at Stover in perplexity and remained
silent.

Dink, laughing to himself at the ease of the trick, started across the
Circle for the 'Varsity football field, whither already the candidates
were converging to the first call of the season.

He had started joyfully forth from the skeptics on the steps, but once
past the chapel and in sight of the field his gait abruptly changed.
He went quietly, thoughtfully, a little alarmed at his own daring,
glancing at the padded figures that overtopped him.

The veterans with the red L on their black sweaters were apart,
tossing the ball back and forth and taking playful tackles at one
another. Stover, hiding himself modestly in the common herd, watched
with entranced eyes the lithe, sinuous forms of Flash Condit and
Charlie DeSoto--greater to him than the faint heroes of mythology--as
they tumbled the Waladoo Bird gleefully on the ground. There was
Butcher Stevens of the grim eye and the laconic word, a man to follow
and emulate; and the broad span of Turkey Reiter's shoulders, a mark
to grow to. Meanwhile, Garry Cockrell, the captain, and Mr. Ware, the
new coach from the Princeton championship eleven, were drawing nearer
on their tour of inspection and classification. Dink knew his captain
only from respectful distances--the sandy hair, the gaunt cheek bones
and the deliberate eye, whom governors of states alone might approach
with equality, and no one else. Under the dual inspection the squad
was quickly sorted, some sent back to their House teams till another
year brought more weight and experience, and others tentatively
retained on the scrubs.

"Better make the House team, Jenks," said the low, even voice of the
captain. "You want to harden up a bit. Glad you reported, though."

Then Dink stood before his captain, dimly aware of the quick little
eyes of Mr. Ware quietly scrutinizing him.

"What form?"

"Third."

The two were silent a moment studying not the slender, wiry figure,
but the look in the eyes within.

"What are you out for?"

"End, sir."

"What do you weigh?"

"One hundred and fifty--about," said Dink.

A grim little twinkle appeared in the captain's eyes.

"About one hundred and thirty-five," he said, with a measuring glance.

"But I'm hard, hard as nails, sir," said Stover desperately.

"What football have you played?"

Stover remained silent.

"Well?"

"I--I haven't played," he said unwillingly.

"You seem unusually eager," said Cockrell,