Garry had slipped easily into Ralph Wynn's old position, and was developing a quality of leadership that filled the coach with optimism. Ralph had been a great leader, but Mr. Phillips thought he saw in Garry the makings of a still greater one. Under his handling the team was being developed into a swiftly moving, formidable fighting machine that promised to maintain or exceed the best traditions of Lenox High. "It looks like a good season for Lenox," the coach said to the boys at the end of an especially hard afternoon's practice. "That's all for to-day, boys. Go home and get some rest. You've earned it. You're on edge now, and I don't want you to go stale." This was just three days before the first game with Pawling, which was scheduled to take place on the latter's grounds. On the way home the boys were hilarious. "We'll wipe up the ground with them!" cried Rooster Long exultantly. "The way we're working now they won't have a chance." "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" jeered Nick. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, Rooster, my lad. In other words, don't crow till we've won." "Your team is in good fighting condition too, Bill," said Garry. "You certainly gave us a run for our money this afternoon. And you blocked a pretty slick play of mine, too," he added, with a grin. "I was so sore I could have slugged you." Bill chuckled. "No favoritism, Garry, old boy," he said. "Just because you and Nick and Rooster have made the first team, you needn't expect I'm going to hold back my good right arm when it's good for a tackle. Well, here's where I leave you," he continued, turning down a side street. "I promised dad I'd stop at the hardware store and buy him a new monkey wrench for his tool kit. Some one lost his old one, and he's unreasonable enough to suspect me. So long. See you all to-morrow." On his way to the store Bill had to pass a double garage belonging to a friend of Sandy Podder's, the doors of which opened on a side street. Bill heard the sound of voices from the further side of the garage and stopped instinctively as he heard a familiar name. "What do you know about Garry Grayson's getting Ralph Wynn's place on the team?" said a voice. "Getting pretty well up in the world, that young rooster is." "Thinks he's too all-fired important," growled another voice, which Bill recognized as that of Sandy Podder. "It's up to us to take him down a peg or two." "Yeah?" There was a faint jeer in the other voice. "I've heard that before. But who's going to do it?" "I am, that's who!" There was a ferocity in the tone that chained Bill's attention. "I'm sick of the airs that fellow gives himself. He gives me a pain in the neck. I've got a lot of old scores to even up with him, and I'm going to get even pretty quick." "You sound as though you had some kind of a plan." There was curiosity in the voice of Sandy's companion. "If it's the kind of stuff you've already pulled--"