It was a rather sorry-looking bunch of football players that met in the lot back of Garry's home the following day. Their bruises were still sore and irritating, despite hot baths and vigorous massaging. "We're a fine bunch of cripples," declared Bill Sherwood, flexing his lame right arm experimentally. "A team from an old men's home could put it all over us." "If Mr. Phillips could see us now, he'd have the jolt of his life," asserted Garry. "We've got to get the stiffness out of our joints some way. So come on--let's snap into it." As he spoke, Garry Grayson whipped the ball to Nick. The latter was ruefully rubbing a sore knee. He saw the ball too late, made a frantic grab at it, and missed. A chorus of jeers greeted him, as he limped off sheepishly in pursuit of the ball. "Attaboy! The best miss I ever saw," gibed Ted. "If Mr. Phillips had seen that, he'd have given you Ralph Wynn's place right off the bat," added Rooster Long. "That's the kind of captain we need to put pep into the team." "Some one make that rooster stop crowing," grunted Nick, and, forgetting his stiff knee, met the ball with his foot in a masterly punt that, aimed for Rooster's head, hit him in the stomach and all but knocked him over. "Anyway, I know enough to hang on to the ball," retorted Rooster, hugging the pigskin. "Which is more than some so-called football players can say for themselves." "Say, are we playing football or having a kidding match!" cried Garry impatiently. "Pass me that football, Rooster. I want to find out." After that they settled down to an hour of strenuous practice. They brushed up on the signals, Garry giving the same set over and over again until the play was made like clockwork, the swift punt, feint, or forward pass timed to the fraction of a second. In the interest aroused by the play sore muscles were ironed out magically, and at the end of an hour's time the boys had almost forgotten that there was anything wrong with them. Rooster was practicing a place kick. Garry thought he was sending the ball too high, and told him so. "By the time that pigskin lands, the other fellows will be all set for it," Garry contended. "They will have time to plan a counter-attack and our play will be spoiled. Anybody'd think you were trying to kick the clouds out of position." "Say, listen, Garry," Rooster protested. "I couldn't kick that high. Honest I couldn't. You give me altogether too much credit. I can feel the blushes coming." "Not a bit too much credit," grinned Garry. "Throw over the pigskin and I'll give you an example of how that kick looked to me. Then you can see how much too high it was." Reluctantly Rooster surrendered the ball. Nick held it in position and Garry swung back his foot. Plunk! The toe of Garry's shoe met the pigskin with a hollow sound that was music in the ears of his chums. All the force of his body was behind the kick, and the boys watched the ascent of the ball with interest. High, high, higher it sailed.