ONLY a week remained before the first league game—that with Newbury. Having already had experience in the position, and being a lad who used his eyes and ears more than his lips, Hardie needed very little coaching to fit well into the game at left end. Though he lacked Harrison’s sureness in play, as well as the instinctive readiness in translating signals into action which is to be expected of one who has practiced long in a single position, he was better than Harrison in making holes and quite as fast in getting down the field. Each showed a fine keenness of scent after the ball in the enemy’s hands; each was master of the art which belongs especially to a good end, of appearing where he is most useful, and not somewhere else. Deprived of the support of the first team and handicapped by the weakness of the second, Dunn made an inconspicuous figure in the practice. When on the first, he had at times, under favorable conditions, shown effective dash and vigor; degraded to the second, he became sulky and listless. Little remained of the aggressiveness of the early days but a chronic ugliness which manifested itself in fault-finding and in the practice of certain mean tricks which he had learned at a former school. Sumner’s conduct stood out in strong contrast. Having undertaken to furnish the school a quarter-back better than himself, he pushed his sacrifice to its full limit. He drilled Mac in signals, schooled him in receiving and passing—a part of the play in which Sumner himself excelled—and put him in possession, as far as was possible, of such facts respecting likely plays and dangers to be avoided as his own experience had furnished. Harrison immediately made him captain of the second eleven, and in this capacity he went energetically to work to build up a team which should give the first the best possible practice. By this course, it is safe to say, he gained more respect among the boys whose opinion was worth having than if he had kept his place and won a game. When kid-brother Dick, who, imp-like, found amusement in his elder’s misfortune, referred slightingly to Jack as having been “fired,” Mike McKay threatened to lick him on the spot. “You’re a big fool, Dick Sumner, or you’d know that it’s a lot harder thing to get off a team of your own accord when you’re on it, than to get put on when you’re off. I’d be proud of him if he was my brother. Besides, he’ll get back.” “The team’s playing a lot better since he’s off; everybody says so,” answered Dick, bound to maintain his position, yet secretly pleased at this authoritative recognition of his brother’s merits. “It isn’t because he’s off, it’s because Jason Dunn’s off. He never was any good. I knew it all the time. He’s afraid of any fellow his size.” Dick had nothing to say in favor of Jason Dunn, so he took another tack. “Newbury’ll beat ’em anyway, so what difference does it make?”