"Hang you, _shiver_!" and Mortimer fairly howled out the word. He started toward Andy, with raised arm and clenched fist.

Among the possessions disturbed by the intruders was Andy's favorite baseball bat, which he had brought with him. Instinctively, as he retreated a step, his fingers clutched it. He swung it around and held it in readiness. Mortimer recoiled, and Andy, seeing his advantage, cried:

"Get out of here! All of you. Come on, fellows, put 'em out!"

He raised the bat above his head, without the least intention in the world of using it, but the momentum swung it from his hand and it struck Mortimer on the forehead.

The lad who had led the "rough house" attack staggered for a moment, and then, blubbering, sank down in a heap on the floor.

A sudden silence fell. In an instant Andy had sunk down on his knees beside his enemy and was feeling his pulse and heart. There was only a slight bruise on the forehead.

"You--you've killed him!" whimpered one of the soph.o.m.ores.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Dunk. "He's only over-excited." This was putting it mildly. Mortimer had been "celebrating," and had really fainted.

"That was only a love tap," went on Dunk. "Chuck a little water in his face and he'll be all right."

This was done and proved to be just what was needed. Mortimer opened his eyes.

"What--what happened?" he asked, weakly. "Where--where am I?"

"Where you don't belong," replied Dunk, sharply. "It's your move--get out!"

"You--you struck me!" went on Mortimer, accusingly to Andy.

"No, indeed, I did not! I thought you were coming for me, and so I raised the bat. It slipped."

"I guess that's right, old man," said one of the soph.o.m.ores, frankly. "I saw it. Mort has been going it too heavily. We'll get him out of here.

No offense, I hope," and he looked around the dismantled room. "This is the usual thing."

"Oh, all right," said Dunk. "We're not kicking. I guess we held up our end."

"You sure did," returned one of the soph.o.m.ores, as he glanced at the wilted Mortimer. "Come on, fellows."

Andy, feeling easier now that he was sure Mortimer was not badly hurt, looked at the other lads. Two of them he recognized as the ones who had been with Gaffington when the loss of the money was discovered. Andy wondered whether it had been found, but he did not like to ask.

"I--I'll get you for this! I'll fix you!" growled Mortimer, as his chums led him out of the room. "You--you----" and he swayed unsteadily, gazing at Andy.

"Oh, dry up and come on!" advised Len Scott. "We'll go downtown and have some fun."

They withdrew and the dazed freshmen began helping Andy and Dunk straighten up the room. It took some time and it was late when they finished. Then, thinking the day had been strenuous enough, Andy and Dunk declined invitations to go out, and got ready for bed.

So ended Andy's first day at Yale.

There was a hurried run to chapel next morning, and Andy, who had to finish arranging his scarf on the way, found that he was not the only tag-ender. Chapel was not over-popular.

That Len Scott did not recover his lost money was made evident the next day, for there were several notices posted in various places offering a reward for the return of the bills. Andy heard, indirectly, that Len and Mortimer made half-accusations against the freshmen they had "frisked"

earlier in the evening, and had been soundly trounced for their impudence.

Andy told Dunk of his connection in the affair and was advised to keep quiet, which Andy thought wise to do. But the loss of the money did not seem to be of much permanent annoyance to Len, for a few days later he was again spending royally.

Andy began now to settle down to his life at Yale. He was duly established in his room with Dunk, and it was the congregating place of many of their freshmen friends. Andy and Dunk continued to eat at the "joint" in York street, though our hero made up his mind that he would shift to University Hall at the first opportunity. He hoped Dunk would come with him, but that was rather doubtful.

"I can try, anyhow," thought Andy.

Our hero did not find the lessons and lectures easy. There was a spirit of hard work at Yale as he very soon found out, and he had not as much leisure time as he had antic.i.p.ated, which, perhaps, was a good thing for him. But Andy wanted to do well, and he applied himself at first with such regularity that he was in danger of becoming known as a "dig." But he was just saved from that by the influence of Dunk, who took matters a little easier.

Following the episode of the "rough house," Andy did not see Mortimer for several days, and when he did meet him the latter took no notice of our hero.

"I'm just as pleased," Andy thought. "Only it looks as though he'd make more trouble."

Candidates for the football team had been called for, and, as Andy had made good at Milton, he decided to try for at least a place on the freshman team.

So then, one crisp afternoon, in company with other candidates, all rather in fear and trembling, he hopped aboard a trolley to go out to Yale Field.

Dunk was with him, as were also Bob, Ted, and Thad, who likewise had hopes. There was talk and laughter, and admiring and envying glances were cast at the big men--those who had played on the varsity team last year. They were like the lords of creation.

The car stopped near the towering grandstands that hemmed in the gridiron, and Andy swarmed with the others into the dressing rooms.

"Lively now!" snapped Holwell, one of the coaches. "Get out on the field, you fellows, and try tackling the dummy."

A grotesque figure hung from a cross beam, and against this the candidates hurled themselves, endeavoring to clasp the elusive knees in a hard tackle. There were many failures, some of the lads missing the figure entirely and sliding along on their faces. Andy did fairly well, but if he looked for words of praise he was disappointed.

This practice went on for several days, and then came other gridiron work, falling on the ball, punting and drop kicking. Andy was no star, but he managed to stand out among the others, and there was no lack of material that year.

Then came scrimmage practice, the tentative varsity eleven lining up against the scrub. With all his heart Andy longed to get into this, but for days he sat on the bench and watched others being called before him.

But he did not neglect practice on this account.

Then, one joyful afternoon he heard his name called by the coach.

"Get in there at right half and see what you can go," was snapped at him. "Don't fuddle the signals--smash through--follow the interference, and keep your eyes on the ball. Blake, give him the signals."

The scrub quarter took him to one side and imparted a simple code used at practice.

"Now, scrub, take the ball," snapped the coach, "and see what you can do."

There was a quick line-up. Andy was trembling, but he managed to hold himself down. He looked over at the varsity. To his surprise Mortimer was being tried at tackle.

"Ready!" shrilly called the scrub quarter.

"Signal--eighteen--forty-seven--shift--twenty-one--nineteen--"

It was the signal for Andy to take the ball through right tackle and guard. He received the pigskin and with lowered head and hunched shoulders shot forward. He saw a hole torn in the varsity line for him, and leaped through it. The opening was a good one, and the coach raved at the fatal softness of the first-team players. Andy saw his chance and sprinted forward.

But the next instant, after covering a few yards, he was fiercely tackled by Mortimer, who threw him heavily. He fell on Andy, and the breath seemed to leave our hero. His eyes saw black, and there was a ringing in his ears as of many bells.

CHAPTER XIII