"MARCH! Joel March!"

Joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a recitation to Mayer and his room. The familiar tones came from the direction of the library, and turning he saw Stephen Remsen trotting toward him with no regard for the grass. Joel hurdled the knee-high wire barrier and strode to meet him. The two shook hands warmly, almost affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet.

"March, I'm delighted to see you again! I was just going to look you up. Which way were you going?"

"Up to the room. Can't you come up for a while? When'd you arrive? Are you going to stay now?"

"Third down!" laughed Remsen. "No gain! What a fellow you are for questions, March! I got in this morning, and I'm going to stay until after the Yates game. They telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles. Instead of going to your room let's go to mine. I've taken a suite of one room and a closet at Dixon's on the avenue. I haven't unpacked my toothbrush yet. Come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it all over."

So Joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard, traversing the quadrangle in front of University and debouching on to the avenue near where the tall shaft of the Soldiers' Monument gleams in the sunlight. But they did not wait until Remsen's room was gained to "talk it all over." Joel had lots to tell about the Hillton fellows whom he had not lost sight of: of how Clausen was captain of the freshman Eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how West was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how Dicky Sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling along under popular dislike; how Whipple and Cooke were rooming together in Peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and liked by every fellow who knew him; how Digbee was grinding in Lanter with Somers; how Cartwright had joined the Glee Club; and how Christie had left college and gone into business with his father.

"And Cloud?" asked Remsen. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes, once or twice. I've heard that he was very well liked when he left St. Eustace last year. I dare say he has turned over a new leaf since his father died."

"Indeed? I hadn't heard of that."

"West heard it. He died last spring, and left Cloud pretty near penniless, they say. I have an idea that he has taken a brace and is studying more than he used to."

"The chap has plenty of good qualities, I suppose. We all have our bad ones, you know. Perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the lad's better nature. They say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and, like lots of other proverbs, I guess it's sometimes true."

Then Remsen told of his visit to Hillton a few weeks previous. The Eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; Greene, an upper middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with St. Eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran players. That same Greene was winning the golf tournament when he was there, Remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever before, thanks to the hard work of West, Whipple, Blair, and a few others in building it up.

The two friends reached the house, and Remsen led the way into his room, and set about unpacking his things. Joel took up a position on the bed and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair of stockings to a typewriter.

"It's a strange fact," said Remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under the pillow, "that Outfield West is missed at Hillton more than any fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. Perhaps I don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that every one naturally likes. What I do mean is that one would naturally suppose fellows like Blair or Whipple would leave the most regrets behind them, for Blair was generally conceded to be the most popular fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and Whipple was surely running him a close second. And certainly their memories are still green. But everywhere I went it was: 'Have you heard from Outfield West?' 'How's West getting on at college?' And strange to say, such inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. Professor Wheeler asked after West particularly, and so did Briggs, and several others of the faculty; and Mrs. Cowles as well.

"But you are still the hero there, March. The classic history of Hillton still recounts the prowess of one Joel the First, who kicked a goal from field and defeated thereby the hosts of St. Eustace. And Professor Durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive and appreciative member of his class. And now tell me, how are you getting on with Dutton?"

So Joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of Varsity substitute.

"Yes, I saw in the paper last week that you had been placed on the sub list of the Varsity. I hope you'll have a chance to play against Yates, although I don't wish Prince any harm. He's a good fellow and a hard worker. Hello, it's one-fifteen. Let's get some lunch."

A half hour later they parted, Joel hurrying off to recitation and Remsen remaining behind to keep an appointment with a friend. After this they met almost every day, and Remsen was a frequent caller at Joel's room, where he with Joel and Outfield held long, cosy chats about every subject from enameling golf balls to the Philosophy of Kant and the Original Protoplasm.

Meanwhile the season hurried along. Harwell met and defeated the usual string of minor opponents by varying scores, and ran up against the red and blue of Keystone College with disastrous results. But one important contest intervened between the present time and the game with Yates, and the hardest sort of hard work went on daily inside the inclosed field. A small army of graduates had returned to coach the different players, and the daily papers were filled, according to their wont, with columns of sensational speculation and misinformation regarding the merits of the team and the work they were performing. Out of the mass of clashing "facts" contained in the daily journals but one thing was absolutely apparent: to wit, the work of the Harwell Eleven was known only to the men and the coaches, and neither would tell about it.

At last, when chill November had been for a few days in the land, the game with the red and white clad warriors from Ithaca took place on a wet and muddy field, and Joel played the game through from start to finish, Prince being engaged in nursing his treacherous ankle, which had developed alarming symptoms with the advent of wet weather. The game resulted in a score of twenty-four to five, the Ithacans scoring a neat, but inexcusable, goal from field in the first half. Joel played like a Trojan, and went around the left end of the opposing line time and again for good gains, until the mere placing of the ball in his hands was accepted by the spectators as equal to an accomplished gain.

Wesley Blair made a dashing charge through a crowded field for twelve yards and scored a touch-down that brought the onlookers to their feet cheering. Dutton, the captain, played a steady brilliant interfering game, and Kingdon, at right half-back, plunged through the guard-tackle holes time and again with the ball hugged to his stomach, and kept his feet in a manner truly marvelous until the last inch had been gained.

But critics nevertheless said unkind things of the team work as they wended their way back over the sodden turf, and shook their heads dubiously over the field-goal scored by the opponents. There would be a general shaking up on the morrow, they predicted, and we should see what we should see. And the coaches, too, although they dissembled their feelings under cheerful countenances, found much to condemn, and the operations of bathing, dressing, and weighing that afternoon were less enjoyable to the breathless, tattered men.

The next day the team "went into executive session," as Joel called it, and the predicted shake-up took place. Murdoch, the left guard, was deemed too slight for the place, and was sent to the side line, from where he presently crawled to a seat on the great empty stand, and hiding his blanketed head wept like a child. And there were other changes made. Joel kept his place at left half, pending the bettering of Prince's ankle, and Blair was secure at full. But when the practice game began, many of the old forms were either missing or to be seen in the second Eleven's line, and the coaches hovered over the field of battle with dark, forbidding looks, and said mean things whenever the opportunity presented itself, and were icily polite to each other, as men will be when they know themselves to be in the right and every one else in the wrong. And so practice that Thursday was an unpleasant affair, and had the desired effect; for the men played the game for all that was in them and attended strictly to the matter in hand, forgetting for the time the intricacies of Latin compositions and the terrors of coming examinations. When it was over Joel crawled off of the scale with the emotions of a weary draught horse and took his way slowly toward home. In the square he ran against Outfield, who, armed with a monstrous bag of golf requisites, had just leaped off a car.

"Hello, Joel," he cried. "What's happened? Another off-sider? Have you broken that finger again? Honest Injun, what's up?"

"Nothing, Out; I'm just kind of half dead. We had two thirty-minute halves, with forty-'leven coaches yelling at us every second, and a field like a turnip patch just before seeding. Oh, no, there's nothing the matter; only if you know of any quiet corner where I can die in peace, lead me there, Out. I won't keep you long; it will soon be over."

"No, I don't, my flippant young friend, but I know something a heap better."

"Nothing can be better any more, Out. Still--well, what is it?"

"A couple of hot lemonades and a pair of fat sandwiches at Noster's. Come along."

"You're not so bad, Out," said Joel as they hurried up the street. "You have moments of almost human intelligence!"