Brimfield Academy was in full swing. The term was a day old and one hundred and fifty-three youths of various ages from twelve to twenty had settled down, more or less earnestly, to the school routine. In 12 Billings trunks had been unpacked and the room had taken on a look of comfort and coziness, although several things were yet lacking to complete its livableness. For instance, an easy-chair of some sort was a crying necessity, a drop-light would help a lot, and a cushion and some pillows on the window-seat were much needed. Tom argued that if the window-seat was furnished they would not require an easy-chair, but Steve held out for the added luxury.

Both boys, Steve by a narrower margin than he suspected, had made the Fourth Form, and this afternoon, as they expeditiously changed into football togs, their glances more than once stole to the imposing piles of books on the study table, books which hinted at many future hours of hard work. Steve, pulling on a pair of much worn and discoloured canvas trousers, sighed as his eye measured again the discouraging height of his pile. It was almost enough to spoil in advance the pleasure he looked forward to on the gridiron!

The athletic field lay behind the school buildings and was a fine level expanse of green turf some twelve acres in extent. There were three gridirons, a baseball diamond, a quarter-mile running-track and a round dozen of tennis courts there. A well-built iron-framed stand, erected in sections, and mounted on small wide-tread wheels could be moved about as occasion required, and at present was standing in the middle of the south side of the football field. On the whole Brimfield had reason to be proud of her athletic equipment, field and gymnasium, as well as of her other advantages.

The scene along the Row as the two friends clattered out of Billings was vastly different from that presented the afternoon of their arrival. Now the walk was alive with boys, heads protruded from open casements and wandering couples could be seen lounging along the gate drive or over the sloping lawn that descended to the road. First practice had been called for four o’clock and the big dial in the ivy-draped tower of Main Hall pointed its hands to three-forty when Steve and Tom turned into the path between Torrence and Wendell leading to the gymnasium and the field beyond. Already, however, the fellows were turning their steps that way, some in playing togs but more in ordinary attire, the latter, yielding to the lure of a warm September afternoon, bent on finding an hour’s entertainment stretched comfortably at ease along a side line or perched on the stand.

“That’s pretty, isn’t it?” asked Tom, as they looked across the nearer turf to where the broad expanse of playing ground, bordered on its further side by a wooded slope, stretched before them. The early frosts had already slightly touched the trees over there, and hints of russet-yellow and brick-red showed amongst the green. Nearer than that, more colour was supplied by an occasional dark red sweater amongst the groups loitering about the edge of the gridiron.

“It surely is pretty,” agreed Steve. “I wonder if Miller’s there yet. He told us to look him up, you know.”

“Maybe he will give us a send-off to the coach,” suggested Tom. “He could, you know, since he is captain. I guess it won’t do us any harm me, anyway to have someone speak a word for us, eh?”

“Wonder what the coach is like,” said Steve, nodding agreement. “Miller seemed to think he was pretty good. That’s a dandy turf there, Tom; level as a table. They haven’t marked the gridiron out yet, though.”

“I suppose they don’t need it for a day or two,” replied the other, trying not to feel self-conscious as he neared the crowd already on hand. “I don’t see Miller, do you?”

Steve shook his head, after a glance about him, and, rolling his hands in the folds of his sweater, not because the weather was cold but because that was a habit of his, seated himself at the bottom of the stand. Tom followed him and they looked about them and conversed in low voices while the throng grew with every minute. So far neither had made any acquaintances save that of Andy Miller unless Eric Sawyer could be called such! and they felt a little bit out of it as they saw other boys joyously hailing each other, stopping to shake hands or exchange affectionate blows, or waving greetings from a distance. They had made the discovery, by the way, that the proper word of salutation at Brimfield was “Hi”! It was invariably “Hi, Billy”! “Hi, Joe”! and the usual “Hello” was never heard. Eventually Steve and Tom became properly addicted to the “Hi”! habit, but it was some time before they were able to keep from showing their newness by “Helloing” each other.

The stand became sprinkled with youths and the turf along the edge of the gridiron held many more. A man of apparently thirty years of age, wearing a grey Norfolk suit and a cap to match, appeared at the corner of the stand just as the bell in Main Hall struck four sonorous peals. He was accompanied by three boys in togs, one of them Captain Miller. The coach was a clean-cut chap with a nice face and a medium-sized, wiry figure. He had sandy hair and eyebrows that were almost white, and his sharp blue eyes sparkled from a deeply tanned face upon which, at the moment, a very pleasant smile played. But even as Steve and Tom watched him the smile died abruptly and he pulled a black leather memorandum book from a pocket and fluttered its leaves in a businesslike way.

Miller had predicted that this fall some eighty candidates would appear, but he had evidently been over-sanguine. Sixty seemed nearer the correct number than eighty. But even sixty-odd looked a good many as they gradually gathered nearer the coach. Steve and Tom slipped from their places and joined the throng.

“Last year’s first and second team players take the east end of the field,” directed Mr. Robey. “All others remain here. I’m going to tell you right now, fellows, that there’s going to be a whole lot of hard work this fall, and any of you who don’t like hard work had better keep away. This is a good time to quit. You’ll save your time and mine too. All right now! Take some balls with you, Milton, and warm up until I get down there. Now, then, you new men, give me your names. Where’s Lawrence? Not here yet? All right. What’s your name and what experience have you had, my boy?”

One by one the candidates answered the coach’s questions and then trotted into the field where Eric Sawyer was in command. Andy Miller and Danny Moore stood at the coach’s elbow during this ceremony, and when, toward the last, Steve and Tom edged up, they were greeted by both.

“Here’s the fine lad,” said Danny, who caught sight of Steve before Miller did. “Mr. Sam Edwards, Coach, a particular friend of mine.”

Steve, rather embarrassed, started to say that his name was not Sam, but Miller interrupted him.

“So here you are, Edwards? Glad to see you again. I’ve been looking for you and Hall to drop in on me. How are you, Hall? Robey, these two have had some experience on their high school team and I think they’ll bear watching. Shake hands with Mr. Robey, Edwards.”

“Glad to know you,” said the coach. “What’s your position, Edwards?”

“I’ve been playing end, sir.”

“End, eh? You look fast, too. We’ll see what you can do, my boy. And you, er ”

“Jim Hall,” supplied Danny. “Another close friend o’ me boyhood, sir, an’ a fine lad, too, be-dad!”

“Tackle, sir, mostly,” replied Tom.

“It’s a relief to find a couple who aren’t bent on being backs,” said the coach with a smile to Miller. “All right, fellows. We’ll give you all the chance in the world. Report to Sawyer now.”

Steve and Tom, with the parting benediction of a portentious wink from Danny Moore, joined the thirty-odd candidates of many ages and sizes who, formed in two rings, were passing footballs under the stern and frowning regard of Eric Sawyer. They edged their way into one of the circles and were soon earnestly catching and tossing with the rest. If Sawyer recognised them as the boys who had aroused his ire in the rubbing room the day before, he showed no sign of it. It is probable, though, that their football attire served as a sufficient disguise. Sawyer apparently took his temporary position as assistant coach very seriously and bore himself with frowning dignity. But it was not at all beneath his dignity to call erring candidates to order or to indulge in a good deal of heavy satire at the expense of those whose inexperience made them awkward. Neither Steve nor Tom, however, fell under the ban of his displeasure.

Falling on the ball followed the passing, and, in turn, gave place to starting and sprinting. For this they were formed in line and Sawyer, leaning over a ball at one end of the line, snapped it away as a signal for them to leap forward. By that time the warmth of the day and the exertion had tuckered a good many of them out and Sawyer found much fault with the performances.

“Oh, get moving, you chap in the black shirt there! Watch the ball and dig when I snap it! That’s it! Go it! Hard! All right for you, but about a dozen of you other chaps got left entirely. Now get down there and throw your weight forward. Haven’t any of you ever practised starts before? Anyone would think your feet were glued down! Get in line again. Ready now! Go, you flock of ice-wagons!”

Fortunately for the softer members of the awkward squad, practice was soon over to-day, and Steve and Tom somewhat wearily tramped back with the rest across to the gymnasium, determined to have the luxury of a shower-bath even if they would have to get back into their togs again after it.

“We’d better see about getting lockers,” said Steve. “I wonder where you go.”

“They cost a dollar a year,” answered Tom, who knew the contents of the school catalogue by heart, “and if we don’t make the team we won’t need the lockers.”

“Sure we will. If we use the swimming pool we’ll need a place to keep our clothes. And even if we don’t make the big teams we’ll play with the Hall, probably. Wish we had them now and didn’t have to go back to the room to change. I’m tired, if you care to know it!”

“So am I,” panted Tom. “Sawyer worked us hard for a warm day.”

“Yes, and did you notice that fat fellow? There he is ahead there, with the striped stockings. He was just about all in and puffing like a locomotive.”

“He was probably tender,” said Tom.

“Yes, he Tender! That’ll do for you!” said Steve indignantly, aiming a blow at Tom’s ribs which was skilfully evaded. “Let’s stop at the office in here and see if we can get lockers.”

They could. Moreover, Mr. Conklin, the physical director, informed them, to their deep satisfaction, that the charge of one dollar each would be placed on their term bill if they wished. They wished with instant enthusiasm and departed, keys in hand, to find their lockers. They found the room thronged with fellows in various stages of undressing, while from the baths came deep groans and shrill shrieks and the hiss and splash of water. Their lockers were side by side at the farther end of the last aisle; and, after making certain that the keys fitted them, they began to get out of their clothes, only to make the discovery when partly disrobed that they had no towels.

“I’m going to ask someone to lend me one,” said Steve. “You can use an end of it if I get it. I’m going to have that shower or bust.”

A cheerful-faced youth draped in a frayed bathrobe came up at that moment and Steve sought counsel of him.

“Towel? I’d lend you one in a minute, but mine are all soiled. You can see for yourself.” He nodded toward the open door of his locker on the floor of which lay a pile of what were evidently bath towels. “I forgot to send them to the wash before I went away in the spring. If you ask Danny he might let you have one. I guess he’s around somewhere.”

Steve found the trainer leaning against the doorway of the rubbing room. “‘Tis Sam Edwards!” greeted Danny. “An’ how did it go to-day, me boy?”

“Pretty good, thanks. Could you lend me a couple of towels, Mister er Danny?”

“I doubt have I got any, but I’ll look an’ see,” and Danny disappeared into the room behind him.

“Here you are, Sam,” he said in a moment. “They’re small but select. Fetch ’em back when you’re through with ’em, if you please. They’re school property, d’ye mind, and it’s me that’s answerable for them.”

Steve promised faithfully to restore them and bore them back in triumph to where Tom had paused in his undressing to await the result of the errand. A minute later they were puffing and blowing in adjoining baths, with the icy-cold water raining down on their glowing bodies. A brisk drying with the borrowed towels, a return to their uninviting togs and they were ready to be off. Steve couldn’t find Danny, but he left the towels on the table in the rubbing room and he and Tom climbed the stairs again. In the hall above there was a large notice board and Tom stopped to glance at some of the announcements pinned against it.

“Here a minute, Steve,” he said. “Look at this.” He laid a finger on a square of paper which bore in almost illegible writing this remarkable notice: “What Will You Give? Dirt Cheap! Terms Cash! One fine oak Morris chair, good as new. Three cushions, very pretty. One pair of skates. Eight phonograph records. Large assortment of bric-a-brac. Any fair offer takes them! Call early and avoid disappointment. Durkin, 13 Torrence.”

“Is it a joke?” asked Steve doubtfully.

“No, there are lots of them, see.” Sure enough, the board held fully a dozen similar announcements, although the others were not couched in such breezy language. There were chairs, cushions, tables, pictures, golf clubs, rugs and all sorts of things advertised for sale, while one chap sought a purchaser for “a stuffed white owl, mounted on a branch, slightly moth-eaten. Cash or exchange for books.”

Steve laughed. “What do you know about that?” he asked. “Say, why don’t we look at some of the things, Tom? Maybe we could save money. Let’s call on Mr. Durkin and look at his Morris chair, eh?”

“All right. Come ahead. Anything else we want?”

“I don’t suppose we could pick up a cushion that would fit our window-seat, but we might. I’ll write down some of the names and rooms.”

“We might buy the white owl, Steve. Ever think you’d like a white owl?”

“Not with moths in it, thanks,” replied Steve. There was pen and ink on the ledge outside the window of the physical director’s office and Steve secured paper by tearing a corner from one of the notices. When he had scribbled down the addresses that sounded promising they set off for Torrence Hall. Number 13 was on the second floor, and as they drew near it their ears were afflicted by most dismal sounds.

“Wha-what’s that?” asked Tom in alarm.

“Fiddle,” laughed Steve. “Wonder if it’s Mr. Durkin.”

The wailing sounds ceased as Steve knocked and a voice called “Come in!” When they entered they saw a tall, lank youth standing in front of a music-rack close to the window. He held a violin to his chin and waved his bow in greeting.

“Hi!” he said. “Sit down and I’ll be right with you. I’ve got one bit here that’s been bothering me for an hour.” He turned back to his music, waved his bow in the air, laid it across the strings and drew forth sounds that made the visitors squirm in the chairs they had taken. One excruciating wail after another came from the tortured instrument, the lank youth bending absorbedly over the notes in the failing light and apparently quite oblivious to the presence of the others. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, he laid his bow on the ledge of the stand, stood his violin in a corner of the window-seat and turned to the visitors.

He was an odd-looking chap, tall and thin, with a long, lean face under a mop of black hair that was badly in need of trimming. His near-sighted eyes blinked from behind the round lenses of a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles and his rather nondescript clothes seemed on the point of falling off of him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said politely, “but it’s getting dark and I did want to get that thing before I quit. Want to buy something?”