The weather was clear and crisp now, and the grammar and high-school boys could talk of nothing but football. The primary grades, of course, were considered too little to have a team, but nevertheless they knew a good deal about the game and secretly thought they had just as fine players among them as the older boys.

"Let's go round and watch 'em practice," suggested Palmer Davis to Bobby after school, the afternoon of the day he had seen Mr. Carter.

"Meg will tell your mother. Won't you, Meg?"

"Yes, of course," agreed Meg sunnily. "Go on, Bobby, she won't care."

"I'll be back by five," called Bobby after her.

Meg wanted to see the football teams practice, but she was attending to her music very diligently and practiced her hour after school faithfully. She meant to be able to play a march for a.s.sembly as soon as she was asked.

Bertrand Ashe joined Palmer and Bobby at the corner.

"Stop at my house a minute," he urged, "and I'll get my football. We can have a little game."

Bertrand had a cousin at boarding school who always sent him the nicest presents for Christmas. He had a knack of knowing what a boy wanted, and this football was a gift from him.

The football under Bertrand's arm, the three boys walked on to the large vacant lot back of the grammar-high-school building, which was used by the teams as a football field.

"Get some more of the fellows," directed Palmer. "My, it's kind of muddy, isn't it?"

The field was a little soft, but the two teams were out practicing, and a crowd of enthusiastic followers, in small groups about the lot, were watching them. Palmer, who was a leader among the younger boys, succeeded in rounding up more of their cla.s.s to complete his team, among them Tim Roon and his inseparable friend, Charlie Black.

"Come on over in this corner," said Palmer, beckoning them to follow him. "Old Hornbeck's down to watch the high-school squad, and like as not he'll order us off if he sees us. Those high-school boys think they own the earth."

There was a ruling, as Palmer knew, that the smaller boys should keep off the field while the others were playing football. The rule was made to keep them from getting in the way and possibly hurt. But the primary lads were sure they were being treated unfairly.

"Line up," ordered Palmer, trying to read a crumpled paper he had taken from his pocket. "Here's a signal I copied for us to try."

The boys had only a hazy notion of the way a real game of football was played, but they kept their eyes desperately on the ball. They had no team to play against, as Palmer said it was hard enough to get boys for one team, let alone two, but they had often had great fun knocking the ball around among their own eleven.

"Six-ten-nine-nought," read Palmer.

He dashed forward, Bobby after him. Together they fell on the ball and rolled over. Then Bobby rose with it tucked neatly under his arm, and began to run. Tim Roon and Charlie Black tried to head him off, slipped, and tripped him.

Bobby had fallen on the ball and he meant to keep it under him. He managed to shake off Charlie Black and half rose, watching his chance to run. Just as he was ready for a dash, a stout, heavy shoe struck him in the side and knocked him down again.

"Foul!" shrieked Bertrand excitedly. "Tim Roon, you're a cheat!"

Bobby struggled to his feet, blind with anger.

"You--you----" he sputtered, and rushed at Tim fiercely.

CHAPTER XI

OLD HORNBECK'S PICTURE

Tim met Bobby half way, and they grappled. The other boys closed in around them.

"Pound him good, Bobby!" advised Palmer excitedly. "The sneak! Kicking a player like that!"

"Sit on his head," squeaked Bertrand in a funny little voice excitement always gave him. "Sit on his head, the big coward!"

Bobby did not even hear these. He was. .h.i.tting wherever he could, and grunting like a small pig as Tim rained blows upon him. Tim was so much older and stronger that all the advantage was on his side.

Charlie Black was hovering around the outside of the circle, not daring to say anything for Tim, but hoping his chum would win.

"Hornbeck!" suddenly cried Charlie in wild alarm. "Hey, fellows, here comes old Hornbeck. If he catches us----"

Charlie never finished his sentence, but took to his heels, followed by the rest of the boys. Only Tim and Bobby, rolling over and over on the ground, had not heard the warning.

"Quit this this instant, I tell you!" roared a hard voice, and some one grasped Bobby by his collar, jerking him to his feet. "Fighting like two wildcats! What do you mean by such performances on the school grounds?"

It was Mr. Hornbeck, and he had Bobby in one hand and Tim in the other, and as he spoke he shook each boy violently.

"What do you call it you're doing?" he roared again.

Tim ran out an impudent tongue, but said nothing. The committeeman's eyes under his high silk hat glared at Bobby.

"We were just playing football," stammered Bobby hastily.

"Football!" cried Mr. Hornbeck, giving each of them a tremendous shake. "Football! You young imps! Don't tell me you don't know of the rule that primary-grade boys are to stay off the field during football practice. If I ever catch you around here again I'll have you up before Mr. Carter. He'll teach you to remember."

Still retaining his grip on their collars, Mr. Hornbeck marched them across the lot to the street.

"Now scoot," he ordered.

They needed no second command. Tim fled up the street and Bobby ran down, each as fast as he could go.

"My stars and stripes!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sam Layton, meeting Bobby as the boy came running in the driveway, "is that what they do to you at school? Learning must be rather hard work."

No wonder Sam was surprised. Bobby's coat was torn, his blouse grimed with mud. A great bruise was on one cheek, and his cap was crushed and dirty. His hands and face looked as though he had been rolling in the mud, which, as we know, he had.

"I had a fight," explained Bobby coolly. "I guess I do look a little dirty."

"Come on out to the garage and I'll brush you off. No sense in scaring your mother stiff," said Sam. "Who won the fight?"

"I guess old Hornbeck did," answered Bobby thoughtfully, rubbing a finger that was sore from handling the ball. "Anyway, he had a lot to say about it." And then he gave Sam a few particulars as he cleaned himself.

A few days later Meg and Bobby were going home from school when Meg suddenly remembered that she had forgotten her books.

"Well, I suppose we can go back and get 'em," grumbled Bobby, "but why won't to-morrow do? What do you want them for to-night?"

"I told you," said Meg patiently. "Mother is going to cover them with calico, the way she had her books when she was little. Some of the covers are so torn I hate to have to use them."

"All right," sighed Bobby. "We'll go back. I think girls have the worst memories!"