The first squad, exhaling a long, deep sigh of relief as one man, set
their faces toward the gymnasium and trotted slowly off, their
canvas-clad legs _swish-swashing_ as they met. Coach Robey walked
further down the sun-baked field to where the nearer of the remaining
four squads was at work.

"Oh, put some pep into it, McPhee!" called the coach as he approached.
"You all look as if you were asleep! Come on now! Wake up! Jones, get up
there. You're away out of position. That's better. Now then, Quarter!
Hold up! What's your down?"

"Third, sir, and four to go."

"All right. Show me what you're going to do with it. Head up, Martin!
Look where you're going."

"36--27--43--86!" grunted the quarter-back. "36----"

"Signal!" cried Gordon, at right half.

McPhee straightened, cast a withering look at the half-back, wiped the
perspiration from the end of his sun-burnt nose and repeated:

"36--27--43----"

Gordon shifted his feet, and--

"Hold up!" barked the coach. "Gordon, don't give the play away. Shifting
your feet like that makes it a cinch for the other fellow. Get your
position now and hold it until the ball's passed. All right. Once more,
Quarter."

"36--27--43--86!" wailed McPhee. "36--27----"

The pigskin shot into his waiting hands, Gordon leaped forward, took it
at a hand-pass and ran out behind his line, left half in advance, turned
sharply in and set the ball down.

"First down!" called McPhee. "Sturges over."

"Hold up! Try a forward pass, McPhee. You're on the ten yards and it's
third down. Get into this, you ends. Put some pep into it!"

"Signal! Martin back! 37--32--14--71--Hep!" The backs jumped to the left
one stride. "37--32----"

Back flew the ball to the full-back, right end shot out and down the
field across the mythical last line, the defence surged against the
imaginary enemy and Martin, poising the ball at arm's length, threw over
the line to Lee.

"All right," commented the coach. "That'll be all for today. Trot all
the way in, fellows."

Five minutes later the field was empty of the sixty-odd boys who had
reported for the second day's practice and the sun was going down behind
the tree-clad hill to the west. In the gymnasium was the sound of
rushing water, of many voices and of scraping benches. Mr. Robey wormed
his way through the crowded locker-room to where Danny Moore, the
trainer, stood in the doorway of the rubbing-room in talk with Jim
Morton, this year's manager of t