George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to side-step, and in which direction; lunged at exactly the right moment; clipped the runner about the knees; lifted him; brought him crashing to the ground. The ball rolled to one side. George released his man, sprawled, and gathered the ball in his arms. A great silence descended on the field. Out of it, as George got up, slipped the uncertain voice of his victim. "Did anything break off, Green? That wasn't a tackle. It was a bad accident. How could I tell he was a bull when he didn't wear horns?" George helped the man to his feet. "Hope I didn't hurt you." "Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months." He limped about his work, muttering: "Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game." The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled one of the biggest of the varsity men. "Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton." George didn't get past, although, with the tackler's vise-like grip about his legs, he struggled with knees and elbows, and kept his feet until the coach called to let him go. "I'm sorry," George began. "Yes," Green said, severely, "you've got to learn to get past tacklers. If you learn to do that consistently I'll guarantee you a place on the team, provided Mr. Stringham's willing." "I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance. Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although he knew it was expected. "Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless they come too thick." The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied. "Run along to the showers now." There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for that very night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction. "You have a share," he said, "in the agency of the laundry most generally patronized by our young men. It will pay you enough unless you long for automobiles and gaiety." "No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buy some now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?" Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. He prescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit. "Because," he said, "if you're asked about, you want to be able to go, and a dinner suit will pass for a Freshman nearly anywhere."