"First down!" called McPhee. "Sturges over." "Hold up! Try a forward pass, McPhee. You're on the ten yards and it's third down. Get into this, you ends. Put some pep into it!" "Signal! Martin back! 37--32--14--71--Hep!" The backs jumped to the left one stride. "37--32----" Back flew the ball to the full-back, right end shot out and down the field across the mythical last line, the defence surged against the imaginary enemy and Martin, poising the ball at arm's length, threw over the line to Lee. "All right," commented the coach. "That'll be all for today. Trot all the way in, fellows." Five minutes later the field was empty of the sixty-odd boys who had reported for the second day's practice and the sun was going down behind the tree-clad hill to the west. In the gymnasium was the sound of rushing water, of many voices and of scraping benches. Mr. Robey wormed his way through the crowded locker-room to where Danny Moore, the trainer, stood in the doorway of the rubbing-room in talk with Jim Morton, this year's manager of the team. Morton was nineteen, tall, thin and benevolent looking behind a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles. "Did you put them on the scales, Dan?" asked the coach. "Sure, the first, second and third, sir. Some of 'em dropped a good three pounds today. By gorry, I feel like I'd dropped that much meself!" "It certainly is warm. Look here, Jim, is this all we get to work on? How many were out today?" "Sixty-two, Coach. That's not bad. I suppose there'll be a few more dribble along tomorrow and the next day." "Well, they look pretty fair, don't you think? Some of the new fellows seem to have ideas of football. All the last year fellows on hand?" "All but Gilbert. He hasn't shown up. I don't know why, I'm sure." "Better look him up," said the coach. "Gilbert ought to make a pretty good showing this year, and we aren't any too strong on guards." "Gilbert rooms with Tim Otis, I think," replied Morton. "Oh, Tim! Tim Otis!" A light-haired boy of seventeen, very straight, and very pink where an enormous bath-towel failed to cover him, wormed his way to them. "Say, Tim, what's the matter with Gilbert?" asked Morton. "Isn't he coming out?" Tim Otis shrugged a pair of broad, lean shoulders. "He hasn't got here yet, Morton. I don't know what's happened. He wrote me two weeks ago that he'd meet me at the station in New York yesterday for the three-fifty-eight, but he wasn't there and I haven't heard a word from him." "Probably missed his connection," suggested Morton. "He lives out West somewhere, doesn't he?" "Yes, Osawatomie, Kansas." "It probably takes a good while to get away from a place with a name like that," said Mr. Robey drily. "Well, when he shows up, Otis, tell him to get a move on if he wants a place." "Yes, sir, I will. I'm pretty certain he will be along today some time. I wouldn't be surprised if he was here now." "All right. By the way, Otis, how do you feel at right half? Seem strange to you?"