Dick’s request for twenty more candidates resulted in the appearance of some eight or ten youths, mostly of tender years and all without football experience. Cotner and Lanny viewed the volunteers pessimistically, but Dick failed to exhibit any disappointment at the result of his summons. He added the new fellows to the rest and went diligently on. On Monday there was a full hour of dummy-tackling, and fellows who had prided themselves on their ability in that line had much of the conceit taken out of them. Dick’s knowledge of tackling surprised even Lanny and Gordon and others who believed the most firmly in his ability to lead Clearfield to victory. For a fellow who had never handled a pigskin, he certainly had a whole lot of knowledge stowed away in that head of his! He fell foul of Tom Haley early in the proceedings and the fact that Tom was a very good friend of his made no difference in his speech. “How long have you been playing, Tom?” asked Dick coldly as the last year’s center picked himself up from the dirt. “Three or four years,” answered Tom in some surprise, pausing in the act of rubbing the soil from his face. “Then you ought to be ashamed to tackle like that,” said Dick severely. “Try it again, please. And remember that the idea is to _stop_ the man and not tickle him under the knees!” Tom flushed, choked down a retort that his companions in the line surmised was none too patient and poised himself again while the swaying dummy once more crossed the pit. “Now get into it!” urged Dick. “Stop him! Put him back!” Perhaps chagrin was responsible for what ensued. Tom made a hard dive and whipped his arms out for the canvas body, but in some way the dummy eluded him and Tom rolled over sprawling on his back, while the stuffed figure, with its faded C, went dancing crazily on its way. Tom picked himself up, angrily aware of the amused expressions on the faces of the others, and, brushing his hands absorbedly, took up his position again at the end of the line. Dick said nothing. Another candidate hurled himself at the dummy, with a rattle and bang of chain and pulley, and then another and another. Dick awarded each one a word of criticism, approving or disparaging. “Better, Way.” “All right, Jack.” “Rotten, Bert. Get in front and not behind.” “Brimmer, you act as if you were afraid of it! Try it again.” Ultimately it was once more Tom Haley’s turn, and Tom had a little disk of white on each cheek as he watched Manager Cotner pull the dummy back and lay hold of the other rope. An expectant silence fell. Dick nodded and the figure started across the pit on its iron trolley. Tom, hands clenched, ran forward a few steps and launched himself. His arms enwrapped the dummy’s thighs, there was a mighty grunt from Tom and the sound of ripping canvas, and tackler and dummy reposed in the dirt while the chain and ring sped jangling around the block toward the further end. A burst of hilarity greeted the performance. Dick smiled.