He camped down, one among a hundred, oblivious of his companions, hands locked over his knees, his glance strained down the field to where, against the blue sweater of a veteran, a magic Y was shining white. For a moment he felt a plunging despair--he was but one among so many. The whole country seemed congregated there in competition. Others seemed to overtop him, to be built of bone and muscle beyond his strength. He felt a desire to shrink back and steal away unperceived, as he had that awful moment when, on his first test at school, he had been told that he must stand up and fill the place of a better man. Then he was on his feet, in obedience to a shouted command, journeying up the field to where beyond the stands a tackling dummy on loose pulleys swung like a great scarecrow. "Here, now, get some action into this," said a fiery little coach, Tompkins, quarter-back a dozen seasons before. "Line up. Get some snap to it. First man. Hard--hit it hard!" The first three--heavy linesmen, still soft and short of breath--made lumbering, slipping attempts. Tompkins was in a blaze of fury. "Hold up! What do you think this is? I didn't ask you to hug your grandmother; I told you to tackle that dummy! Hit it hard--break it in two! If you can't tackle, we don't want you around. Tackle to throw your man back! Tackle as if the whole game depended on it. Come on, now. Next man. Jump at it! Rotten! Rotten! Oh, squeeze it. Don't try to butt it over--you're not a goat! Half the game's the tackling! Next man. Oh, girls--girls! What is this bunch, anyhow--a young ladies' seminary? Here! Stop--stop! You're up at Yale now. I'll show you how we tackle!" Heedless of his street clothes, of the grotesqueness of the thing, of all else but the savage spark he was trying to communicate, he went rushing into the dummy with a headlong plunge that shook the ropes. He was up in a moment, forgetting the dust that clung to him, shouting in his shrill voice: "Come on, now, bang into it! Yes, but hold on to it! Squeeze it. Better--more snap there! Get out the way! Come on! Rotten! Take that again--on the jump!" Stover suddenly felt the inflaming seriousness of Yale, the spirit that animated the field. Everything was in deadly earnest; the thing of rags swinging grotesquely was as important as the tackle that on a championship field stood between defeat and victory. His turn came. He shot forward, left the turf in a clean dive, caught the dummy at the knees, and shook the ground with the savageness of his tackle. "Out of the way, quick--next man!" cried the driving voice. There was not a word of praise for what he knew had been a perfect tackle. A second and a third time he flung himself heedlessly at the swinging figure, in a desperate attempt to win the withheld word of approbation. "He might at least have grunted," he said to himself, tumbling to his feet, "the little tyrant."