"Quit your fooling, Drayne!" cried two or three at once. "Quit your talking," retorted Drayne, kicking off his other field shoe. "I've done all my talking." Truth to tell, Drayne still intended to play, but he wanted to teach these fellows a lesson. He intended to make them beg, from Wadleigh down, before he would go on to the finish of his togging. Drayne knew when he had the advantage of them. "Don't be a fool, Drayne," broke in Hudson hotly. "Or a traitor to your school," added another. "Be a man!" In Drayne's present frame of mind all these appeals served to fan his inward fury. "Shut up, all of you!" he snapped. "I've listened to all the roasting I intend to stand. I'm out of the game!" Several looked blankly at "Hen" Wadleigh. "Whom have you to put in his place?" Grayson demanded hoarsely. Drayne heard and it was balm to his soul. He started to pull off his football trousers. Outside, the band started upon a lively gallop. The crowd began to cheer. It started in as a Gridley cheer. Then, above everything else, rang the Filmore yell of defiance. Just at this moment Coach Morton strode into the room. Almost in a twinkling he learned of the new complication that had arisen. "Captain Wadleigh, who is to play in Drayne's stead" demanded the coach rather briskly. "Under certain conditions," broke in Wayne, "I'll agree to play." "We wouldn't have you under all the conditions in the world!" retorted Mr. Morton. "A football eleven must be an organization of the finest discipline!" Drayne reddened, then went deathly white. He hadn't intended to let the matter go this far. "Who is your best man for left end, captain?" insisted Mr. Morton. "You've got to decide like a flash. Your men ought to be out in the air now." There was a blank pause, while "Hen" Wadleigh looked around over his subs. "Will you let me play?" There was a start. Every fellow in the room turned around to stare at the speaker. It was Dick Prescott, who started eagerly forward, his face aglow with eagerness. "You, Prescott?" cried Mr. Morton. "But only yesterday Dr. Bentley reported that your lungs had not sufficiently recovered." "I know, sir," Dick laughed coolly; "but that was yesterday. "It would be foolhardy, my boy. If you went out on the field, and any exceptional strain came up, you might do an injury to your lungs." "Mr. Morton," replied the team's left end, very quietly, "I'm willing to go out on the field---and do all that's in me, for old Gridley---if it's the last act of my life." "Your hand, Prescott!" cried Mr. Morton, gripping the boy's palm. "That's the right spirit of grit and loyalty. But it wouldn't be right to let you do it. It isn't necessary, or human, to pay a life for a game." "Will you let me go on the field if Dr. Bentley passes me _today_?" queried Prescott. "But he won't." "Try him."