If Dodge and Bayliss devoted any time to farewells among their late fellow-students before quitting Gridley the fact did not seem to leak out.

Yet despite the absence of two young men who considered themselves of such great importance the Gridley High School appeared to go on about the same as ever.

It was the season of football, and nearly of the school’s interest and enthusiasm seemed to spend itself in that direction.  Coach Morton did all in his power to push the team on to perfection; the other teachers worked harder than ever to keep the interest of the students sufficiently on their studies.  The girls, as well as the boys, suffered from the infection of the gridiron microbe.

Five more games with other High School teams were fought out, and now Gridley had an unbroken record of victories so far for the season.

Such a history can often be built up in the athletics of a High School, but it has to be a school attended by the cream of young manhood and having an abundance of public interest and enthusiasm behind it all.

Not at any time in the season did Coach Morton allow the training work to slacken.  Regularly the entire squad turned out for field work.  If the afternoon proved to be stormy, then four blasts on the city fire alarm, at either two o’clock or two-thirty, notified the young men that they were to report at the gym. instead.  There, the work, though different, was just as severe.  The result was that every youngster in the squad “reeked” with good condition all through the season.

It is in just this respect that many a High School eleven fails to “make really good.”  In a team where discipline is lax some of the fellows are sure to rebel at spending “all their time training.”  Where the coach exercises too limited authority, or when he is too “easy,” the team’s record is sure to suffer in consequence.  Many a High School eleven comes out a tail-ender just because the coach is not strict enough, or cannot be.  Many a team composed of naturally husky and ambitious boys fails on account of a light-weight coach.  On the other hand, the best coach in the country can’t make a winning eleven out of fellows who won’t work or be disciplined.

Coach Morton’s authority was unbounded.  After the team had been organized for the season it took action by the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association to drop a man from the team.  But coach and captain could drop the offender back to the “sub” seats and keep him there.  Moreover, it was well known that Mr. Morton’s recommendation that a certain young man be dropped was all the hint that the Athletics Committee needed.

Under failing health, or when duties prevented full attention to football training, a member of the team was allowed to resign.  But an offending member couldn’t resign.  He was dropped, and in the eyes of the whole student body being dropped signified deep disgrace.

In five out of the won games Dick Prescott had played left end, and without accident.  Yet, as it was wholly possible that he might be laid up at any instant, the coach was assiduously training Dan Dalzell and Tom Reade to play at either end of the line.  Other subs were rigorously trained for other positions, but Dan and Tom were regarded as the very cream of the sub players in the light-weight positions.

Dan had played left end in one of the lesser gables, and had shown himself a swift, brilliant gridironist, though he was not quite as crafty as Prescott.

Tom Reade had less of strategy than Dan but relied more upon great bursts of speed and in the sheer ability to run away from impending tackle.

Now the boys were training for the team’s eighth game, the one to be played against the Hepburn Falls High School, a strong organization.

“Remember that a tie saves the record, but that it doesn’t look as well as a winning,” Coach Morton coaxed the squad dryly, as they started in for afternoon practice.

“We miss the mascot that the earlier High School teams used to have,” remarked Hudson.

“Yes?  What was it?” inquired coach.

“Why, bully old Dr. Thornton used to drop in for a few minutes, ’most every practice afternoon?” replied Hudson.  “I can remember just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in then.  Oh, he was a mascot –­Dr. Thornton was!”

Coach Morton was of the same mind, but he didn’t say so, as it would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular principal, Abner Cantwell.

This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly.  One of these was the kicking of the ball.

After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out: 

“Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line.  When you get there name your shot –­that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball.  Where doesn’t matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one.  After you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field.  From there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named.”

“All right, sir,” nodded Dick.  Tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line.

“Right over there!” called Dick, pointing.  “I’ll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance.”

“Very good, Prescott!”

No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved.

“The duffers!  They needn’t think I am going to hit them with the ball,” muttered Dick.  Then he started on a hard run.

Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball.

It was a hard, fast drive.  The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high.

But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt.  A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage.  His head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball.

And that man was Principal Cantwell!

Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe.

Dick saw and half shivered.  Yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was: 

“Low bridge!”

Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only: 

“Mr. Cantwell!”

“Eh?” asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him.

Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best.  He wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat.  In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years.  But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style.

There was no time for more warning.

The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat.

Bump!  The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal’s head.

On sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing to run upside down.

R-r-r-rip!  The force with which the football was traveling impaled the hat on a picket at the side of the stand.  Then, as if satisfied with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing at the principal’s feet.

For one moment Mr. Cantwell was dumb with amazement.

Then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy of his loss.  The angered man went white with wrath.

“What ruffian did that!” he roared.

But the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted though half-suppressed “whoop!” and now came running to the spot.

“Who kicked my hat off?” demanded the principal, pointing tragically to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of which the picket now stood up as though in triumph.

“You –­you got in the way of –­the ball, sir,” explained Drayne, trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter.

“But some one kicked the ball my way,” insisted the principal, with utter sternness.  “Don’t tell me that no one did!  That football could not By through the air without some one propelling it.  Now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?”

“I did, Mr. Cantwell,” admitted Dick, pushing his way through the throng.  “And I’m very sorry that anything like this has happened, sir.”

“On, you did it, oh?” demanded the principal, eyeing the young man witheringly.  “And you actually expect an apology to restore my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?”

“I didn’t know you were there, sir,” Dick explained.  “You didn’t appear until just after I had kicked the ball.”

“Prescott is quite right, Mr. Cantwell,” put in Coach Morton.  “None of us knew you were here in the passage until the ball had been kicked –­not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon you.”

“Then, when you saw me, why didn’t you call out to warn me?” demanded the principal, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back unparliamentary language.

“I did call out, sir,” replied Dick.  “There was mighty little time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could think of.”

“What did you call?” demanded the principal.

“I yelled ‘low bridge!’”

“A most idiotic expression,” snorted the principal.  “What on earth does it mean, anyway?”

“It means to duck, sir,” Prescott answered.

“Duck?” retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end.  “Now, what on earth does ‘duck’ mean, unless you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?”

“Prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, Mr. Cantwell,” interposed Coach Morton.  “So was I –­the time was so short.  All I could think of as to call out to you by name.”

“With the result that I looked your way –­ and lost my row hat,” snapped the principal.  He now turmoil to take the spoiled article off the paling.  He looked at it almost in anguish, for he had been very proud of that glossy article.

“It’s a shame,” muttered Drayne, with mock sympathy.

“That’s what it is,” agreed Dave Darrin innocently.  “But –­Mr. Morton –­I think the matter can be fixed satisfactorily.  If you call this to the attention of the Athletics Committee won’t they vote to appropriate the price of a new hat out of the High School athletics fund?  You know, the fund is almost overburdened with money this year.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” broke in the principal eagerly.  “Will you call this to the attention of the Committee, Mr. Morton, For it was in coming here to watch the young men that I lost my fine, new hat.”

“Now, I’m heartily sorry,” replied Mr. Morton, “but I am certain the members of the committee will feel that money contributed by the citizens of the town can hardly be expended in purchasing hats for anyone.”

“My afternoon is spoiled, as well as my hat,” remarked the principal, turning to leave with as much dignity as could be expected from man who bore such a battered hat in his hands.

“The hatter might be able to block your hat out and repair it,” suggested Hudson, though without any real intention of offering aid.  “Our coachman had that sort of trick done to played-out old silk hat that Dad gave him.”

“Mr. Hudson,” returned the principal, turning and glaring at this latest polite tormentor, “will you be good enough to remember that I am not extremely interested in your family history.

“Back to your practice, men!” called the coach sharply, after the last had been seen of the back of the principal’s black coat.

“It was too bad!” muttered Dick, in a tone of genuine regret.

“Say that again, and I’ll make an effort to thrash you, Prescott!” challenged Hudson, with a grin.

“Well, I am sorry it happened,” Dick insisted.  “And mighty sorry, too.”

“You couldn’t help it.”

“I know it, but that hardly lessens my regret.  I don’t enjoy the thought of having destroyed anyone else’s property, even if I couldn’t help it and can’t be blamed.

“Prescott said he didn’t know I was there!” exclaimed Mr. Cantwell angrily to himself.  “Bosh!  That boy has been a thorn in my side ever since I became principal of the school.  Of course he saw me –­and he kicked wonderfully straight!  Oh, how I wish I could make him wear this hat every day during the balance of the school year!  Such a handsome hat –­eight dollars!”

“It’s a shame to tell you,” confided Dave Darrin, as he and Dick headed the sextette of chums on the homeward tramp, “but you’re certainly looking in great condition, old fellow.”

“I feel simply perfect, physically,” Dick replied.  “I have, in fact, ever since I first began to train in the baseball squad last season.  It’s wonderful what training does for a fellow!  I know there’s a heap of bad condition in the world, but I often wonder why there is.  Why, Dave, I ought to knock wood, of course, but I feel so fine that it seems as though nothing could put me out of form.”

At that moment young Prescott had no idea how easily a few minutes could bring one from the best possible condition to the brink of physical despair.