“Going!” repeated Laughlin, as he snapped himself up into a sitting position on the sofa and stared reproachfully at his questioner. “Not if I know myself! There isn’t money enough in the whole institution to buy me. And what’s more, I’m not going to a place where they do business in that way. I’d rather not go to college at all than hire myself out to play football.” Wolcott gazed at his big friend in silence, but the admiration which his lips failed to express was revealed by the gleam of feeling in his eyes. Laughlin had toiled away the vacation weeks as porter in a summer hotel. His school life was but a routine of close study and hard manual labor, of plugging at lessons and furnace tending and snow shovelling and odd jobbing. The time given to football involved a personal sacrifice to be made good by greater effort after the season closed. The future had nothing in store for him except what his own hands and brain could provide. What a temptation, then, this promise of an easy and glorious college course! “There seems to be a wrong notion of me going round,” continued Laughlin. “I don’t see why they should keep after me so. Even if I were willing to sell myself, I doubt if I could deliver the goods. I’m really only a fair sort of player. They seem to think I belong on an all-American eleven.” “You’ll make it some day if you keep on,” declared the admirer, his ardor of feeling finding expression in emphasis rather than in words. “Whether I do or not makes mighty little difference to me at present. All I ask is to win the Hillbury game.” “Oh, you’ll do that fast enough. Just look at the old men you’ve got back.” “I’ve looked at ’em,” the captain answered sagely. “Some of ’em will be better than they were last year and some worse, and all harder to control. It looks like just the kind of a veteran team that gets done up. You’re coming out to-morrow, aren’t you?” Wolcott reddened with pleasure. “Yes, if you want me.” “Want you! We want everybody. Give us your hand.” Wolcott reached out his hand and clasped the other’s brawny, callous fist. “Squeeze!” commanded the captain, tightening his grip. Wolcott squeezed. His summer, though wholly unlike Laughlin’s, had not been spent in idleness, and he met pressure with pressure. Second followed second, and still the two hands trembled in the clasp, while eye searched eye for sign of wavering. Wolcott’s muscles were failing, his hand was growing numb; but he marshalled his nerves to reënforce his muscles, determined not to show the white feather if his hand were crushed to pieces, and holding his own against his antagonist. It was Laughlin who ended the ordeal by suddenly wrenching his hand loose. “You’ll do. What have you been doing all summer—rowing?” “Yes, lots of it, and swimming and hauling sails.” “How much do you weigh?” “One hundred and seventy-nine, stripped.”