Moore hastily trooped down with the others and followed across the long green stretches in the tingly September air, a little apprehensive of what the term "light practice" might mean. The veterans in scarred suits and rent jerseys marched gloriously in front, gambolling and romping with the ball, shouting out salutations to parties who swarmed over the campus from other houses on the way to the playgrounds. The newcomers in hastily patched-up costumes, incongruous and absurd, clustered together talking in broken, forced monosyllables. Suddenly the advance halted and a shout went up. "Here come the Dickinsons. Gee, look at the material they've got!" Piggy, uncomprehending, beheld a group of thirty-odd boys swinging toward them, shouting and laughing as they came. From the advancing crowd came a challenging yell. "We're going to wipe the earth up with you, Kennedy." "Good-bye, Kennedy. Good-bye!" From the Kennedys the challenge was flung back: "We've got you where we want you." "You'll be easy, Dickinson." "We'll attend to the championship this year." The two crowds halted while the leaders inspected their antagonists, sizing up the new material. Moore, in a tailor-cut suit of English tweed, a stiff collar and a derby hat, felt for the first time a little out of the picture when Hickey of the enemy paused in front of him and derisively asked: "Where did that come from?" "Oh, that's been specially raised for us." "He has? In a hothouse, yes! What'll _he_ play?" "He'll play all over the field. _He's_ a regular demon!" "Huh!" "We'll twist your tail, Dickinson." "We'll skin you, Kennedy." "Yes, you will!" "Yes, we will!" The groups departed, each vowing that it was disheartening the way the faculty had favoured the other. On the playground "Jock" Hasbrouck and "Fire Crackers" Glendenning held a consultation while the old boys frolicked with the ball and the new arrivals huddled in an embarrassed group. The new material was excellent, beyond expectation, but no joy appeared on the face of the captain. "How in the deuce are we ever going to beat the Dickinsons with such a bunch as that?" he said, with a shake of his head. "What do we need anyhow?" "Both ends, a tackle and the halves," said Fire Crackers, gloomily. "Well, we've got to do our best, that's all," said the captain, with a glance that made every newcomer miserable. "Let's see how we can line up. Fatty Harris, get in at centre, there. Keg, you'll have to go in at right guard. Buffalo, you stay at left." The old boys, brawny and hard, formed into a centre trio. "If you take left tackle we'd better put Walsh in at right to face Turkey," said Fire Crackers. "Legs Brockett, there, plays end, he says." Walsh and Brockett, eyes to the ground, took their places in the line at a nod from "Jock." "Duke Wilson, full; Fire Crackers, quarter. What then?" he said slowly to his counsel. "Suppose we give Pebbles Stone a chance at half this year?"