"Lively now!" snapped Holwell, one of the coaches. "Get out on the field, you fellows, and try tackling the dummy." A grotesque figure hung from a cross beam, and against this the candidates hurled themselves, endeavoring to clasp the elusive knees in a hard tackle. There were many failures, some of the lads missing the figure entirely and sliding along on their faces. Andy did fairly well, but if he looked for words of praise he was disappointed. This practice went on for several days, and then came other gridiron work, falling on the ball, punting and drop kicking. Andy was no star, but he managed to stand out among the others, and there was no lack of material that year. Then came scrimmage practice, the tentative varsity eleven lining up against the scrub. With all his heart Andy longed to get into this, but for days he sat on the bench and watched others being called before him. But he did not neglect practice on this account. Then, one joyful afternoon he heard his name called by the coach. "Get in there at right half and see what you can go," was snapped at him. "Don't fuddle the signals--smash through--follow the interference, and keep your eyes on the ball. Blake, give him the signals." The scrub quarter took him to one side and imparted a simple code used at practice. "Now, scrub, take the ball," snapped the coach, "and see what you can do." There was a quick line-up. Andy was trembling, but he managed to hold himself down. He looked over at the varsity. To his surprise Mortimer was being tried at tackle. "Ready!" shrilly called the scrub quarter. "Signal--eighteen--forty-seven--shift--twenty-one--nineteen--" It was the signal for Andy to take the ball through right tackle and guard. He received the pigskin and with lowered head and hunched shoulders shot forward. He saw a hole torn in the varsity line for him, and leaped through it. The opening was a good one, and the coach raved at the fatal softness of the first-team players. Andy saw his chance and sprinted forward. But the next instant, after covering a few yards, he was fiercely tackled by Mortimer, who threw him heavily. He fell on Andy, and the breath seemed to leave our hero. His eyes saw black, and there was a ringing in his ears as of many bells. CHAPTER XIII BARGAINS "That's enough! Get up off him! Don't you know enough, Gaffington, to tell when a man's down?" Andy heard the sharp voice of the coach, Holwell, but the tones seemed to come from a great distance. "Water here!" "Somebody's keeled over!" "It's that freshman, Blair. Plucky little imp, too!" "Who tackled him?" "Gaffington. Took him a bit high and fell on him!" "Oh, well, this is football; it isn't kindergarten beanbag." Dimly Andy heard these comments. He opened his eyes, only to close them again as he felt a dash of cold water in his face. "Feel all right now?"