third-string players were having signal work on the practice
gridiron.

In the stands a fairly good-sized gathering of onlookers was applauding
listlessly at such infrequent times as the maroon-and-grey team gave it
any excuse. Thus far, however, exciting episodes had been scarce. The
weather, which was enervatingly warm, affected both elevens and the
playing was sluggish and far from brilliant. The Brimfield backs, with
the exception of Carmine, who was always on edge, conducted themselves
as if they were at a rehearsal, accepting the ball in an indifferent
manner and half-heartedly plunging at the opposing line or jogging
around the ends. As the first half drew to a close both goal lines were
still unthreatened and from all indications would remain so for the rest
of the contest. A slight thrill was developed, though, just before the
second period came to an end when a Thacher half-back managed to get
away outside Crewe and romped half the length of the field before he was
laid low by Carmine. After that there was an exchange of punts and the
teams trotted off to the gymnasium.

Don left the bench with the others, but did not follow them to the
dressing room. Instead, he strolled down the running track and across to
the practice field, where Tim was superintending the signal practice.
Don joined him and followed the panting, perspiring players down the
field. Tim's conversation was rather difficult to follow, since he
continually interrupted himself to instruct or admonish the toilers.

"I feel like a slave-driver, pushing these poor chaps around in this
heat. How's the game going? No score? We must be playing pretty punk, I
guess. What sort of a team has--Jones, you missed your starting signal
again. For the love of mud, keep your ears open!--Thacher must be as bad
as we are. Who's playing in my place? Gordon? Is he doing anything?--Try
them on that again, McPhee, will you? Robbins, you're supposed to block
hard on that and not let your man through until the runner's got into
the line.--I could have played today all right, but that idiot, Danny,
wouldn't let me. My knee's perfectly all right."

"Then why do you limp?" asked Don innocently.

"Force of habit," said Tim. "What time is it?"

Don consulted his silver watch and announced a quarter to four.

"Thank goodness! That'll do, fellows. You'd better get your showers
before you try to see that game. If Danny catches you over there the way
you are he will jus