On that fateful Thursday morning every High School boy, and nearly every High School girl saw “The Blade.”

The morning paper, however, contained no allusion whatever to the football remarks of the day before.

Instead, there was an article descriptive of the changes to be made out at the High School athletic field this present year, and there were points and “dope” (as the sporting parlance phrases it) concerning the records and rumored new players of other High School elevens that were anxious to meet Gridley on the gridiron this coming season.

Thursday’s article was just the kind of a one that was calculated to make every football enthusiast eager to see the season open in full swing.

Again the “soreheads” came to school, and once more they had to pass the silent groups of their fellow students, who stood with heads turned away.  The reign of Coventry seemed complete.  Never before had any of the “soreheads” understood so thoroughly the meaning of loneliness.

At recess all the talk was of football.  None of this talk, however, was heard by the “soreheads.”  Whenever any of these went near the other groups the talk ceased instantly.  There was no comfort in the yard, that morning, for a “sorehead.”

When school let out that afternoon, at one o’clock, Bayliss, Fremont, Dodge and their kind scurried off fast.  No one offered to stop them.  These “exclusive” young men could not get away from the fact that exclusion was freely accorded them.

Fred Ripley, as had been his wont in other years when he was a freshman, walked homeward with Clara Deane.

“Fred, you haven’t got yourself mixed up at all with that ‘sorehead’ crowd, have you?” Miss Deane asked.

“Not much!” replied Fred, with emphasis.  “I want to play football this year.”

“Will all the ‘soreheads’ be kept out of the eleven, even if they come to their senses?” Clara inquired.

“Now, really, you’ll have to ask me an easier one than that,” replied Fred Ripley laughingly.

“I had an idea that all of the fellows whose families are rather comfortably well off might be in the movement –­or the strike or whatever you call it,” Clara replied.

“Oh, no; there’s a lot of us who haven’t gone in with the kickers –­and glad we are of it,” Fred replied.

“Still, don’t you believe in any importance attaching to the fact that one comes of one of the rather good old families?” asked Clara Deane thoughtfully.

“Why, of course, it’s something to be quietly proud of,” Fred slowly assented.  Then added, with a quick laugh: 

“But the events of the last two days show that one should keep his pride buttoned in behind his vest.”

As for the “soreheads” themselves, there weren’t any more meetings.  As soon as they actually began to realize how much amused contempt many of the Gridley, people felt for them, these young men began to feel rather disgusted with themselves.

Across the street, and not far from the gymnasium building, was an apartment house in which two apartments were vacant.  Being well acquainted with the agent, Bayliss borrowed the key to one of the apartments.  Before half past two that afternoon, Bayliss and Dodge were in hiding, where they could look out through a movable shutter at the gymnasium building.

“There go Prescott, Darrin and Reade,” Bayliss soon reported.

“Oh, of course; they’ll answer the football call,” sniffed Dodge.  “It was over fellows just like them that the whole trouble started.”

“And there’s Dalzell, Hazelton and Hanshew.  Griffith is just behind them.”

“Yes; all muckers,” nodded Dodge.

“There’s Coach Morton.”

“Of course; he has to attend,” replied Dodge, coming toward the shuttered window.  “But I’ll wager old Morton isn’t feeling over-happy this afternoon.”

“I don’t know,” grumbled Bayliss.  “There he is at the gym. door, shaking hands with Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin, and laughing pretty heartily.”

“Laughing to keep his courage up, I reckon,” clicked Bert Dodge dryly.  “Morton knows he’s going to miss a lot of faces that he’d like to see there this year.”

Then Dodge took up post at the peephole, while Bayliss stepped back, yawning.

Several more football aspirants neared and entered the gym.  The name of each was called off by Bert.

“This is the first year,” chuckled Bayliss, “when Gridley hasn’t had a chance for a star eleven.”

“I’ll miss the game, myself, like fury,” commented Dodge.  “All through last season, when I played on the second eleven, I was looking forward to this year.”

“Now, don’t you go to getting that streak, and quit us,” warned Bayliss quickly.  “Our set is going to get up its own eleven; don’t forget that!  And we’re going to play some famous games.”

“Sure!” admitted Dodge.  But there was a choke in his throat.

Just a few moments later Bert Dodge gave a violent start, then cried out, in a voice husky with emotion: 

“Hudson!”

“What about him?”

“Quick!”

“Well, you ninny,”

With a cry partly of doubting, partly of rage, Bayliss leaped forward, crowding out Dodge in order to get a better view.

Hudson was actually ascending the gym. steps, and going up as though he meant business.

“He’s gone over to –­to –­them!” gasped Bert Dodge.

“The mean traitor!” hissed Bayliss.

Hudson did, indeed, brave it out by going straight on into the gym.  As he entered some of the fellows already there glared at him dubiously.  But Hudson met the look bravely.

“Hullo!” cried Dick.  “There’s Hudson!”

Coach Morton heard, from another part of the gym.  Turning around, the coach greeted tile reformed ‘sorehead’ with a nod and a smile.  Then some of the fellows spoke to Hudson as that young man moved by them.  In a few moments more, Hudson began to feel almost at home among his own High School comrades.

Then Drayne, another ‘sorehead,’ showed up.  He, too, was treated as though nothing had happened.  When Trenholm, still another of the “soreheads,” looked in at the gym., he appeared very close to being afraid.  When he saw Hudson and Drayne there he hastened forward.  By and by Grayson came in.  At the window across the street Bayliss and Dodge had checked off all four of these “deserters” and “traitors.”

“Well, they’ll play, anyway –­either on school or on second,” muttered Bert, to himself.  “Oh, dear!  Just think the way things have turned out.”

These four deserters from the “soreheads” were all out of that very select crowd who did respond to the football call.

Promptly at three o’clock Coach Morton called for order.  Then, after a very few remarks, he called for the names of all who intended to enter the football training squad for this season.

“And let every fellow who thinks he’s lazy, or who doesn’t like to train hard and obey promptly, keep his name off the list,” warned the coach dryly.  “I’ve come to the conclusion that what we need in this squad is Army discipline.  We’re going to have it this year!  Now, young gentlemen, come along with your names –­those of you who really believe you can stand Spartan training.”

“I think I might draw the line at having the fox –­or was it a wolf –­gnawing at my entrails, as one Spartan had to take it,” laughed one youngster.

“Guess again, or you’d better stay off the squad this year,” laughed the coach.  “This is going to be a genuinely rough season for all weaklings.”

There was a quick making up of the roll.

“Tomorrow afternoon, at three sharp, you’ll all report on the athletic field,” announced Coach Morton, when he had finished writing down the names.  “Any man who fails to show up tomorrow afternoon will have his name promptly expunged from the squad rolls.  No excuses will be accepted for failure tomorrow.”

There was a crispness about that which some of the fellows didn’t like.

“Won’t a doctor’s certificate of illness go?” asked one fellow laughingly.

“It will go –­not,” retorted coach.  “Pill-takers and fellows liable to chills aren’t wanted on this year’s team, anyway.  Now, young gentlemen, I’m going to give you a brief talk on the general art of taking care of yourselves, and the art of keeping yourselves in condition.”

The talk that followed seemed to Dick Prescott very much like a repetition of what Coach Luce had said to them the winter before, at the commencement of indoor training for baseball.

As he finished talking on health and condition Mr. Morton drew from one of his pockets a bunch of folded papers.

“I am now,” he continued, “going to present to each one of you a set of rules, principles, guides –­call them what you will.  On this paper each one of you will find laid down rules that should be burned into the memories of all young men who aspire to play football.  Do not lose your copies of these rules.  Read the rules over again and again.  Memorize them!  Above all, put every rule into absolute practice.”

Then, at a sign, the young men passed before the coach to receive their printed instructions.

“Something new you’ve gotten up, Mr. Morton?” inquired one of the fellows.

“No,” the coach admitted promptly.  “These rules aren’t original with me.  I ran across ’em, and I’ve had them printed, by authority from the Athletics Committee.  I wish I had thought up a set of rules as good.”

As fast as they received their copies each member of the squad darted away to read the rules through.  This is what each man found on the printed sheet: 

"1.  Work hard and be alive.
  2.  Work hard and learn the rules.
  3.  Work hard and learn the signals.
  4.  Work hard and keep on the jump.
  5.  Work hard and have a nose for the ball.
  6.  Work hard all the time.  Be on speaking terms with the ball
every minute.
  7.  Work hard and control your temper and tongue.
  8.  Work hard and don’t quit when you’re tackled.  Hang onto the ball.
  9.  Work hard and get your man before he gets started.  Get him
before the going gets goo.  Work hard and keep your speed.  If you’re falling behind
your condition is to blam.  Work hard and be on the job all the time, a little faster, a
little sandier, a little more rugged than the day befor.  Work hard and keep your eyes and ears open and your head u.  Work hard and pull alone the man with the ball.  This isn’t a
game of solitair.  Work hard and be on time at practice every day.  Train faithfully. 
Get your lessons.  Aim to do your part and to make yourself a
perfect part of the machine.  Be a gentleman.  If the combination
is too much for you, turn in your togs and call around during
croquet season."

“What do you think of that, as expounding the law of football?” smiled coach, looking down over Dave Darrin’s shoulder.

“It doesn’t take long to read, Mr. Morton And it ought not to take long to memorize these fourteen rules.  But to live them, through and through, and up and down –­that’s going to take a lot of thought and attention.”

To the four ex-"soreheads” not a word had been said about the late unpleasantness, nor was this quartette any longer in Coventry.

Trenholm, Grayson, Drayne and Hudson were the four best football men of the Bayliss-Dodge faction.  Now that they were to play with the High School eleven all concerned felt wholly relieved.

As the young men were leaving the gym. that afternoon Coach Morton found a chance to grip Dick’s arm and to whisper lightly in his ear: 

“Thank you, Prescott.”

“For what, Mr. Morton.”

“Why, for what you managed to do to hold the school eleven together.  That was clever newspaper work, Prescott.  And it has helped the school a lot.  I’m no longer uneasy about Gridley High School on the gridiron for this season.  We’ll have a team now!”

With a confident nod the coach strolled away.

As the gym. doors were thrown open the members of the new football squad rushed out with joyous whoops.  Some of the more mischievous or spirited actually tackled unsuspicious comrades, toppling their victims over to the ground.  That line of tactics resulted in many a “chase” that brought out some remarkably good sprinting talent.  Thus the squad dissipated itself like the mist, and soon the grounds near the school were deserted.

Bayliss and Bert Dodge went away to nurse a grievance that nothing seemed to cure.

For these two, now that their strong line of resistance had been broken, found themselves secretly longing, as had the four deserters, for a place in the football squad.

Bert Dodge sulked along to school, alone that Friday morning.  Bayliss, however, after a night of wakefulness, had decided to “eat crow.”

So, as Dick, Dave and Greg Holmes were strolling along schoolward, Bayliss overhauled them.

“Good morning, fellows,” he called, briskly, with an offhand attempt at geniality.

All three of the chums looked up at him, then glanced away again.

“Oh, I say, now, don’t keep it up,” coaxed Bayliss.  “We High School fellows all want to be decent enough friends.  And how’s the football?  I don’t suppose the squad is full yet.  I –­I half believe I may join and take a little practice.”

“Thinking of it?” asked Dick, looking up coolly.

“Yes –­really,” replied Bayliss.

“See the coach, then; he’s running the squad.”

“Yes; I guess I will, thanks.  Good morning!”

Bayliss sauntered along, blithely whistling a tune.  He knew Coach Morton would give him the glad hand of welcome for the squad and the team.

“Oh, Mr. Morton,” was Bayliss’s greeting, as he encountered the coach near the school building steps.

“Yes?” asked the submaster pleasantly.

“I –­I –­er –­I didn’t make the meeting yesterday afternoon, but I guess you might put my name down for the squad.”

“Isn’t this a bit late, Bayliss?” asked the submaster, eyeing the youth keenly.

“At its meeting, last night, Mr. Bayliss, the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association advised me to consider the squad list closed.”

“No more additions will be made to the squad this year,” replied the coach quietly, then going inside.

Bayliss stood on the steps, a picture of humiliation and amazement.

“Fellows,” gasped Bayliss, as Prescott and his two chums came along, “did you hear that?  Football list closed?”

“Want some advice?” asked Dick, halting for an instant.

“Yes,” begged Bayliss.

“Never kick a sore toe against a stone wall,” quoth Dick Prescott, and passed on into the school building.