“Well, I’ll bet you made ’em laugh, Burtis. Say, don’t tell anyone you room with me, will you?” “I won’t,” replied Kendall emphatically. Harold stared a moment. There was something in the tone he didn’t like. Finally, “Where have you been since practice?” he asked. “I stopped at the gymnasium for a few minutes and then walked home with a fellow named Pennimore, and I’ve been in his room.” “Pennimore! Gerald Pennimore?” “I think his name’s Gerald,” replied Kendall, squirming out of his sweater. Harold whistled. Then he chuckled: “I’d like to have seen you together, you two. The millionaire and the scarecrow, eh?” “I don’t know what you mean,” returned Kendall with a scowl. “I mean you and your friend, Mr. Moneybags. Didn’t you know he’s the richest fellow in school? And the biggest snob?” “No.” Kendall shook his head and thought a moment. “I guess this was another Pennimore,” he said. “He was just like anyone else――only nicer.” CHAPTER V KENDALL LEARNS OF A PLOT A week passed very quickly and left Kendall pretty well shaken down into his place at Yardley. During that week there were five days of practice on the gridiron and he reported promptly and regularly. I wish I could say that he showed promise of becoming a good player, but I can’t. As a matter of fact, he exhibited about as little aptitude for the game as any member of Squad D, and that isn’t flattering since Squad D was made up of what in school slang were known as “dubs.” It wasn’t that Kendall was not willing enough; he’d have worked his feet off to learn to play football well; but he was undeniably awkward in movement and astonishingly slow at getting started. He performed his tasks with a kind of ferocious earnestness that ought to have shown better results. On Saturday of that week there was no practice, for the weather was unusually warm for the last of September and many of the candidates were showing the effect of the work. Kendall was left with a whole afternoon on his hands with which he didn’t know what to do. After his English lesson at two he strolled back to his room half hoping that Harold would be there. He didn’t like that roommate of his very well, but to-day even Harold would have been better than no one. But the room was empty when he reached it. He tossed his books onto the table, thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window. It was too fine an afternoon to stay indoors, he decided, and so he went out again. In the hallway he glanced undecidedly toward the door of Number 28, but his courage failed him.