under the charge of the desperate second squad players. But the ball sailed over the cross-bar and the second had scored.

"That'll do, Holt," said Marvin. "Edwards, you play right end. Saunders!" A substitute struggled out of his sweater and came racing on. "Go in at left tackle, Saunders. Pearse, you'd better kick off."

The game went on, the second squad bringing the pigskin back twelve yards on the kick-off and then hammering through for fifteen more before the third forced them to punt. Carmine caught on his thirty-five yards, made a short gain and was downed. Twice the third got through for a yard or two and then Carmine again fell back to kick. This time the pass was a good one and Carmine got off an excellent punt that went over the head of the opposing quarter-back and bobbed along toward the goal. The left half scuttled to his assistance and, when the ball was in the quarter's arms, threw himself in front of the first of the foe. But that particular adversary was canny. He twisted aside, leaped over the stumbling half and dived for the runner. It was a poor tackle and the man with the ball struggled on for three yards after he was caught, but the ball was down on the second's twenty-seven yards, and Steve, picking himself up from the recumbent enemy, heard Marvin shouting: "A rotten tackle, Edwards, but fine work down the field!" And, "Good stuff, you end!" approved the coach, while Tom, beaming, patted him ungently on the back.

The scrimmage was over a minute later, and, although the second had triumphed by that goal from the field, the third trotted back to the gymnasium feeling very well pleased with themselves. They had had their baptism by fire and had acquitted themselves well. Steve and Tom, panting but happy, had almost reached the gymnasium when Steve recollected his engagement with Marvin.

"I've got to go back," he said in dismay. "I promised Marvin to see him after practice."

"There he comes now," said Tom, nodding toward where the little quarter was approaching with Mr. Robey and Andy Miller. Steve stopped beside the path and Tom fell back to wait for him.

"I forgot you wanted me to wait, Marvin," said Steve apologetically, as the trio came up.

"Oh, that's all right, Edwards. I forgot myself. Another day will do just as well. I didn't know we were to have scrimmage to-day."

"You keep up that stuff you showed to-day, Edwards," said Mr. Robey, "and we'll have you on the second the first thing you know." Then his glance passed Steve to Tom. "You too, Hall. I watched you. You're doing well. Keep it up."

The three went on, and Steve and Tom silently followed. Neither spoke until they reached the steps. Then,

"I'm awfully glad," said Tom.

"So am I," replied Steve heartily. "Bet you you'll make the second before the week is out."

"I meant about you, Steve," said Tom simply.

CHAPTER XII

CANTERBURY ROMPS ON—AND OFF

But existence at Brimfield Academy wasn't all football, by any means, nor all fun. There was a lot of hard work mixed up with the play, and both Steve and Tom found that an immense amount of study was required of them. They each had thirty recitations a week, and in both Greek and Latin their preparation at high school had, not unnaturally, been deficient. That meant hard sledding for a while. Tom realised the fact before Steve would, and so spared himself some trouble. Steve resented the extra study necessary and for the first fortnight or so trusted to luck to get him through. And for a time luck stood by him. He had a way of looking wise in class that imposed for a while on "Uncle Sim," as Mr. Simkins was called, but after Steve had fallen down three or four times the instructor scented the truth of the matter and then Steve's life became a burden to him. Mr. Simkins took delight, it seemed, in calling on him at the most unexpected moments until, one day, in sheer desperation, Steve gave utterance to the answer "not prepared." That was to Uncle Sim what a red rag is to a bull! There was a scathing dressing-down then and there, followed by a visit that evening from Mr. Daley. Steve was secretly uneasy, for more than one story of summary justice on the part of the Greek and Latin instructor had reached him, but he presented a careless front to the Hall Master. Mr. Daley was plainly eager to help, but, as usual, he was embarrassed and nervous, and Steve, who had taken a mild dislike to him, resented his interference.