And now the practice was over for the afternoon.  The whistle between coach’s lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring—–­aching a bit, too—–­came off the field.  Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling.  Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field.  But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed.

Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered.  As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information.

“Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?” asked one man.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Morton promptly.

“Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?” questioned another.

“No; of course not, as yet.  Each day some of the young men develop new points—–­of excellence, or otherwise.  The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division.  In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team.  We shall have it all decided within a few days.”

“But you’re rather certain,” insisted another, “that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?”

“It would be going too far to say that,” replied Coach Morton slowly.  “The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game.  Our judgment is even more reliable after they’ve been through the second game.”

By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate.  Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them.  The kicker was still on hand.

Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence.  There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries.

“He’s bent on killing the officer!  Run!”

“Look out!  Here he comes!  Scoot!”

“He’s crazy!”

Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all.

Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open.  Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad.  The citizens followed, running and puffing.

Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight.  One of the smallest members of Gridley’s police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street.

Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over.  Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself.  But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him.  The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow.