At nine o’clock, with the sound of the pealing bell again in their ears, with their books under their arms and their hearts beating a little faster than usual with pleasurable excitement, they retraced their path and mounted the well-worn granite steps of College Hall for their first recitation.  What with the novelty of it all the day passed quickly enough, and four o’clock found the two lads dressed in football togs and awaiting the beginning of practise.

There were some sixty candidates in sight, boys—­some of them men as far as years go—­of all sizes and ages, several at the first glance revealing the hopelessness of their ambitions.  The names were taken and fall practise at Erskine began.

The candidates were placed on opposite sides of the gridiron, and half a dozen footballs were produced.  Punting and catching punts was the order of the day, and Neil was soon busily at work.  The afternoon was warm, but not uncomfortably so, the turf was springy underfoot, the sky was blue from edge to edge, the new men supplied plenty of amusement in their efforts, the pigskins bumped into his arms in the manner of old friends, and Neil was happy as a lark.  After one catch for which he had to run back several yards, he let himself out and booted the leather with every ounce of strength.  The ball sailed high in a long arching flight, and sent several men across the field scampering back into the grand stand for it.

“I guess you’ve done that before,” said a voice beside him.  A short, stockily-built youth with a round, smiling face and blue eyes that twinkled with fun and good spirits was observing him shrewdly.

“Yes,” answered Neil, “I have.”

“I thought so,” was the reply.  “But you’re a freshman, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Neil, turning to let a low drive from across the gridiron settle into his arms.  “And I guess you’re not.”

“No, this is my third year.  I’ve been on the team two.”  He paused to send a ball back, and then wiped the perspiration from his forehead.  “I was quarter last year.”

“Oh,” said Neil, observing his neighbor with interest, “then you’re Foster?”

“That’s me.  What are you trying for?”

“Half-back.  I played three years at Hillton.”

“Of course; you’re the fellow Bob Devoe was talking about—­or one of them; I think he said there were two of you.  Which one are you?”

“I’m the other one,” laughed Neil.  “I’m Fletcher.  That’s Gale over there, the fellow in the old red shirt; he was our captain at Hillton last year.”

Foster looked across at Paul and then back at Neil.  He was evidently comparing them.  He shook his head.

“It’s a good thing he’s got dark hair and you’ve got light,” he said.  “Otherwise you wouldn’t know yourselves apart; you’re just of a height and build, and weight, too, I guess.  Are you related?”

“No.  But we are pretty much the same height and weight.  He’s half an inch taller, and I think I weigh two pounds more.”