"What do you weigh, Pebbles?" asked Fire Crackers. "One hundred and forty-five," brazenly answered the lithe, but rather frail person addressed. "Honest?" "Honest to God, Jock." "Stripped?" "No--o-o. With ten pounds in me pockets." "Well, get in there, you old liar, you've got the sand all right." Pebbles, with a delighted whoop, sprang into line. Then Fire Crackers and Jock stopped before a trim, cleanly-built boy with a suit that looked worthy. "You're Francis, ain't you?" "Yes, sir." "Played half?" "Yes, sir." "What do you weigh?" "One hundred and fifty, stripped, sir." "Take right half." Francis, quickly, but with an air of ease, took his place. Only one position remained vacant, left end. Hasbrouck glanced over the squad of slight, overgrown boys, and his eye by a process of elimination, rested on Moore, standing stiff and immaculate. "Moore, get in to right end." "Me?" said Moore in horror. "Sir!" "Sir." "Quick!" "But I--I've never played, sir!" "Get into line!" Piggy went sullenly, indignant and cherishing resistance. Hasbrouck gave a professionally pessimistic glance at the whole and said: "Well, fellows, we'll only take a little light practice to-day. Try a few starts." The candidates in threes and fours crouched on a designated line, dug their toes in the sod and raced forward at the clap of a hand, for a good fifteen yards. "Take your place, Moore," said Jock finally. "Dig down and get off with a jump." Piggy, embarrassed by the stiffness of his collar and the difficulty of retaining his derby without loss of dignity, made a lumbering attempt. "Try again. You're not racing a baby buggy! Get back on your marks," said Hasbrouck, and moving to a position directly behind him, he thundered: "Now, one--two--_three_!" A stinging hand descended upon the crouching Piggy, who leaped forward in indignant amazement. "That helped," said Jock, with an approving nod. "Once more." Piggy, red to the ears, a second time was forced to humble himself and receive the indignity of such propulsion. "Here, Piggy, catch!" Moore had just time to spin around, when a football vigorously thrown, smote him full in the stomach. [Illustration: "A stinging hand descended upon the crouching Piggy"] "Oh, butter-fingers!" "Clumsy!" "Get your arms in to it!" "Now!" Warned by a chorus of instructions Moore strove a dozen times to retain the tantalising spinning oval, which constantly slipped his grasp with a smart reminder as it bounded away. "My boy, your education has been neglected," said Jock in disgust. "At least try and learn how to fall on the ball. Watch." Rolling the pigskin in front of him, he dove for it, pouncing on it as a beagle on a rabbit. "Now, Piggy, let her go!" Moore, who loved his tailor-suit with the pride and affection which a father bestows only on the firstborn, desperately essayed to secure the pigskin with the minimum of danger possible. A shriek of derision burst forth.