_Toot, to-o-o-ot!_ went the horn. “Gee, dad, don’t!” begged Clif. “The fellows’ll think――” “What if they do?” laughed his father. “I want them to!” Mr. Bingham took Walter Treat and three other boys of Walt’s choosing over to Cotterville, while Clif traveled in one of the three big busses that rolled away at twelve to the cheering of their companions, massed in front of West. Loring, declining Mr. Babcock’s offer of transportation, was one of many youths who made the trip by auto in company with parents or friends. Loring rode between his father and mother, and Wattles sat with the chauffeur, who, to Wattles’s disgust, knew no football save soccer. Wattles had a thoroughly pleasant ride, and by the time Cotterville was reached the chauffeur had become vastly better informed on one subject at least. Clif and Tom had tried to stick together, but somehow in the confusion of departure they had got into different busses. Clif had Joe Whitemill and Phil Cotter for immediate neighbors. Phil was in rather hectic spirits and, claiming to have founded Cotterville, related many humorous and hitherto unpublished incidents connected with the early history of the town. He flatly refused, however, to accept responsibility for Wolcott Academy. That misfortune, he stoutly averred, had taken place during one of his absences from the old home. The sun shone brightly, but there was a cold northwest wind blowing and much speculation was indulged in as to the effect of that wind on the kicking game. There was a good deal of discussion about Wyndham’s chances, and what sort of a line Wolcott had and whether its ends were any better than last year’s. And now and then they sang a little. But the singing soon petered out. Every fellow in the bus at one time or another fell into silent abstraction. Clif didn’t say a great deal. His remarks were spasmodic and his laughter somewhat tuneless. Away down inside somewhere he was scared, and, while he assured himself countless times that there wasn’t the ghost of a chance of his getting into the game, unless for a moment at the end that he might get his letter, at the back of his mind the thought persisted that he might be called on. He tried to remember the play numbers and discovered to his horror that he had forgotten nearly all! He finally got hold of the straight buck sequence, 2 to 5, but couldn’t remember what 6 was. Nor 7. Nor 8――hold on, though, 8 was a cross-buck with left half carrying. Gradually memory returned, although to the end of the journey six plays eluded him. He might have asked Whitemill or Cotter, but he was ashamed to. Besides, there would be time enough on the bench in which to refresh his memory.