“I think you are,” replied Dick quietly. He left the squad and walked across to where Billy Goode was standing with Manager Whipple. “I’m short a half-back,” he announced. “Got someone, Mr. Trainer?” “What’s the matter? Someone hurt?” asked Billy. “No, but I’ve let Halden go. He tried to make trouble.” Billy looked at Dick quizzically. “_You_ let him go! What do you know about that?” He turned inquiringly to Stearns Whipple. Whipple smiled. “Benson’s not working,” he said. “Give him Benson.” “Would you?” Billy shot a look of mingled disapproval and respect at Dick. “Well, all right. Send Halden to me. Say, what’s your name? Gates? Oh, Bates! Well, if I was you Bates, I wouldn’t get too uppity.” Billy went off for Benson and Dick started back toward his waiting squad, followed by the amused regard of Whipple. Benson trotted out from behind a neighbouring group and joined Dick. “Billy sent me over,” he said. “I’m a half-back.” “Go in at left, will you? That’s all, Halden. Goode says to report to him.” Halden walked up to Dick and spoke very softly. “I’ll get you, Bates, if it takes a year!” he said. Dick nodded. “Come on, fellows! Signals!” Some ten minutes later Coach Driscoll found Dick on the bench while the first and second squads were taking the field for the scrimmage. “Whipple tells me you had trouble with Halden,” he said. “What was wrong, Bates!” “He tried to hold up work arguing whether he or I was wrong about a signal I gave.” “Who _was_ wrong!” “He was, sir, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t work. Just wanted to chew the rag. So I let him go.” The coach smiled faintly. “You probably did right, Bates, but perhaps in future you’d better report the matter to me first. You see some fellows might question your authority.” The coach’s smile grew. “Well, I dare say Halden won’t trouble you again.” He nodded and went off. Dick looked after him thoughtfully. “When he smiles he doesn’t look so old,” he said to himself. CHAPTER IX LETTERS AND RHYMES Dick’s home letters became shorter about this time. Life was very busy for him. He wrote the news, but he no longer indulged his pen in descriptions. Sumner White had written twice from Leonardville, rather long letters about the High School Team, with messages from Dick’s former schoolmates and questions about Parkinson football methods. Sumner’s faith in Dick remained unimpaired, although the latter had still to announce his acceptance on the Parkinson First Team. “We are all expecting big things from you, Dick old scout,” wrote Sumner in his latest epistle. “Cal Lensen is going to get the Parkinson weekly to exchange with the _Argus_ so he can keep tabs on you. So just remember that we’re watching you, kid! Every time you make a touchdown for Parkinson the old _Argus_ will have a full and graphic account of it in the next number. But you’d better write now and then, besides. Good luck to you, Dick, and that goes for all the ‘gang.’”