offer was as promptly declined.

"The trouble with my coat," said Amy mournfully when all blandishments
had failed and he was regretfully removing the garment, "is that it
pretty near fits me. I told the man he was making it too snug!"

By this time Canterbury High School had been met and defeated, by the
score of 15 to 6, and the football team had entered on its third week.
Clint still hung on, sometimes much discouraged, and took his share of
hard knocks and gruelling labour. Tyler having returned to his position
on the second, Clint told himself that his last chance to make that team
had vanished. But, just when he had about given up hope of advancement,
a fortuitous combination of briskness on the part of the weather and
"ginger" on the part of Clint produced unexpected results.

The 'varsity team was composed largely of substitutes when scrimmage
with the second began that afternoon, for the Canterbury game three days
before had left a number of the regulars rather played out. Lacking a
left tackle for Saunders' place, Coach Robey took Cupples from the
second, and Captain Turner, of the latter team, filled the vacancy with
Bobbins, who, like Clint, was a new candidate. Clint viewed the
proceeding gloomily. It seemed to him that he was more justly entitled
to a place on the second's list of substitutes than Bobbins. His
judgment was speedily vindicated, for Bobbins put up such a weak
exhibition at left tackle that Turner impatiently sent him off, and the
scrimmage stopped while he looked doubtfully toward the bench.

"I want a tackle," he announced. "Who's there, Danny?"

Danny Moore, the trainer, ran a sharp eye along the blanketed line.
"Tackle!" he cried. "Who's playing tackle?"

Both Clint and another boy jumped forward, and as it happened Danny's
sharp green eye fell first on Clint. "Get in there, then, on the
second, me boy!"

Morton, the assistant manager, who was keeping the record, called as
Clint trotted past him, "Hi! What's the name?"

"Thayer," answered Clint.

"Left tackle," instructed Captain Turner. "Know the signals?"

"Yes," Clint replied, jumping into place. Kingston, a heavily-built,
shock-headed youth whom Clint knew well enough to nod to, played left
guard. "Hi!" he said as Clint poised himself in the line. "Use your arms
and turn him in, boy!"

"Help your guard," instructed Turner, at left end, "and watch for an
inside run."

It was the 'varsity's ball near the second's twenty-f