"Well, we weren't so bad last year, and we ought to be better now," remarked Garry. "To hear us tell it, yes," declared Nick. "But Coach Garwin's the doctor now, and he may take a different view of the case." Out on the gridiron in the crisp air and the bright sunshine the boys found that Coach Garwin was a hard taskmaster. But they liked him and worked beneath his forceful driving as they never had worked before. "We'll have practice in punting, blocking, passing, and tackling to-day," he announced. "Also we'll have a short scrimmage between the two teams. But we'll postpone the real games until we've warmed to our work a bit more. Now then, you fellows, I want you to show your stuff." The boys went to work with a will. Under Mr. Garwin's direction they broke up into groups of three and four, some blocking, some tackling, others trying to place kick and punt. The coach watched their work with a critical eye and caustic tongue. He abused them far more liberally than he praised and for that reason the boys worked like mad to get even the crumbs of his approbation. Bill Sherwood was one of the first to be rasped by the rough edge of Al Garwin's tongue. Bill, while endeavoring with another boy to tackle a runner, made a great leap for the flying knees, only to fall flat on his face in the dust as the runner dodged. The miss was by only a fraction of an inch, but still it was a miss. The coach's scorn was scathing. "That's one of the best examples of tackling I ever saw," he remarked, as Bill picked himself up, red and sheepish. "Suppose that had been a member of an opposing team legging it for the goal! You'd have let him get by, wouldn't you, Sherwood? You'd have lost the game perhaps for your team. Tackling! That's a joke. You've got to do better than that." Bill's face became scarlet. His hands clenched at his sides. He was fighting mad. "My foot slipped," he said in self-defense. "I'd have got him if it hadn't." "Maybe," replied the coach, his keen eyes mercilessly raking Bill's dusty figure, "with a couple of men to help you. Ploughing up the gridiron never saved a goal yet." "I don't need a couple," declared Bill. "That fellow wouldn't get away from me another time! Give me another chance at him!" Coach Garwin wheeled. "Dittler," he called curtly to one of the regulars. "Take the ball and start running from the forty-yard line. There's your chance, Sherwood. Let's see you stop him." Dittler picked up the ball with a grin and started off like a hound slipped from the leash. Bill started to meet him with equal speed and vigor. His blood was up. His resentment lashed him on toward the flying figure. To reach him, tackle him, and bring him to earth was at that moment the great object of his life. Dittler was one of the best runners on the first team. The coach for that very purpose had chosen him in order to test Bill's mettle.