The real test came with the tackling. He waited his turn, all eyes, trying to catch the trick, as boy after boy in front of him went cleanly or awkwardly out to down the man who came plunging at him. Some tackled sharply and artistically, their feet leaving the ground and taking the runner off his legs as though a scythe had passed under him; but most of the tackling was crude, and often the runner slipped through the arms and left the tackler prone on the ground to rise amid the jeers of his fellows. "Your turn, Stover," said the voice of the captain. "Wait a minute." He looked over the squad and selected McCarty, saying: "Here, Tough, come out here. Here's a fellow thinks all you need in this game is nerve. Let's see what he's got." Dink stood out, neither hearing nor caring for the laugh that went up. He glanced up fifteen yards away where Tough McCarty stood waiting the starting signal. He was not afraid, he was angry clean through, ready to tackle the whole squad, one after another. "Shall I take it sideways?" said Tough, expecting to be tackled from the side as the others had been. "No, head on, Tough. Let's see if you can get by him," said Cockrell. "Let her go!" McCarty, with the memory of past defiances, went toward Stover head down, full tilt. Ordinarily in practice the runner slackens just before the tackle; but McCarty, expecting slight resistance from a novice, arrived at top speed. Stover, instead of hesitating or waiting the coming, hurled himself recklessly forward. Shoulder met knee with a crash that threw them both. Stunned by the savage impact, Stover, spilled head over heels, dizzy and furious, instinctively flung himself from his knees upon the prostrate body of McCarty, as he had followed the elusive ball a moment before. "That's instinct, football instinct," said Mr. Ware to Cockrell, as they approached the spot where Dink, still dazed, was clutching Tough McCarty's knees in a convulsive hug. "Let go! Let go there, you little varmint," said Tough McCarty, considerably shaken. "How long are you going to hold me here?" Some one touched Dink on the shoulder; he looked up through the blur to see the captain's face. "All right, Dink, get up." But Stover released his grip not a whit. "Here, you young bulldog," said Cockrell with a laugh, "it's all over. Let go. Stand up. Sort of groggy, eh?" Dink, pulled to his feet, felt the earth slip under him in drunken reelings. "I missed him," he said brokenly, leaning against Mr. Ware. "H'm, not so bad," said the coach gruffly. "How do you feel?" said Garry Cockrell, looking at him with his quiet smile. Dink saw the smile and misjudged it. "Give me another chance," he cried furiously. "I'll get him." "What! Ready for another tackle?" said the captain, looking at him intently. "Please, sir." "Well, get your head clear first." "Let me take it now, sir!" "All right." "Hit him harder than he hits you, and grip with your hands," said the voice of Mr. Ware in his ear.