Rob sat down and one after another half a dozen fellows had their say. Two of them thought a coach unnecessary, but as a whole the Association was heartily in favor of hiring Mr. Duffield. Finally the manager and captain were empowered to enter into negotiations with him and secure his services if in their judgment the Association could afford them. It was decided that fellows who made the team were to supply their own uniforms and that gray shirts and sweaters with the letters R. I. in green, signifying Riverport Independents, should be worn. The manager was instructed to arrange for as many games as possible for the remaining Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. “I think,” said Pierce, “that as we won’t have much money after we’ve bought footballs and paid the coach it would be well to arrange games only with teams that are willing to come here and play. Because I don’t see how we can pay car fares to visit other schools.” “We might have one game away from school,” suggested Malcolm, “if it wasn’t too far and the fellows could pay their own expenses.” [Illustration: “‘IF WE DON’T MAKE HOP AND PRENTISS SIT UP AND TAKE NOTICE BEFORE THE SEASON’S OVER, I’LL EAT MY HAT!’”] This produced a laugh, but it won applause as well, and Rob got the floor and declared that for his part he was willing to pay his expenses and those of one other fellow in a case of that sort. So it was decided that Malcolm was to induce teams to visit Riverport when possible and when not possible to make dates with them anyhow. Candidates were called for the following afternoon at four o’clock and the meeting adjourned subject to the call of the president, with every one feeling very well satisfied. “And now,” declared Rob on his way back to his room, “if we can get Walter Duffield we’re all right. And if we don’t make Hop and Prentiss sit up and take notice before the season’s over I’ll eat my hat!” CHAPTER XVIII DUFFIELD TAKES HOLD “Talk about Falstaff’s army!” exclaimed Malcolm to Evan the next afternoon. “Did you ever see such an assortment?” And Evan, rubbing his injured ankle reflectively and wondering whether it would stand an afternoon’s work, had to acknowledge, as he looked about him, that he never had. Practically every fellow who had joined the Independent Foot-ball Association had reported for practice. About half owned football togs and had donned them; the rest appeared in their old clothes and sweaters. There were old boys and young boys, big boys and little boys, tall boys and short boys, fat boys and slim boys. But, big or little, fat or slim, each was dominated by a splendid enthusiasm. Preparatory class youngsters shouldered their way about looking mighty important in immaculately new togs, while on the farthest edge of the group stood a thin, diffident senior who had at last gathered courage to do what he had longed to do for three years――try to be a football hero.