ted for the signal from his
captain, he was just as good as ever. It takes a great deal to hurt a
rugged youth, who has no bad habits and is in sturdy training.

The active lad who had downed Jack when going at full speed, and nipped
in the bud his brilliant attempt, was Fred Greenwood, only a few months
younger. He was full-back for the Oakdales and their best player.
Furthermore, he was the closest friend of Jack Dudley. In the game it
was war to the knife between them, but in the very crisis of the
terrific struggle neither had a harsh thought or a spark of jealousy of
the other. Fred led the cheering of the opposing eleven when Jack kicked
such a beautiful goal, but gritted his teeth and muttered:

"You did well, my fine fellow, but just try it again--that's all!"

And Jack _did_ try it again, as I have explained, and, tackling him low,
Fred downed him. While the two were apparently suffocating under the
mountain, Fred spat out a mouthful of dirt and said:

"I got you that time, Jack."

"It has that look, but----"

Jack meant to finish his sentence, but at that moment the mountain on
top sagged forward and jammed his head so deeply into the earth that his
voice was too muffled to be clear. Besides, it was not really important
that the sentence should be rounded out, since other matters engaged his
attention. The two friends went through the game without a scratch,
except that Jack's face was skinned along the right cheek, one eye was
blackened, both legs were bruised, and half his body was black and blue,
and it was hard work for him to walk for a week afterward. The condition
of Fred, and indeed of nearly every member of the two elevens, was much
the same.

But what of it? Does a football-player mind a little thing like that?
Rather is he not proud of his scars and bruises, which attest his skill
and devotion to his own club? And then Jack had the proud exultation of
knowing that it was he who really won the championship for his side. As
for Fred, it is true he was disappointed over the loss of the deciding
game, but it was by an exceedingly narrow margin; and he and his
fellow-players, as they had their hair cut so as to make them resemble
civilized beings, said, with flashing eyes and a significant shake of
the head:

"Wait till next year, and things will be different."

Fred Greenwood was the son of a physician of large practice, whose
expectation was that his son would follow the same profession, thou