The scrub quarter hastily poured into his ears the simple code. He took up his position. The play was momentarily halted by one of the coaches, who was hauling the center men over the coals. Opposite Stover, Bangs, senior, was standing, legs spread, hands on his hips, looking at him with a look Stover never forgot. For three years he had plugged along his way, doggedly holding his place in the scrubs, patiently waiting for the one opportunity to come. Now, at last, after the years of servitude, standing on the coveted side of the line, suddenly here was a freshman with a big reputation come in the challenge that might destroy all the years of patience and send him back into the oblivion of the scrubs. Stover understood the appealing fury of the look, even in all the pitilessness of his ambition. Something sharp went through him at the thought of the man for whose position, ruthlessly, fiercely, he was beginning to fight. Five or six coaches, always under the direction of Case, head coach, were moving restlessly about the field, watching for the first rudimentary faults. One or two gave him quick appraising looks. Stover, moving restlessly back and forth, his eyes on the ground, too conscious of the general curiosity, awaited the moment of action. The discussion around the center ended. "Varsity take the ball," called out Dana; "get into it, every one!" The two lines sprang quickly into position, the coaches, nervous and vociferous, jumping behind the unfortunate objects of their wrath, while the air was filled with shrieked advice and exhortation. "On the jump, there, Biggs!" "Charge low!" "Oh, get down, get down!" "Break up this play!" "Wake up!" "Smash into it!" "Charge!" "Now!" "Block that man!" "Throw him back!" "Get behind!" "Push him on!" "Shove him on!" "Get behind and shove!" "Shove!" "Shove! Oh, shove!" Attack and defense were still crude. The play had gone surging around the opposite end, but in a halting way, the runner impeded by his own interference. Stover, sweeping around at full speed, was able to down the half from behind, just as the interference succeeded in clearing the way. At once it was a chorus of angry shouts, each coach descending on the particular object of his wrath. "Beautiful!" "You're a wonder!" "What are you doing,--growing to the ground?" "What did I tell you?" "Say, interference, is this a walking match?" "Wonderful speed--almost got away from the opposite end." "Say, Charley, a fast lot of backs we've got." "Line 'em up!"