He played some six minutes that day, remembering better now to keep his head up and look for the opening. Once that proceeding served him well, for on an off-tackle play something went wrong and his own full-back and the opposing end were blocking the hole. Seeing it in time, he sped on out, closely pursued by the Scrub left end, side-stepped an enemy back and went around for seven yards. Then he stood and listened while Coach Cade made a few critical remarks to Oscar Couch. The First took revenge to-day for yesterday’s 6 to 6 tie, piling up three touchdowns on the enemy. One of these was put across while Bert was in, and, although it was Couch who took the ball over, Bert had a fine part in the conquest of those last eight yards and felt as triumphant as any one when, the heap of bodies having been disentangled, the pigskin was found to be well across the mark. That afternoon Fitz Savell had another try at end, left this time, and Joe Tate looked extremely worried during the experiment. There was no doubt that Savell had the making of a brilliant end-rush, although since that position seemed well supplied with talent there was no apparent reason for sacrificing a good backfield man. Finally Tate was restored to his place and Fitz was later seen at left half once more. Returning to Upton from the gymnasium after practice, Chick voiced uneasiness to Bert. “Wonder what Johnny’s idea is in letting Fitz play end. The man’s a half-back and a mighty good one, and it would be a queer piece of business to try to make an end of him in the middle of the season. Anyway, we’ve got four good ends right now.” “Who’s the fourth?” asked Bert. “Tate and Shelfer and Kruger, sure, but who’s the other?” Chick grinned. “Your Uncle Dudley, son. Of course I oughtn’t to call myself good, but you’ll excuse it.” “Yes,” answered Bert, suddenly serious, “you are good, Chick, when you want to be, but it seems to me that you haven’t been up to your real form this fall. Not always, I mean.” Chick looked affronted for a moment. Then he laughed. “What’s the idea, Bert?” he asked. “Think I’m getting a swelled head, or what?” “No, but I mean it, Chick. I supposed you knew it, too, or I wouldn’t have mentioned it.” “Oh, come,” protested Chick, “don’t lay it on! I don’t say I’ve always played at top-notch. No fellow can, I guess. But I’ve kept my end up as well as any of them, haven’t I?” “Perhaps,” said Bert. “I may be wrong, of course. Only it has seemed to me that you--well, that you don’t try as hard as you did, Chick; don’t take as much interest in the game. Perhaps I imagine it. Anyway, you mustn’t get sore because I spoke about it.” “Sore! Of course not.” But he did sound a trifle irritated. “I thought I’d been playing a pretty good article of football, old scout, and your information is rather jarring. Any one tell you this, or did you just discover it for yourself?” Chick’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.