“I’ve got a tough scalp,” was the untroubled reply.  “Anyway, we’ve got to have at least one good tackle.  Great Scott, George, you don’t seem to realise what we’re up against.  Why, Phillips went into Trow and Tyler Saturday as if they were paper!  They’re old-style tackles, both of them.  No one’s ever told them that the game has changed since the day when tackles were just linemen!  Here, I’m going over there and see what ‘Boots’ has got in his outfit.”

There was no scrimmage with the ’varsity that afternoon, and Mr. Boutelle was putting his second team through a hard practice when Joe Detweiler appeared on the second’s gridiron.  “Boots” viewed his advent with suspicion and joined him with a belligerent expression on his face.

“What are you doing over here, you spy?” he demanded.  “Trying to get our signals!”

“No, just looking,” replied the other innocently.

“Looking at my tackles, maybe, eh!  You tell George he can’t have any of them.  How the dickens does he suppose I’m going to make a team if he keeps pulling a man out every little while?”

“That what he’s been doing!” asked Detweiler sympathetically, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed speculatively on the squad that was dashing past.  “That’s Thayer on this end, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” agreed “Boots” reluctantly.  “Suppose you’d like him, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, you know the fix we’re in over there, old man.  Saunders is out of it for a fortnight and Trow and Tyler haven’t any ginger at all.  We might give him back to you next week, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know!  You’re likely to!  What I’ll get will be that fellow Crewe.  I don’t want him, understand?  I wouldn’t have him on my team.  Look here, if you only want a tackle for a week or so, why don’t you take Robbins?  He’s a good man, Robbins.”

“Is he?  Which is Robbins?” Mr. Boutelle pointed him out.  Detweiler shook his head.

“Too straggly, ‘Boots.’  Try again.  Either Cupples or Thayer, I guess it will have to be.  Sorry, you know.”

“Oh, yes, you’re plumb broken-hearted, aren’t you?” asked “Boots” with bitter sarcasm.  As a relief to his feelings, he shouted pungent criticism at Quarter-back Hinton.  “Well,” he said finally, “which do you want and when do you want him?”

“I guess we’ll take Thayer,” was the answer, “Tell him to report tomorrow, will you?  Much obliged, old man.”

“You’re not welcome, confound you!  Now get out of here!  And tell George this is the last player he gets from me this Fall!”

Detweiler departed, grinning, and “Boots” returned, grumbling, to his charges and was so cross-grained for the rest of the practice that the team wondered.  Later, in the gymnasium, “Boots” approached Clint.

“Thayer, they want you on the ’varsity,” he announced shortly.  “Report to Coach Robey tomorrow.  And for goodness’ sake show them that we know football over here.  You’ll do well enough to hold your job over there, I guess, if you’ll just remember a few of the things I’ve tried to hammer into you.  If you don’t you’ll be dumped back on my hands again, and I don’t want you.  I warn you right now that if you come back to me this season you’ll go on the bench.  I won’t have any castaways from the ’varsity working for me!”