Mr. Dana led the way with long strides to where the ball lay and picked it up. “I’ll hold it for you,” he said. “Make it straight and goal-high, Burtis. Suppose you were kicking from the thirty yards.” Mr. Dana dropped his cane, tossed his hat beside it and stretched himself out on the turf. Then with the ball lengthwise between his hands he waited directions. “I――I never had anyone hold it for me,” said Kendall dubiously. “Will you put it more that way, please?” “How’s that?” “All right, I guess.” Kendall stepped forward, swung and the ball shot away, turning on its shortened axis, straight and true. Mr. Dana, poised on one knee, watched. Had there been a crossbar within thirty-five yards that ball would have gone over it with room to spare. Mr. Dana arose, brushed his knees and elbows lightly and shook his head. Kendall saw and was humble. “It’s awfully hard to judge, Mr. Dana, when there aren’t any lines to go by. I’ll try again, if you like.” Mr. Dana eyed him thoughtfully. Finally, “I’ll tell you frankly, Burtis, that your form is miserable, but that’s something that can be easily mended. If you swung freer from your hip, kept your knee locked tightly, you’d get another ten yards, I believe. But I’m not finding any fault, my boy. I used to be a pretty good kicker in my day, but I couldn’t have equaled that last one before my freshman year in college. Let’s try a couple more if you’re not tired.” “I’m not tired at all,” Kendall answered, trying to hide the pleasure he felt, “but I’m a little stiff yet.” “All right; we’ll get rid of some of that stiffness.” Ten minutes later Mr. Dana, satisfied, told Kendall to get his coat and vest. Then they went back to the field. On the way Mr. Dana said: “Burtis, I ought to apologize to you. When you told me you’d done seven out of ten from the thirty-five-yard line I――well, frankly, I thought you were spreading it a bit thick. After what you’ve shown me, though, I don’t doubt it. The one thing I don’t understand is why Payson hasn’t had you in training. Well, I wonder how the fortunes of war are going. You go back to your bench, Burtis, and have a rest. I want to see Payson.” He found the coach down opposite the play, crouching low and pulling gently on a pipe that had long since gone out. Broadwood had kicked her goal and Yardley had the ball near the Green’s forty yards. Mr. Payson looked up as the other knelt beside him. “Hello,” he said. “Have you noticed that quarter-back of theirs, Dana? He’s going to make the All-American some day if he keeps on the way he’s started.” “That so? I hadn’t noticed him especially.” Yardley lost the ball on downs and Broadwood punted. “Think we can do the trick, Payson?”