"No, thanks; he's satisfied, but it's hard lines that he can't play," observed the bearer of the apology. "That's not my fault," said Phil. "No, I suppose not. Well, I'll be going," and, having filled the room with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door. "Whew!" cried Tom. "Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had been disinfected!" "Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like a good pipe or a cigar, but I'm blessed if I can go those coffin nails! Ah, that air smells good," and he breathed in deep of the September air at the window. Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the "sporty freshman," as he began to be called. There was some disappointment, among the students who liked a "mill," but as there were sure to be fights later in the term, they consoled themselves. Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect. Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the 'varsity (which was the goal of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub. "But I'll get even with Clinton for this," he said more than once to his crony, who eagerly assented. Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast developing into a "rattling good player," as Holly Cross said. Tom was not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran mile after mile to better his wind and speed. "You're coming on," said Coach Lighton enthusiastically. "I think you'll do, Tom. Keep it up." There had been particularly hard practice one afternoon, and word went down the line for some kicking. The backs fell to it with vigor, and the pigskin was "booted" all over the field. "Now for a good try at goal!" called the coach, as the ball was passed to Holly Cross, who was playing at full-back. He drew back his foot, and his shoe made quite a dent in the side of the ball. But, as often occurs, the kick was not a success. The spheroid went to the side, sailing low, and out of bounds. As it happened, Professor Emerson Tines, who had been dubbed "Pitchfork" the very first time the students heard his name, was crossing the field at that moment. He was looking at a book of Greek, and paying little attention to whither his steps led. The ball was coming with terrific speed directly at his back. "Look out, professor!" yelled a score of voices. Mr. Tines did look, but not in the right direction. He merely gazed ahead, and seeing nothing, and being totally oblivious to the football practice, he resumed his reading.