“It has been fearful work trying get the interest up this year,” continued Brayton with a reminiscent sigh.  “So many good man have been dodging the squad!  Even Haynes, who is the best we have at left end, ducked this afternoon.  Caesar’s ghost may know what Haynes was doing with his time—–­I don’t.  But I don’t believe he was boning.”

Prescott smiled quietly to himself as he recalled how Cadet Haynes had been employing his leisure in this very room.

“Well, I’m happy, and Lieutenant Carney will be,” muttered Brayton, turning to go.  “A whole lot of us will feel easier.”

“Any idea where you’ll try to play us?” asked Dick, as the captain of the Army eleven rested his hand on the knob.

“Not much; we’ll find out during tomorrow afternoon’s practice.  Be sharp on time, won’t you?”

“If we’re able to walk,” promised Dick.

Just after Brayton had gone the orderly came through with mail.

“You got something, eh?” asked Greg.

“Yes; a letter from grand old Dave Darrin,” cried Dick, as he broke the seal of the envelope.

“Let me know the news,” begged Holmes.

“Whoop!  Dave is on the Navy football team.  So is Dan Dalzell!  Both have gone in at the eleventh hour.”

“Great Scott!” breathed Greg, rising to his feet.  “I wonder if we’re going to be placed on the line where we’ll have to bump ’em in the Army-Navy game?”

“We may be, if we get on the line,” uttered Prescott, as he finished the epistle.  “Here, Greg, read it for yourself.  That will be quicker than waiting for me to tell you the news from our old chums.”

The next afternoon both Prescott and Holmes turned out on the gridiron practice work.  Both proved to be in fine form.  Lieutenant Carney, the Army coach, devoted most of his attention to them.

After some preliminary work the Army eleven was lined up against a “scrub” team of cadets.

“Mr. Prescott, go to left end on the team,” directed Coach Carney.  “Mr. Haynes, take the right end on scrub.  Mr. Holmes, you will be left tackle on the Army team for this bit of work.  The captains of both teams will now line their men up.  Scrub will have the ball and make the kick-off.  Make all the play brisk and snappy.  Work for speed and strategy, not impact.”

With that, Lieutenant Carney ran over to the edge of the gridiron, leaving another officer, of the coaching force, to officiate as referee.

The ball was placed in play.  At the kick-off the ball came to Greg, who passed it to Dick.  The interference formed, backed by Brayton.

“Put it around their right end!” growled Brayton, the word passing swiftly to Prescott.

Haynes was darting in, blood in his eye, backed the whole right flank of scrub.

Greg and the rest of the available interference got swiftly and squarely in the way of Haynes and the others.  There was a scrimmage.  Out of it, somehow—–­none looking on could tell just how it was done—–­Prescott emerged from the mix-up, darting swiftly to the left and around.  He had made twenty-five yards with the ball Before he was nailed and downed.