The boy in the green sweater, if left to his own devices, would have passed Willard some fifteen feet away, but curiosity got the better of the latter and when the other was opposite to him he spoke.

“Hello,” he said.

The fellow stopped, turned his head and viewed the boy on the stone wall, quite without surprise, for a long moment. Then he shifted his gaze to the forked stick that he still held extended before him and shook his head slowly.

“I suppose I haven’t got the power,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“What power?” asked Willard.

“Why, the power, or whatever you like to call it, to make this thing work. Have you ever tried it?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” answered Willard, getting down from the wall. “What’s the branch for?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a water-finder?” Willard shook his head, puzzled. “Well, you take a piece of witch-hazel or willow – some say alder or ash will do – and hold it like this by the top branches and walk over the ground. When you come to a place where there’s water below, the lower end there will tilt downwards. I’ve seen it done twice.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that, but I never saw it tried,” answered Willard interestedly. “I supposed it was just nonsense. Did you ever see it succeed?”

The other nodded soberly. “Both times. Old Man Hildreth, back home, did it twice one time for my father, and when we dug where he told us to we came to water. One time it was a regular spring that we found and the other time it was more like a well. I mean we had to dig pretty far down before we came to the water. Old Man Hildreth used witch-hazel, and that’s what I’ve got here. I had to hunt nearly an hour before I found any.”

“Let’s see.” Willard took the Y-shaped piece and looked at it curiously. There was, however, nothing about its appearance to indicate the power attributed to it by the boy in the green sweater. Willard shrugged. “I guess you’ve got to go where you know there’s water,” he said. “It doesn’t look to me as if there’d be much water on top of this hill.”

“You mostly find springs on hillsides,” replied the other mildly, “and that’s why I’ve been looking around here. Maybe I’m too high up now, though.”

Willard seized the branches as he had seen the other hold them and experimentally walked a few steps forward. Nothing happened. For that matter, he hadn’t expected anything would happen.

“You must hold them tight,” advised the other, “so you’ll feel the influence.”

Willard gripped harder and circled about the green sweater. Once, possibly because his muscles were so tense, he thought he felt a tremor, but, when he turned and went back over the spot, the phenomenon was not repeated. “Look here,” he asked, “what do you want to find water for, anyway? There’s a whole river just full of it down there.”

“I wanted to see if I could do it,” answered the other.

“Oh!” Willard looked at the witch-hazel wand in his hands and down the gently sloping meadow. “Let’s go down there and try it,” he suggested finally.

“Very well.” Side by side, Willard still holding the water-finder, the two went down the hill. Willard’s countenance, although he didn’t know it, wore an expression of concentration and expectancy. At the foot of the hill his companion seated himself on a rock and Willard began a systematic exploration of the surrounding territory. When ten minutes or so had passed it dawned on him that he was extremely warm and that, while there was bound to be water underground, since the river was not far distant and very little lower, the forked stick had absolutely failed to register even a tremor of interest! He joined the youth in the green sweater and handed the stick to him in disgust.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Why, I could find water two feet from here if I had a shovel! That’s just bunk!”

“I suppose you and I haven’t the right powers of divination,” replied the other composedly. “I’ll try again some day with a piece of willow.”

Willard said “Humph!” as he seated himself on the rock, and a minute’s silence ensued. Then: “I’ve seen you at school, haven’t I?” Willard asked.

“I presume so. My name is McNatt, and I’m in Upton. What is your class?”

“Junior,” replied Willard. “This is my first year. I suppose you are in the senior class.”

McNatt nodded. “I’ve been here four years. This is my fifth. I was sick my sophomore year and had to go home twice. Once I was away two months and another time I was gone five weeks. That put me behind and I had to take the year over. I guess I could have made it up, but the doctor wouldn’t allow it. I don’t mind at all, though. I like it here. The only thing is that the fellows I came along with have gone and I don’t know many now. But then I never was much for making acquaintances.”

Willard viewed him curiously. McNatt was perhaps nearly nineteen, he thought. His head was large and his features prominent: a very beak-like nose extended well over a wide mouth, his rather pale eyes, which might have been either green or blue for all Willard could determine, were deepset under heavy brows and his chin jutted out almost aggressively. But in spite of his features McNatt did not impress Willard as being a forceful youth, nor did his expression, voice or manners suggest it. He had a pleasant, deep voice and spoke slowly, almost hesitantly, and, while he didn’t smile frequently, his countenance bespoke good humor. He had very dark-brown hair, and there was a good deal of it, and it was perceptibly wavy under the rim of his straw hat. The straw hat, like the rest of his attire, had seen better days. In fact, McNatt’s trousers, of blue serge that had changed to plum-color on the knees, would not have greatly interested an old clothes man! The garment that clothed the upper part of his body was equally disreputable, a dark-green coat-sweater with many darns and one pocket that was trying hard to get away. The shoes alone appeared to be of recent origin, but as they were caked with mud along the soles the fact would have escaped casual observation.

“What made you think of this stunt?” asked Willard, nodding at the witch-hazel stick.

McNatt’s countenance expressed faint surprise. “Why, I’ve always been very interested in scientific matters,” he replied gravely.

“Oh,” said Willard, “do you call that science?”

“I’m not sure,” answered the other slowly. “The diving-rod, as it is sometimes called, has been in use a great many years both for the discovery of water and metals. Taking science in its broader sense of truth ascertained and systematized, almost anything not capable of classification as an art may well be termed a science. While the affinity existing between the diving-rod and water or metals underground may be viewed as a phenomenon, yet when we make use of that affinity to produce systematic results we enter the realm of science.”

Willard blinked. “I – I suppose so,” he agreed vaguely. “Can you find gold that way, too?”

“It has been done, I think,” said McNatt. “I haven’t been able to find much data on that subject, though.”

Willard looked more respectfully at the witch-hazel switch. “I guess it wouldn’t be much use looking for gold around here, though,” he said. “How would you know whether you had found gold or water if the thing dipped?”

McNatt considered in silence a moment. Then he shook his head. “I can’t say,” he replied. “Perhaps you couldn’t tell. Though, as gold is generally located away from water you would hardly expect that the diving-rod was indicating anything but gold.”

“Isn’t gold sometimes found in the beds of rivers and streams?” asked Willard. “Seems to me your diving-rod would get sort of mixed, wouldn’t it? And how about silver? Can you find silver that way, too?”

McNatt looked almost distressed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I haven’t devoted any study to the use of the diving-rod in the location of metals. Your questions open up an interesting field, though, and some time I’ll go into the subject thoroughly. And still, as I haven’t yet demonstrated the – ah – power of the instrument in the finding of water, possibly it would be idle to extend the experiments. There’s one possible explanation of failure that just occurs to me. Old Man Hildreth said he used a hazel stick. He didn’t say whether it was the hazel of the nut tribe – ”

“I think it must have been,” said Willard emphatically.

“Or the witch-hazel. The ordinary hazel is a member of the oak family, but does the witch-hazel belong to the same family? There are certain similarities between the two, and yet they may not be botanically related.” McNatt presented a puzzled countenance to Willard. “What would be your opinion?”

“Search me,” said Willard cheerfully. “I thought a hazel was a hazel.”

“I’m afraid not. That may account for my lack of success. You see, I jumped to the conclusion that the witch-hazel was the proper one, probably because the word ‘witch’ suggested – ah – divination. So I may have been wrong.” McNatt’s face cleared and he looked quite cheerful again. “I’ll have to try again. Only – ” He paused and pursed his lips dubiously. “Do you happen to know if the hazel grows about here?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” said Willard.

“Nor I. I’ll have to look that up when I get back. It’s strange that the encyclopedias give so little information on the subject of the diving-rod. I wonder – ” McNatt fell silent, and after a minute Willard arose.

“Well, I guess I’ll be getting back,” he announced. It was, he concluded, too late to meet Martin and the others now.

“Back?” repeated McNatt, coming out of his trance. “Yes, that’s so. It must be – ” He searched under the edge of his sweater for something evidently not there. “Have you a watch? I seem to have forgotten mine.”

“Twenty to five,” said Willard.

“Then we’d better start.” McNatt gazed thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully at his witch-hazel stick and laid it gently on the rock. “I may try that again some time, but I rather think I was mistaken; I rather think it should have been the corylus americana.”

“Something nutty sounds more likely,” said Willard gravely. To his surprise, the other chuckled.

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” he replied. “You see, some of the fellows call me McNutt. By the way, what’s your name?”

Willard told him and McNatt nodded. “Harmon: the name’s familiar. I remember now. There is a fellow of that name who plays football. Quite a remarkable full-back, I think.”

“Gordon Harmon? Did you know him?”

“I read about him. He played on one of the high school teams in New York City, I believe. Is he a relation of yours?”

“Brother.”

“Really?” McNatt turned and viewed Willard with real interest. “Well! Think of that! I dare say you’re sort of proud of him.”

“I suppose so,” replied Willard doubtfully. “I don’t think I ever thought whether I am or not,” he added, laughing.

“You should be if what they say of him is true,” said McNatt earnestly. “I followed his work last season with much interest. A natural-born full-back, I’d call him. By the way, do you play, too?”

“A little. I’m out for the team.”

“Full-back? But no, you’d be too light. End, maybe?”

“Half,” said Willard. “I’ve played there some.”

“Hm.” McNatt looked him over critically. “Yes, you might do well there. You look fast. Ten pounds more wouldn’t hurt you, though.”

“You talk like a football chap yourself,” said Willard. “Do you play?”

McNatt shook his head. “I used to, but I got – ah – out of sympathy with it. You see, Harmon, football is capable of being reduced to an exact science, but played in the haphazard manner that they play it here it lacks interest. I haven’t played recently.”

“Well, I don’t see how you can reduce it to any exact science,” Willard objected. “Of course, if you knew beforehand what the other fellow was going to do – ”

“You miss my meaning,” interrupted the older boy. “See here, Harmon. You start with a playing space so many yards in length and so many yards in width. You oppose a team of eleven players with a team of a like number. You may do a certain number of things legitimately. Each situation developed in the course of a football game calls for a certain move. But that’s what coaches and quarter-backs don’t realize. They think that a situation is unprecedented and, instead of making the move that is called for, they confusedly try something they shouldn’t, a play never intended for the situation.”

“But how the dickens are you going to know what play the situation does call for?” demanded Willard. “The situations make themselves, and they’re all different!”

“Not at all. There are only a certain number of situations that can eventuate and they are quite capable of tabulation. For the purpose of argument, suppose we set the number at three hundred. Very well, there are consequently three hundred correct moves. Suppose it is A’s ball on B’s twenty-yard-line on third down with five to go, B has demonstrated that gains between her tackles are practically impossible. A is weak at kicking field-goals, but has proved capable of gaining on runs outside B’s right tackle. B has a good defense against forward-passes and has defeated A’s attempts to gain that way. Now, then, what is A’s correct play?”

“Why, a skin-tackle play, of course, at the weak end,” replied Willard. “At least, theoretically. But suppose the back who carries the ball slips or turns in too soon or – ”

“No science, no matter how exact, is proof against the fallibility of those engaged in its demonstration,” said McNatt gravely. “The point I am trying to prove is that here is a situation that is neither unprecedented nor novel and that, capable of being recognized, has its proper solution which may be scientifically applied.”

“Maybe,” said Willard, “but, gee, how many situations would there be to recognize? About a thousand, I’d say!”

“Many less, I think. I’ve never attempted to tabulate them, but it would not be a difficult task. Science has performed far more difficult feats.”

“I dare say, but – but – look here, McNatt, if each team played football like that, I mean if each team had the right answer to every situation that might happen, why, gee, neither one would win!”

“You’re wrong, Harmon. You’re forgetting the element of human fallibility. Put two chess players at the board, give them each a similar knowledge of the game, and what happens? Do they play to a tie? Very seldom. One wins and the other loses. So it would be in football with each team applying science. One team would excel because she applied it more exactly, perhaps more instantly.”

Willard shook his head. “It sounds crazy to me,” he said. “And I don’t think I’d want to play if everything was cut-and-dried like that. Hang it, McNatt, it’s accident and chance that makes the game interesting.”

“I don’t agree with you. I think those things retard the development of it, Harmon. As it is now, individual skill rules. Why, look here. Suppose armies fought that way. Suppose a field general said to his subordinates: ‘I don’t know how to meet this situation. You fellows see what you can do. Maybe we can push back his left wing or maybe we can punch a hole in his center, do something, but don’t bother me!’”

Willard laughed. “That’s not a fair comparison, though, McNatt,” he answered. “At least, in football, the coach or the quarter-back has a plan and carries it out, even if it isn’t the right one!”

“A wrong plan is no better than no plan. Haphazard football is just as silly as haphazard war would be, Harmon. Fellows who teach football talk about the science of it, but they don’t study it. Their science begins and ends with finding out the other fellow’s weak spot and attacking it.”

“Sounds like pretty good science to me,” said Willard.

“It is good as far as it goes, but it’s only the beginning. Well, here’s my way. I’m glad to have met you, Harmon. I’d be glad to continue the subject sometime if you care to visit me. I’m in Number 49. I’ve got some things that might interest you, too; rather a good collection of minerals gathered around here, for one thing: nearly two hundred specimens.”

“Thanks, I’ll look you up some time,” said Willard, “but I guess I’ve had enough of that argument. It’s too deep for me, McNatt! So long.”

Willard turned toward Haylow and, when he had gone a little way, looked back. McNatt had stopped near Lawrence Hall and was staring up into the sky. All Willard could see there was a streaky white cloud. He shook his head as he went on again. “‘McNutt’ is right, I guess,” he muttered.

CHAPTER X
ALTON SQUEEZES THROUGH

Instead of going on to Haylow, Willard entered Lykes and knocked at the door of Number 2. As he had suspected, Martin was there. So were Bob and Joe and Don Harris, Joe’s roommate. Don was only seventeen, although his size made him look older, and, like Joe, was a senior. His full name was Donald, but no one ever called him that. He played first base on the school nine and played it well.

Willard had to hear about the expedition to the new railway bridge and how Stacey and Bob had walked out to the end of the highest girder and then had had to sit down before they dared turn around!

“That’s all right,” Don expostulated in reply to the laughter. “That girder was only a foot wide when I started out on it and by the time I was at the end it had shrunk to about half an inch! And when I looked down the river was so far away I could just see it! Gosh, I thought for a minute I’d have to stay there until they’d finished the bridge so I could keep on across it!”

“I wanted to come back on my hands and knees,” confessed Bob, “and I’d have done it if I’d been alone! No more circus stunts for little Robert!”

“What were you doing all the afternoon?” asked Martin presently of Willard, and Willard told of his meeting with McNatt. The incident of the diving-rod amused them all hugely.

“That’s McNutt all over,” laughed Joe. “A couple of years ago someone found him over on that hill beyond Badger’s farm digging a hole. He said he was looking for fossil remains. Said the hill looked to him like a glacial – glacial whatyoucallit – ”

“Moraine,” supplied Bob.

“Yes, moraine. He dug a place big enough for a cellar, I heard, but he never found anything but rocks. He’s a wonder, is Felix McNatt!”

“Is his name really Felix?” asked Martin.

“Sure! And he’s got a middle name that’s worse, only I’ve forgotten it.”

“Felix Adelbert,” said Don: “Felix Adelbert McNutt – I mean McNatt!”

“McNutt’s better,” laughed Bob. “It suits him perfectly. Remember the time – last spring, wasn’t it? – when he was raising toads and one of them got into bed with the chap who rooms with him – ”

“Rooms with the toad?” asked Martin incredulously.

“No, with McNutt, you jay! What’s his name, Joe?”

“McNutt’s?” asked Joe, with a wink at Martin.

“Oh, you make me tired! Fuller, that’s the chap! Fuller crawled into bed one night and found a toad there ahead of him and told the hall master the next day. He said he didn’t mind having toads hopping around the room, but that having to share his bed with them was almost too much. And faculty agreed with him and McNutt had to get rid of his toads.”

“What the dickens did he want with the things, anyway?” asked Don in disgust. “I wouldn’t touch one for anything!”

“Oh, toads are all right,” answered Joe. “Quite harmless and friendly. McNutt was raising them, it seemed. He’d read somewhere that an able-bodied toad would eat seven million, three hundred and eighty thousand, nine hundred and thirty-three bugs a year. I’m not absolutely certain of the exact number, but it was something like that. Anyway, McNutt figured that if he could raise a few hundred toads he could sell them to farmers and get rich. He said he was trying to develop an improved strain of toads that would be particularly – er – insectivorous: I believe that’s the word.”

“In justice to the gentleman,” said Bob, “it should be stated that it was the – the scientific interest of the thing rather than the pecuniary reward that attracted him. Science is McNutt’s long suit!”

“I think Fuller, or whatever his name is, was most unreasonable,” laughed Don. “Why, the world might be rid of insects by this time if he hadn’t been so cranky! Do toads eat mosquitoes, Joe?”

“I guess so. I know they eat flies, anyway. I saw one do it once. He stopped about a yard away and the fly didn’t even know he was about. Then —zip– out went Mr. Toad’s tongue, like you uncoiled the mainspring of a watch, and the fly was gone!”

“Flew away, probably,” suggested Martin.

“He did not, son! He was in Mr. Toad’s tummy.”

“You say the toad was a yard distant from the fly when the – when the shot was fired?” asked Don.

“Well, maybe a couple of feet,” Joe compromised. “It was a long way.”

“Take off another eighteen inches,” begged Bob earnestly. “I want to believe you, Joseph but two feet – ” He shook his head sadly.

“Go to the dickens! It was two feet if it was an inch. Anyone will tell you that a toad’s tongue is remarkably long.”

“Nobody has to tell me, after that yarn,” replied Bob gravely. “All I’m wondering now is where the toad keeps his tongue when he’s not using it!”

“I told you he coils it up,” laughed Joe, “like a watch spring.”

“It’s a mighty good thing toads can’t talk,” observed Willard. “With a tongue like that, they’d never stop! McNatt asked me to come and see him. He said he had a fine collection of minerals in his room.”

“Minerals? Boy, he’s got enough rocks there to build a house! And bird nests and butterflies and beetles and – and things in jars that make you shudder to look at ’em!” Joe shuddered merely at the memory. “He’s always trying to hatch out moths and things in cigar boxes. Once he had some silk-worms, I remember. Mr. Screven got him to bring them to class one day. Funny things, they were. They didn’t live very long, because McNutt couldn’t get the right sort of leaves for them to eat. They should have had mulberry leaves, I think, and he thought some other sort ought to do just as well, and the worms got mad and went on a hunger strike! Fuller told me once that the room is so full of rubbish that he can’t turn around. Said he was forever finding a family of white mice or striped lizards tucked away in one of his bureau drawers and that he always had to look before he sat down for fear of sitting on something he shouldn’t!”

When the laughter had subsided Willard told of McNatt’s theory regarding scientific football. He found that, as he told it, it didn’t sound as plausible as it had when McNatt explained it, but it certainly aroused amusement. Joe drew a picture of Gil Tarver pulling out a memorandum book and looking up the right play. “Because, you see, not even Gil could ever remember two hundred – was it two hundred, Brand? – three hundred plays. Probably they’d make a rule that a quarter-back must find his plays unassisted and must not consume more than three minutes looking them up! Gil would have a pocket built on his jacket to keep the book in, I suppose.”

“Gosh, suppose it dropped out!” exclaimed Don. “Would he be allowed time-out to look for it?”

“Probably a center would be picked for his light-finger ability,” suggested Bob. “It would be part of his stunt to reach through or around the opposing center and steal the quarter-back’s memorandum book, thus placing the enemy hors de combat!”

“Come on, Brand,” begged Martin. “This is getting wild.”

“Did McNatt ever play football?” asked Don.

“I think so,” Joe answered. “Yes, I know he did. He was out for the team the first year I was here. You remember him, Bob?”

Bob shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard that he did play.”

“Yes, and I think he played the year before that. Something happened to him, though, my freshman year. I guess he had an accident or got sick. I know he wasn’t around long. Seems to me he was trying for half-back. He’s not a bad old scout, Felix Adelbert. Only trouble is, I guess, his brains are sort of scrambled.”

“Addled, maybe,” suggested Martin. “Addle-bert McNutt. Come on, Brand, I’m getting it too!”

“I think I’ll accept his invitation some day,” said Willard, as they crossed to Haylow. “I’d like to see that room of his!”

The occasion didn’t present itself that week, however, for Willard found that life on the football gridiron had suddenly become both real and earnest. Although Coach Cade had four good half-backs at his command, Willard was not overlooked. But Friday he was on an equal footing with Mawson and Moncks, to all appearances, and was certainly in line for first substitute. He didn’t want anything serious or painful to happen to either of those excellent chaps, but he couldn’t help reflecting sometimes that if one or the other was to develop something mild, like whooping cough or German measles, he could bear it with equanimity! Failing the likelihood of anything of the kind happening, however, he set himself earnestly to outdo those rivals in practice. After all, while Mawson was rather a better punter and Moncks was shiftier in a broken field, neither was unbeatable, and Willard kept that fact resolutely in mind and worked hard.

Banning High School came on Saturday and put up a very pretty game against the Gray-and-Gold. In fact, Banning sprang several surprises on the home team, and for a time, during the first of the contest, it looked as though Alton was in for a defeat. Banning was light but fast, and instead of relying on a forward-passing game as she was expected to rely, she met Alton’s own tactics and, from a close, three-abreast formation, shot her backs through the opposing line with discouraging ease. Any place outside guards pleased her, and Alton saw her tackles and ends completely outplayed during the first two periods. Banning’s speed was the secret of her success, and the Gray-and-Gold, heavier and slower, seldom stopped the plays until they were well through her line.

Banning scored first when, near the end of the second quarter, she recovered a short kick on Alton’s forty-six and plunged and knifed her way down to the thirty-one. Fast, snappy playing took the ball there in just seven downs. Mr. Cade ran in a substitute left end and a substitute left tackle then, and Banning slowed up. But she reached the twenty-five-yard line before she was halted. There, it being fourth down, with four to go, she made elaborate preparations for a placement kick. Naturally enough, while guarding against a fake, Alton expected a kick, and team and spectators were alike surprised when, the ball having flown back to quarter and the kicker having swung his long leg, there followed a long side-pass from the quarter to an end, just as Alton charged! It looked to those on the sidelines as if the pigskin went between the legs of the Alton end and tackle as they swept around, but probably it didn’t. In any event, the waiting Banning end caught it neatly and had covered ten yards of the intervening thirty before he was challenged. He shot around the Alton left half and was only brought down when Gil Tarver tackled on the eight yards.

The line-up was squarely on the five, and although the Gray-and-Gold fought desperately there, it took the enemy just three plays to put the ball over. A plunge at the center, with the whole Banning backfield behind the quarter, who carried, yielded most of two yards. Then the full-back ripped around left tackle for as much more, and, on third down, with the other backs running to the right, that troublesome Banning quarter shot through between guard and tackle on the left and put the pigskin just over the last white streak!

The half ended with the score 6 – 0 in the visitor’s favor, and the home team came in for a “panning” from the stands that, deserved or not, was decidedly enthusiastic. However, the team was not suffering for lack of criticism just then, even if it couldn’t hear what the spectators were saying. Coach Cade, although mild-mannered, had a fair command of language and could use it when needs be, and the players listened to some home truths during the half-time.

When the team came back to the field it was noted that Moncks had replaced Cochran at right half, Hutchins had taken Tarver’s place at quarter and a third-string fellow was playing left tackle. Perhaps, though, it was the talk they had listened to rather than the change in the line-up that produced results, for certainly “Hutch” played no better game behind center than Gil had, and the new tackle was far too green to be of much use. That as may be, Alton showed speed from the start and Banning’s backs were stopped at the line instead of beyond it. Also, the Gray-and-Gold took the offensive when the third quarter was a few minutes along and kept it throughout the rest of the game, with the result that the score was tied in the third period, when Moncks got away for a thirty-yard run and a touchdown, and untied at the beginning of the last quarter, when Alton hammered her way from well within her own territory to Banning’s eight yards and then tossed the ball over to Macon between the goal posts. Oddly enough, when Lake kicked an easy goal after the second touchdown, the score became 13 – 6, which was the score of last week’s contest, and 13 – 6 it remained. Martin said he guessed thirteen-six was a habit, but when Mt. Millard School got through with Alton, seven days later, he changed his mind!