eleven and the scrub. Twenty-two rather nervous lads faced each
other--no, not all of the twenty-two were nervous, for there were some
veterans--warriors of past battles--who were as cool as the proverbial
cucumber. But the new lads--those who hoped to make the first
eleven--were undoubtedly nervous. And so, too, were some of those who
had played before, for they had not yet found themselves this season,
and they did not know but what their playing might be so poor and
ragged that they would be ordered to the side lines.

"Line up! Line up!"

Again came the stirring cry. The scrub team, under the leadership of
their captain, withdrew for a short consultation regarding signals, and
to plan how best to stop the rushes of the regular lads. The latter,
under the guidance of Morse, were ready to put the ball into play, for
the captain and coach had decided to see what value their side was in
rushing tactics, before going on the defense.

"All ready now, boys!" exclaimed the coach briskly. "Get into the
plays on the jump. You can do twice as well if you have speed than if
you have not. Hit the defense hard, get some momentum back of you. A
moving body, and all that sort of thing you know, that you learn in
your physics class.

"Jump into the plays. Meet the ball; don't wait for it to get to you.
That applies to you backs," and he nodded at Tom and his two mates.
"Quarter, don't fumble when you pass the ball back. Be accurate.
Don't make a mistake in the signals.

"You guards and tackles, hold hard. Tear holes big enough for the man