At blast of the whistle the pigskin was promptly in play again, both teams starting in with Indian yells. There was plenty of enthusiasm, but little or no skill. The thing became so mixed up that Len ran closer.
A human heap formed. Greg Holmes was somewhere down near the bottom of that mix-up, holding on to the ball for all he was worth. Over him sprawled struggling Rangers and fighting Rustlers. Other players, from both teams, darted forward, hurling themselves onto the heap with immense enthusiasm.
"The ball is down," remarked one eager young spectator disgustedly. "Len oughter blow his whistle."
"Yes, where's the whistle?" demanded other close-by spectators.
From somewhere away down toward the bottom of the heap came Len Spencer's muffled remark:
"I'll blow the whistle all right, if half a hundred of you Indians will get off my face for a minute!"
"Come out of that tangle, all of you," ordered Tom Craig, after pulling himself out of the squirming heap of boys. "It's against the rules to smother the referee to death. He has to be killed painlessly."
When the tangle had been straightened out Greg Holmes was found to be still doubled up, holding doggedly to the pigskin that had been his to guard.
"Get ready for the next snap-back," ordered Captain Dick.
"Don't do anything of the sort," countermanded Len. "I can see that what you youngsters need more than play, just at present, is a working knowledge of the rules. So listen, and I'll introduce you to a few principles of the game."
After ten minutes of earnest talk Len Spencer allowed the ball to be put once more in play.
At one time it was discovered that Craig, reinforced by enthusiastic onlookers from the sidelines, had seventeen men in his team. Dick, on the other hand, kept an alert eye to see that no more than eleven ranged up with his team.
"Now, that's enough for the first day," called out Len at last. "Neither side won, but the Rangers had by far the better of it. Now, before you fellows play to-morrow I advise you all to do some earnest studying of the rules of the game."
"Don't make too much fun of us in the 'Blade,' will you, Mr. Spencer?" begged Dick. "We really want to get a good Central Grammar eleven at work. We want to play the other Grammar Schools in town."
"Oh, no one but a fool could find it in his heart to make fun of boys who display as much earnestness as you youngsters showed to-day," Spencer replied soothingly.
"It's the first time we ever tried real play, you know," Dick went on.
"Yes; and you'll have to do a lot more practising before you can convince any one that you are doing any real playing," Len nodded. "Go after the rules. Memorize 'em. And watch the High School crowd play football. That will teach you a lot."
"I know we need it," Dick sighed. "But then, you see, Grammar School football is a brand-new thing."
"Why, now I come to think of it, I don't believe I ever did hear before of a Grammar School eleven," Len Spencer admitted.
At least twenty other boys followed Dick and his chums from the field on the way home.
"Say, Dick," called Tom Craig, "is the Central Grammar team going to have a uniform?"
"Why, I suppose we must have one," Dick answered.
"Where are we going to get the money?"
Dick looked blank at that. A football uniform costs at least a few dollars, and who ever heard of an average Grammar School boy having a few dollars, all his own to spend?
"I hadn't thought of that," muttered Prescott. "Oh, well, we'll have to find some way of getting uniforms. We've got to have 'em. That's all there is to it."
"'Where there's a will there's a way,'" quoted Tom Reade blithely.
But most of the fellows shook their heads.
"We can't get uniforms," declared several of the older eighth-grade boys.
"Then, if we can't we'll have to play without uniforms," Dick maintained. "We've got to play somehow. I hope you fellows won't go and lose your enthusiasm. Let's all hang together for football."
One by one the other boys dropped off, until only Dick and his five chums were left at a corner on Main Street.
"I'm afraid a lot of the fellows will go and let their enthusiasm cool over night," declared Harry Hazelton.
"Remember, fellows, we've got to have our football eleven, and we've got to keep at it until we can really play a good game," insisted Dick.
"But what if most all the fellows drop out?" demanded Dan Dalzell. "You know, that's the trouble with Grammar School fellows. They don't stick."
"There are six of us, and we'll all stick," proclaimed Dick. "That means that we've got to get only five other fellows to stick. Surely we can do that, if we've got hustle enough in us to play football at all."
"Oh, we'll have our eleven somehow," insisted Dave positively.
"How about our uniforms?" Tom Reade wanted to know.
"We'll have them, too," asserted Dick. "I don't know just how we'll do it, but we'll manage."
Dick Prescott and his chums were in much better spirits after that brief consultation. Then they separated, each going to his home for supper.
Dick's father and mother were proprietors of the most popular bookstore in Gridley. It stood on one of the side streets, just a little way down from Main Street. Over the store were the living rooms of the family. Dick was an only child.
After stowing away such an evening meal as only a healthy boy knows how to take care of, Dick reached for his cap.
"I'm going out to meet the fellows, mother, if you don't mind," said young Prescott.
"I'm sorry to say that there's just one matter that will delay you for perhaps twenty minutes," replied Mrs. Prescott. "Mrs. Davis was in and ordered some books this afternoon. She wants them delivered this evening, so I said I'd send you around with them. That won't bother you much, will it?"
"Not so much but that I'll get over it," laughed the boy. "Maybe I'll pick up one or two of the fellows, anyway."
"Richard, I'd rather you'd deliver the books before you meet any of your friends," urged Mrs. Prescott. "The books are worth about ten dollars, and if you have some of your friends along you may begin skylarking, and some of the books may get damaged."
"All right, mother. I'll go alone."
Off Dick started with the bundle, whistling blithely. All his thoughts were centered on the forming of the Central Grammar eleven, and that plan now looked like a winner.
"We won't let the High School fellows have all the fun," young Prescott mused as he hurried along.
He reached the rather large and handsome Davis house, rang the bell, delivered his books and then started back. His evening, up to nine o'clock, was now his own to do with as he pleased.
Suddenly the thought of the happenings at noon came back to his mind.
"What a mean fellow that Dexter is!" muttered the Grammar School boy. "I've heard folks say that Dexter is mean enough, and scoundrel enough, to kill his wife one of these days. Whew! I should think it would hurt to be so all-fired mean, and to have everyone despising you, as folks seem to despise Dexter. I hope the upper court will give him six months in jail, instead of one."
Prescott was moving along a dark street now. It bordered a broad field, back of which stood a deep grove. At the street end of the field was a neat, solid, stone wall.
Had Dick been looking ahead all the time he would have seen a man, coming down the street, start, take a swift look at the boy, and then dart behind a tree.