“Hardie is coming on well,” observed the coach. “He’s going to push Ben Tracy pretty hard for tackle. We might give him a trial at quarter.” “I don’t think he’d do at all,” answered Harrison, quickly. “He’d be entirely new to the position, and we shall need him as a substitute tackle before the season is over.” The coach considered for a time in silence. Yards was a loyal Westcott graduate, whose devotion to his school was strong enough to make him sacrifice his afternoons at the Law School for the sake of helping the Westcott team. He knew the game well and could teach it, but he lacked confidence in his own judgment of the comparative merits of individuals, and he was morbidly anxious to avoid the foolish jealousies which he remembered as a source of weakness to the school in his own day. It was clear that Harrison’s heart was set on keeping Sumner in his place. To insist on a change which would be at best an experiment with an unknown quantity, and which might give rise to factions, seemed at present unwise. “We’ll give McDowell a chance on the end, anyway,” he said, “and let Dunn rest.” To this proposition Harrison assented eagerly, and went hot foot to warn Sumner that he must bestir himself if he wanted to keep his post. “Am I as bad as that?” asked Sumner, in consternation. “You’re not bad, but you’ve got to be better.” In place of replying, Sumner swung his sweater to the other shoulder and gazed, a sober, startled expression in his eyes, across the field. Harrison stole a side glance at his friend’s face and took his arm affectionately. “It’s all right, Jack; don’t worry,” he said. “Just play your best game, and I’ll stand back of you.” “You’re wrong there, Harry,” Jack said quietly. “You’ve no right to stand back of me. My playing has been rotten lately, and I know it. I’m fumbling punts and missing tackles all the time. If you’ve got some one else who can do better, I won’t have you keep me on just out of friendship.” “You’re talking rot,” returned Harrison, impatiently. “Stubby Weldon is no use, as you know perfectly well. There’s no one else.” Sumner breathed easier. “I’ll do better if I can,” he said. So McDowell went to Groton to play left end, and Dunn was told to stay at home and rest. He neither stayed at home nor rested. Stover took him to the game with Hargraves and Reeves in his flyer. He amused himself watching the play incognito, and got back before the return train delivered the weary, disheartened team at the station in Boston. Westcott’s fared ill at Groton. Sumner’s game was worse than ever. McDowell strove like a hero against men a whole head taller and many pounds heavier, tackling fiercely and surely whenever he got within striking distance of the ball; but his opponents brushed his interference aside, charged through him in the line and blocked him off from the play almost at will. The score was eighteen to nothing at the end of the first half.