This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly.  One of these was the kicking of the ball.

After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out: 

“Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line.  When you get there name your shot—–­that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball.  Where doesn’t matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one.  After you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field.  From there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named.”

“All right, sir,” nodded Dick.  Tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line.

“Right over there!” called Dick, pointing.  “I’ll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance.”

“Very good, Prescott!”

No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved.

“The duffers!  They needn’t think I am going to hit them with the ball,” muttered Dick.  Then he started on a hard run.

Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball.

It was a hard, fast drive.  The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high.

But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt.  A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage.  His head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball.

And that man was Principal Cantwell!

Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe.

Dick saw and half shivered.  Yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was: 

“Low bridge!”

Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only: 

“Mr. Cantwell!”

“Eh?” asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him.

Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best.  He wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat.  In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years.  But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style.

There was no time for more warning.

The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat.

Bump!  The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal’s head.