Trainer Jack McMasters was on the job and put us through some very severe preliminary training. It was warm in New Jersey early in September, and often in the middle of practice Jack would occasionally play the hose on us. It did not take us long to learn that varsity football training was much more strenuous than that of the preparatory school. The vigorous programme, prepared, especially for me, convinced me that McMasters and the coaches had decided that my 224 pounds were too much weight. Jack and I used to meet at the field house four mornings each week. He would array me in thick woolen things, and top them off with a couple of sweaters, so that I felt as big as a house. He would then take me out for an excursion of eight miles across country, running and walking. Sometimes other candidates kept us company, but only Jack and I survived. On these trips, I would lose anywhere from five to six pounds. I got accustomed to this jaunt and its discomforts after a while, but there was one thing that always aggravated me. While Jack made me suffer, he indulged himself. He would stop at a favorite spring of his, kneel down and take a refreshing drink, right before my very eyes, and then, although my throat was parched, he would bar me even from wetting my tongue. He was decidedly unsociable, but from a training standpoint, he was entirely "on to his job." As both captain and trainer soon found that I was being overworked, I had some "let up" of this strenuous system. The extra work in addition to the regular afternoon practice, made my days pretty severe going and when night came I was not troubled with insomnia. It was during this time that Biffy Lea, one of Princeton's greatest tackles, was slowly but surely making a wonderful tackle out of Doc Hillebrand. Bert Wheeler was making rapid strides to attain the position of halfback. They were the only two freshmen who made the team that year. I was one of those that failed.