of you on his toes. _Browning, watch that ball!_ Now get into them,
every one! Block them!"

At the other end of the field six fellows were kicking goal and six
others, stretched upon the turf, were holding the balls for them. Devoe
was coaching. Sydney could see Neil, the farthest away of any, lifting
the leather toward the posts from a difficult angle on the twenty-yard
line. Even as he watched, the ball sailed away from Neil's toe and went
fair over the cross-bar, and Sydney silently applauded. He set himself
to recognizing the other kickers. There was Gale, the tall and rather
heavy fellow in the crimson sleeves; and Mason, equally tall but all
corners and angles; and Smith, and Gillam, and Foster. Devoe seemed to
be laying down the law forcibly to Gale; he was gesticulating with his
hands and nodding his head like a Chinese mandarin. Sydney could not
hear what he was saying, nor could he see Gale's face; but in the
attitude of the captain there was exasperation, and in that of Gale
sullen impatience.

Another group at signal practise drew nigh, and Sydney gave his
attention to it. Reardon, the second eleven quarter, sang his signals in
a queer, shrill voice that was irresistibly funny. In front of Sydney he
raised himself, wiped his palms on his stained trousers, grimaced at one
of the halves, and took a deep breath. Then--

"_Signal_!" he cried. "_7--8--4--6!_"

Eight half bounded by him, full-back fell in behind and took the ball,
left half dashed after, and the group trotted away to line up again ten
yards down the field. But presently the lines at the east goal broke up
and trotted toward the benches, and Mills called the players in from all