"First and second Eleven rushes and quarters down the field and practice
formations. Backs remain here to kick!" shouted Wesley Blair.

It was a dull and cold afternoon. The last recitation was over and half
the school stood shivering about the gridiron or played leapfrog to keep
warm. Stephen Remsen, in the grimiest of moleskins, stood talking to the
captain, and, in obedience to the command of the latter, some fifteen
youths, clad for the coming fray, were trotting down the field, while
eight others, backs and substitute backs on the two teams, passed and
dropped on the pigskin in an endeavor to keep warm.

The first and second elevens were to play their first real game of the
season at four o'clock, and meanwhile the players were down for a stiff
thirty minutes of practice. Joel March shivered with the rest of the
backs and waited for the coach and the captain to finish their
consultation. Presently Blair trotted off down the field and Remsen
turned to the backs.

"Browne, Meach, and Turner, go down to about the middle of the field
and return the balls. Cloud, take a ball over nearer the side-line and
try some drop-kicks. Post, you do the same, please. And let me see, what
is your name?" addressing a good-looking and rather slight youth. "Ah,
yes, Clausen. Well, Clausen, you and Wills try some punts over there,
and do try and get the leg swing right. March, take that ball and let me
see you punt."

Then began a time of sore tribulation for Joel; for not until ten
minutes had passed did the ball touch his toe. His handling was wrong,
his stepping out was wrong, and his leg-swing was very, very wrong! But
he heard never a cross word from his instructor, and so shut his lips