In a moment Tompkins, without relaxing a jot of his nervous driving, had them spread over the field, flinging themselves on a dozen elusive footballs, while always his voice, unsatisfied, propelling, drove them: "Faster, faster! Get into it--let go yourselves. Throw yourself at it. Oh, hard, harder!" Ten minutes of practise starts under his leash, and they ended, enveloped in steam, lungs shaken with quick, convulsive breaths. "Enough for to-day. Back to the gymnasium on the trot; run off some of that fatty degeneration. Here, youngster, a word with you." Stover stepped forward. "What's your name?" "Stover." To his profound disappointment, Tompkins did not recognize that illustrious name. "Where from?" "Lawrenceville. Played end." Tompkins looked him over, a little grimly. "Oh, yes; I've heard something about you. Look here, ever do any punting?" "Some, but only because I had to. I'm no good at it." "Let's see what you can do." Stover caught the ball tossed and put all his strength into a kick that went high but short. "Try another." The second and third attempts were no better. "Well, that's pretty punk," said Tompkins. "Dana wants to give you a try on the second. Run over now and report. Oh, Stover!" Dink halted, to see Tompkins' caustic scrutiny fixed on him. "Yes, sir." "Stover, just one word for your good. You come up with a big prep school reputation. Don't make an ass of yourself. Understand; don't get a swelled head. That's all." "Precious little danger of that here," said Dink a little rebelliously to himself, as he jogged over to the benches where the varsity subs were camped. Le Baron waved him a recognition, but no more. It was as if the gesture meant: "I've started you. Now stand on your own feet. Don't look to me for help." For the rest of the practise he sat huddled in his sweater, waiting expectantly as each time Captain Dana passed down the line, calling out the candidates for trials in the brief scrimmages that took place. The afternoon ended without an opportunity coming to him, and he jogged home, in the midst of the puffing crowd, with a sudden feeling of his own unimportance. He had barely time to get his shower, and run into the almost deserted eating club for a quick supper, when Gimbel appeared, crying: "I say, Stover, bolt the grub and hoof it. We assemble over by Osborne." "Where's the wrestling?" "Don't know. Some vacant lot. Ever do any?" "Don't know a thing about it." "We're going to call out a chap called Robinson from St. Paul's, Garden City, for the lightweight, and Regan for the heavy," said Gimbel, who, of course, had been busy during the afternoon. "Thought of you for the middleweight." "Lord! get some one who knows the game," said Stover, following him out. "Have you thought of any one you'd like to run for secretary and treasurer?" said Gimbel, locking arms in a cordial way. "No." "I've got the whole thing organized sure as a steel trap."