Hardie shook his head. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve never played on a school team. At Hillbury I played end on my class team in some of the games.” “That’s not bad,” said Louis, with respect. “They have great class teams at those schools.” “It isn’t like playing on a school team, though,” offered Dunn. “You don’t have any great responsibility.” “The class feeling is pretty strong sometimes,” replied Roger, “and the games are always hard.” “I liked the way you got into the play,” said Mr. Adams. “The house ought to give a good account of itself on the playground this year.” “I couldn’t do anything at all to-day,” observed Dunn. “I have to feel just right to do myself credit. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” Redfield exchanged a glance of intelligence with Louis Tracy. They knew what had disturbed Dunn’s slumbers,—the memory of a late lunch in Number Six. “You must be careful about food and bed hours if you want to be in good condition,” observed Mr. Adams, apparently oblivious to the exchange of messages. “It takes some self-control to keep in training with a pocket full of money.” “I’d like to have a chance to try it once,” sighed Redfield, to whose mind the suggestion of a pocket full of money conveyed the idea of a continuously replenished supply. Much of his allowance never reached his pocket at all; it was spent in paying back bills. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER VI THE STORY OF JASON HARDIE’S appearance on the football field unquestionably raised him from the condition of nonentity into which he had fallen, but it did not materially help him to get into the charmed circle of the initiate who occupied the social centre of the school on a kind of ancestral tenure. He felt himself an outsider, even more after Talbot had shown him favor than before, for friendliness on the part of one served only to emphasize the lack of interest of others. It was not that he was objectionable or disliked; his schoolmates were merely content without him, seeing nothing in the newcomer that commended him especially to their notice. His mother’s name was not on their mothers’ calling lists; he possessed no cousins or near friends who knew their cousins or friends; he lacked the ready tongue which creates on short acquaintance a reputation for wit. He had no special resources to enhance his attractiveness—no fast auto waiting for him at the corner, no shooting lodge in the marsh to which his friends might be invited. He was just plain, undistinguished, unvalued Hardie, a new boy who lived at Adams’s and played tackle on the second.