Freshmen candidates had been
called, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green:

"We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubs
start. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'll
hold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down his
distance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy,
but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller."

The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arriving
Freshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies.

"Green says he'll outkick Dewitt."

It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had ever
known wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only one
small step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him with
contemptuous, inimical eyes.

The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of no
pronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could.

"You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get past
you. Remember what you've done to the dummy."

George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a
hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire
to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a
man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his
rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his
glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to
side-step, and in which direction; lunged at exactly the right moment;
clipped the runner about the knees; lifted him; brought him crashing to
the ground. The ball rolled to one side. George released his man,
sprawled, and gathered the ball in his arms. A great silence descended
on the field. Out of it, as George got up, slipped the uncertain voice
of his victim.

"Did anything break off, Green? That wasn't a tackle. It was a bad
accident. How could I tell he was a bull when he didn't wear horns?"

George helped the man to his feet.

"Hope I didn't hurt you."

"Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months."

He limped about his work, muttering:

"Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game."

The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled one
of the biggest of the varsity men.

"Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton."

George didn't get past, although, with the tackler's vise-like grip
abo