The veterans with the red L on their black sweaters were apart, tossing the ball back and forth and taking playful tackles at one another. Stover, hiding himself modestly in the common herd, watched with entranced eyes the lithe, sinuous forms of Flash Condit and Charlie DeSoto--greater to him than the faint heroes of mythology--as they tumbled the Waladoo Bird gleefully on the ground. There was Butcher Stevens of the grim eye and the laconic word, a man to follow and emulate; and the broad span of Turkey Reiter's shoulders, a mark to grow to. Meanwhile, Garry Cockrell, the captain, and Mr. Ware, the new coach from the Princeton championship eleven, were drawing nearer on their tour of inspection and classification. Dink knew his captain only from respectful distances--the sandy hair, the gaunt cheek bones and the deliberate eye, whom governors of states alone might approach with equality, and no one else. Under the dual inspection the squad was quickly sorted, some sent back to their House teams till another year brought more weight and experience, and others tentatively retained on the scrubs. "Better make the House team, Jenks," said the low, even voice of the captain. "You want to harden up a bit. Glad you reported, though." Then Dink stood before his captain, dimly aware of the quick little eyes of Mr. Ware quietly scrutinizing him. "What form?" "Third." The two were silent a moment studying not the slender, wiry figure, but the look in the eyes within. "What are you out for?" "End, sir." "What do you weigh?" "One hundred and fifty--about," said Dink. A grim little twinkle appeared in the captain's eyes. "About one hundred and thirty-five," he said, with a measuring glance. "But I'm hard, hard as nails, sir," said Stover desperately. "What football have you played?" Stover remained silent. "Well?" "I--I haven't played," he said unwillingly. "You seem unusually eager," said Cockrell, amused at this strange exhibition of willingness. "Yes, sir." "Good spirit; keep it up. Get right out for your House team----" "I won't!" said Stover, blurting it out in his anger and then flushing: "I mean, give me a chance, won't you, sir?" Cockrell, who had turned, stopped and came back. "What makes you think you can play?" he said not unkindly. "I've got to," said Stover desperately. "But you don't know the game." "Please, sir, I'm not out for the 'Varsity," said Stover confusedly. "I mean, I want to be in it, to work for the school, sir." "You're not a Freshman?" said the captain, and the accents of his voice were friendly. "No, sir." "What's your name?" said Cockrell, a little thrilled to feel the genuine veneration that inspired the "sir." "Stover--Dink Stover." "You were down at the Green last year, weren't you?" "Yes, sir," said Stover, looking down with a sinking feeling. "You're the fellow who tried to fight the whole House?" "Yes, sir."