“You made mistakes, Chester,” said Dick, “and so did most of the others. I’m not trying to place the blame anywhere except on the team as a whole. That’s where it belongs. But I don’t want to see the same mistakes repeated this year. And that’s why I want the fellows to learn football from the ground up. And there are plenty of them who began at the second story,” he added dryly. Lanny laughed. “That’s true, Dick. I felt myself last Fall that Farrell wasn’t paying enough attention to essentials. And we all know that he paid so little heed to the subs that when we wanted them we didn’t have second or third string players who could do anything at all. I’m not trying to put the loss of the game on Farrell, of course, but――well, he did make mistakes. I suppose we all do.” “Of course we do,” responded Dick cheerfully. “Only let’s try and make as few as possible, and by all means let’s make fewer than the other fellow. Will you look after posting those notices, George, the first thing in the morning?” “So will do,” answered the manager. “Want to see ’em?” Dick read them over and approved. “Then that’s all for this time, I guess,” he said, reaching for his crutches. “I’ll be going on. Want a lift, Chester?” “No, thanks, I’ll stay a while longer. Good night, Dick. Here’s hoping!” Dick smiled in the doorway. “Here’s trying,” he corrected. CHAPTER VII CLEARFIELD MEETS DEFEAT Locust Valley High School descended on Clearfield the following Saturday, as Chester Cottrell phrased it, “loaded for b’ar!” She came with some two dozen capable-looking red-stockinged youths, a head coach who had red hair――Dick said that was a dangerous sign!――and a manager who brought joy to the Clearfield supporters by sporting a green alpine hat of the fuzzy variety. Clearfield cheered delightedly when she first laid eyes on that hat, and cheered at intervals throughout the afternoon, whenever the wearer of the hat showed activity. Locust Valley found Clearfield unprepared. The line-up that started the first period for the Purple amazed most of the fellows and displeased those who pretended to be football authorities. Why, in the name of all that was sensible, should Egbert Peyton be playing right tackle? Equally incongruous to them was the presence of George Tupper at right half, of Pete Robey at left guard and of Ambrose Smith at right end. “It’s a wonder,” some critics grumbled, “he’s let Lanny White play!”