In September Joe was back again at Holman’s, three months older, nearly an inch taller than he had been the preceding fall and a good eight pounds heavier than when he had left school in June. Some of those eight pounds, he knew, would come off when he began running the bases in fall practice, but he earnestly hoped that most of them would stay with him. As Hal was no longer there, and, since he was now a senior, he was privileged to room in the senior dormitory. He had applied for and been assigned one of the front studies in Levering Hall. But in July his plans had been changed. A wierdly scrawled letter from Gus Billings, written in a Maine camp, had reached him toward the last of that month. Gus, himself now without a roommate, proposed that Joe share Number 10 Puffer. “Maybe it isn’t as fussy as Levering,” wrote Gus, “but it’s a good old dive and I’d rather stay there next year than change, and you’d like it, I’ll bet, if you tried it.” So Joe joined forces with the big, good-natured football captain, taking over Babe Linder’s half of the quarters and becoming heir to one frayed bath towel, a half-filled bottle of witch-hazel and the remains of what had once been a blue gymnasium shirt, these articles being discovered in various out-of-the-way corners. Joe missed Hal Norwin a good deal for the first few days of the new term, but after that there was scarcely time to miss any one. Fall baseball practice began on the second day and Joe was busy. He and Gus got on beautifully right from the start. Any fellow, though, could get on with Gus, so that was no great credit to Joe. Gus was even busier than Joe, and, as football leader, was facing far more responsibility. Until well into October Joe knew but little of the football situation. Gus spoke of it frequently enough, but Joe’s attention was generally perfunctory. Then, one evening Gus sprang a surprise. “Say, how much longer are you going to waste your time with that gang of morons?” he asked. “Moron” was a new word with Gus, and he loved it. Joe simulated perplexity. “Morons, Gus? Why, I’m not on the eleven!” “No, but you ought to be,” growled Gus. “Look here, Joseph, we were talking about you this afternoon, Rusty and I, and we decided you’d have to come out.” “Play football? Not on your life! Listen, Gus, I’ve got all the trouble I want right now. You and Rusty want to forget it!” “Can’t be done. We need you. We’re short of men, as you know, and――” “I didn’t know it,” exclaimed Joe suspiciously. “Well, you would have if you’d heard what I’ve been telling you every day for three weeks! We’ve got a punk lot of backfield stuff, and we need more. We――” “Thanks,” laughed Joe. “We need more men, I mean. You’ve played two years already, Joe, and you know a lot more than some of those new morons that are trying for jobs. You’d be a lot of good out there if you’d come. How about it?”