It was the voice of the coach in his ears. Andy felt himself being lifted to his feet. His ears rang, and he could not see clearly. There was a confused mass of forms about him, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet. Then like another dash of cold water came the thought to him, sharply and clearly: "This isn't playing the game! If I'm going to go over like this every time I'm tackled I'll never play for Yale. Brace up!" By sheer effort of will Andy brought his staggering senses back. "I--I'm all right," he panted. "Sort of a solar plexus knock, I guess." "That's the way to talk!" exclaimed the coach, grimly. "Now then, fellows, hit it up. Where's that ball? Oh, you had it, did you, Blair? That's right, whatever happens, keep the ball! Get into the play now. Varsity, tear up that scrub line! What's the matter with you, anyhow? You're letting 'em go right through you. Smash 'em! Smash 'em good and hard. All right now, Blair?" "Yes, sir." "Get in the game then. Scrub's ball. Hurry up! Signal!" Sharp and incisive came his tones, like some bitter tonic. Not a word of praise--always finding fault; and as for sympathy--you might as well have looked for it from an Indian ready to use his scalping knife. And yet--that is what made the Yale team what it was--a fighting machine. Once more came the line-up, the scrub quarter snapping out his signals. Andy took his old place. He was rapidly feeling better, yet his whole body ached and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height. He was terribly jarred, for Mortimer had put into the tackle all his fierce energy, adding to it a spice of malice. Andy heard the signal given for the forward pass, and felt relieved. He could take another few seconds to get his breathing into a more regular cadence. He looked over at Mortimer, who grinned maliciously. Andy knew, as well as if he had been told, that the tackle had been needlessly fierce. But there was no earthly use in speaking of it. Rather would it do him more harm than good. This, then, was part of the "getting even" game that his enemy had marked out. "He won't get me again, though!" thought Andy, fiercely. "If he does, it will be my own fault. Wait until I get a chance at him!" It came sooner than he expected. The forward pass on the part of the scrub was a fluke and after a few more rushing plays the ball was given to the varsity to enable them to try some of their new plays. Several times Mortimer had the pigskin, and was able to make good gains. Then the wrath of the coach was turned against the luckless scrubs. "What do you fellows mean?" cried Holwell. "Letting 'em go through you this way! Get at 'em! Break up their plays if you can! Block their kicks. They'll think they're playing a kid team! I want 'em to work! Smash 'em! Kill 'em!" He was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet--a veritable little cyclone of a coach. "Signal!" he cried sharply.