Captain Emerson and his brother scouts had brought back scant information from the Kenly Hall-Rutledge game. Rutledge had been outclassed from the first, and, without showing too much of her possibilities, Kenly had piled up 16 points against her while keeping her own goal intact. Kenly had made an average showing during the season. She had played one more game than Alton and had won all but two of them. Lorimer had beaten her decisively and Middleboro had tied her at 7 to 7. She had, for her, a light team, but one that was capable of speed and versatility. She had specialized in forward-passing during the early part of the season, but of late had fallen back on line plays for her gains, although signs were not wanting that forward-passes were still in her repertory. Briefly, Kenly Hall School was rather more of a mystery to her ancient rival this year than she generally was, and, since it is human nature to fear the unknown, there was less confidence at Alton than was usual before the big game. The eleventh-hour loss of Gordon Renneker was a severe blow to most followers of the game at Alton. There were many who believed, not a few very ardently, in Leonard Grant’s ability to completely fill Renneker’s shoes, but they were in the minority. It stood to reason, naturally, that a youngster like Grant, lacking size, weight and experience could not wholly take the place of an All-Scholastic star. Leonard himself agreed with the majority. Oddly enough, Gordon Renneker did not. This was divulged on Wednesday when, after a half-hour of strenuous work for the guards and tackles and centers, the little squad returned to the bench and blankets to await their call to the scrimmage. Leonard found Renneker beside him when he had pulled the gray blanket around him. So far what might be called personal intercourse between them had been limited to those few words exchanged in the taxicab on the occasion of their arrival at Alton two months before. Now, after a moment, Renneker said abruptly: “You’re going mighty well, Grant.” “Thanks,” Leonard stammered. In spite of himself, he still found it impossible not to be impressed and a bit awed by Renneker’s imperturbable air of superiority. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t hold down that place as well as I could have done,” the other continued thoughtfully. “Hope so. Nasty trick, my getting dropped, Grant. I wouldn’t want the team to suffer by it. I don’t fancy it will, though, if you play the way I think you can.” “Well, I don’t know,” muttered the other. “Aren’t you--isn’t there any chance of you getting in Saturday?” “Oh, dear, no,” replied Renneker calmly. “Not a chance.” “I’m sorry,” said Leonard. Renneker turned a slow glance on him. Then: “Thanks, but it’s of no consequence,” he said. He nodded carelessly, arose and sauntered away. Leonard wondered why he had asked such an idle question. He had known well enough that Renneker wouldn’t get back. He felt very sorry for him just then.