The following afternoon a crowd of sturdy lads, in their football suits, thronged out on the gridiron, which was the baseball field properly put in shape. The goal posts had been erected, and Coach Lighton and Captain Cross were on hand to greet the candidates. "Now, fellows," said the coach, "we'll just have a little running, tackling, passing the ball, some simple formations and other exercises to test your wind and legs. I'll pick out four teams, and you can play against each other." CHAPTER V A CLASH Ragged work, necessarily, marked the opening of the practice. The ball was dropped, fumbled, fallen upon, lost, regained, tossed and kicked. But it all served a purpose, and the coach and captain, with keen eyes, watched the different candidates. Now and then they gave a word of advice, cautioning some player about wrong movements, or suggesting a different method. Phil had been put in as quarter-back on one scrub team, and Tom, as left-end, on the same. Phil found his opponent on the opposing eleven to be none other than Langridge's friend, Gerhart. It did not need much of an eye to see that Gerhart did not know the game. He would have done well enough on a small eleven, but he had neither the ability nor the strength to last through a college contest. Several times, when it was his rival's turn to pass back the ball, Phil saw the inefficient work of Gerhart, but he said nothing. He felt that he was sure of his place on the 'varsity eleven, yet he called to mind how Langridge had used his influence to keep Tom Parsons from pitching in the spring. There was no denying that Langridge had influence with the sporting crowd, and it was possible that he might exert it in favor of his new chum and against Phil. But there was one comfort: Langridge was not as prominent in sports as he had been during the spring term, when he was manager of the baseball team. He had lost that position because of his failure to train and play properly, and, too, his uncle, who was his guardian, had insisted that he pay more attention to studies. "After all, I don't believe I have much to fear from him," thought Phil. Then came a scrimmage, and he threw himself into the mass play to prevent the opposing eleven from gaining. The practice lasted half an hour, and at the close Coach Lighton and Captain Cross walked off the field, talking earnestly. "I wish I knew what they were saying," spoke Phil, as he and Tom strolled toward the dressing-room. "Oh, they're saying you're the best ever, Phil." "Nonsense! They're probably discussing how they can induce you to play." "Well, how goes it?" called a voice, and they looked back to see Bricktop Molloy. He was perspiring freely from the hard practice he had been through at tackle. "Fine!" cried Tom. "We were just wondering if we would make the 'varsity."