"Well, it looks to me as though you'd been rubbing your head in the dirt
already," laughed Neil.

"Connor stepped on me there," muttered Paul, wiping a clump of mud from
his forehead. "Come on; Mills is yelling for us. More catching punts,
I suppose."

And his supposition was correct. Across the width of the sunlit field
Graham, the two-hundred-and-thirty-pound center rush, stooped over the
pigskin. Beside him were two pairs of end rushes, and behind him, with
outstretched hands, stood Ted Foster. Foster gave a signal, the ball
went back to him on a long pass, and he sent it over the gridiron toward
where Neil, Paul, and two other backs were waiting. The ends came down
under the kick, the ball thumped into Paul's hands, Neil and another
formed speedy interference, and the three were well off before the ends,
like miniature cyclones, were upon them and had dragged Paul to earth.

The head coach, a short but sturdy figure in worn-out trousers and faded
purple shirt, stood on the edge of the cinder track and viewed the work
with critical eye. When the ends had trotted back over the field with
the ball to repeat the proceeding, he made himself heard:

"Spread out more, fellows, and don't all stand in a line across the
field. You've got to learn now to judge kicks; you can't expect to
always find yourself just under them. Fletcher, as soon as you've
decided who is to take the ball yell out. Then play to the runner; every
other man form into interference and get him up the field. Now then!
Play quick!"