“Oh, sure. It would survive without any fellow on the squad; even Gus; but that doesn’t mean we want to lose a good, promising player, you old coot, and if you know of any way of waking Jim up out of his trance I wish to goodness you’d try it. I’ve exhausted all my methods. When I talk to him he just grins and nods and says, ‘Maybe you’re right, Woodruff’ or ‘There’s nothing the matter with me. You’ll see to-morrow.’ Well, I look and I don’t see. Perhaps the chap has a secret sorrow or--or something. Any of his folks ill that you know of?” Clem shook his head. “How does he stand with the Office? Hear of any trouble?” “No, he’s all right there. He always is. He’s a shark.” “Oh, well, I give it up. Just one more good man gone wrong, I suppose. But if you have any influence--” “I haven’t,” interrupted Clem shortly. “Let’s drop it.” So Lowell dropped it, but he wasn’t satisfied. He retired from the conversation firmly convinced that Clem knew a heap more than he would acknowledge and that if Clem was in any way responsible for Jim’s deficiency boiling oil was far too good for him. On Wednesday Jim received a check for twelve dollars from his father, cashed it at the Office and laid the sum of ten dollars and fifty-nine cents on Clem’s chiffonier. For some inexplicable reason the finding of the money seemed to annoy Clem, for he swept it into one hand and fairly hurled it into the top drawer. Jim, observing the strange action, made no comment. You just couldn’t account for Clem’s behavior and moods any more! CHAPTER XVI JIM DABBLES IN STRATEGY November was nearly a fortnight old and football was fairly on the home-stretch. With the New Falmouth game out of the way, Alton had still to face Mount Millard, Oak Grove and Kenly Hall, the first two at home, the latter at Lakeville. Frosty nights and frequent chill and lowery days had taken the place of October mildness, and football enthusiasm, which, like the witch hazel, only comes into full blossom after the tang of frost is in the air, was rampant. Football tunes were heard in the dormitories and wherever two or more fellows were gathered together the talk was of the team and of Kenly Hall’s warriors and of the prospects of a Gray-and-Gold victory. In short, it was the season of the year when most normal American youths talk, think and dream football.