He subscribed to the school monthly, the Review,—­or, rather, he chipped in with Amy, which produced the same result at half the cost,—­contributed to the Torrence Hall football fund, became a member, though not yet a very active one, of the debating club and paid in his dues, and spent all his October and November allowance in advance, together with most of the money he had in hand, in the purchase of a suit of grey flannel at the local tailoring establishment.  When completed—­of course it couldn’t be paid for at once—­it was at least two sizes too large for him, such being the accepted fashion at Brimfield just then; had the pockets set at rakish angles, exhibited a two-and-a-half-inch cuff at the bottom of the trousers and contained a cunning receptacle for a fountain pen and pencil in the waistcoat, (Clint called it a vest, but the tailor set him right.) Amy viewed that suit with frank envy, for the coat was fully two inches wider across the shoulders than his and the trouser cuffs were deeper.  He tried it on before the glass and promptly offered to buy it of Clint at an advance of two dollars, which 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!”