“Well, if they do—­if they do,” answered Neil, “I’ll bet they won’t succeed.”

“You’d stop us, perhaps?” sneered Cowan.

“Easily,” answered Neil, smiling sweetly; “there are only a hundred or so of you.”

“There’s no one like a week-old freshman for self-importance,” Cowan said, laughing in order to hide his vexation.

“Unless it’s a third-year sophomore,” Neil retorted.

“Oh, well,” Paul interposed, “it’s all poppycock, anyhow.”

“That’s all,” said Livingston.

“Of course,” agreed Cowan.

Neil was silent.

CHAPTER VII

THE GENTLE ART OF HANDLING PUNTS

Life now was filled with hard work for both Neil and Paul.  Much of the novelty that had at first invested study with an exhilarating interest had worn off, and they had settled down to the daily routine of lectures and recitations just as though they had been Erskine undergrads for years instead of a week.  The study and the adjoining bed-room were at last furnished to suit; The First Snow was hung, the “rug for the wash-stand” was in place, and the objectionable towel-rack had given way to a smaller but less erratic affair.

Every afternoon saw the two boys on Erskine Field.  Mills was a hard taskmaster, but one that inspired the utmost confidence, and as a result of some ten days’ teaching the half hundred candidates who had survived the first weeding-out process were well along in the art of football.  The new men were coached daily in the rudiments; were taught to punt and catch, to fall on the ball, to pass without fumbling, to start quickly, and to run hard.  Exercise in the gymnasium still went on, but the original twenty-minute period had gradually diminished to ten.  Neil and Paul, with certain other candidates for the back-field, were daily instructed in catching punts and forming interference.  Every afternoon the practise was watched by a throng of students who were quick to applaud good work, and whose presence was a constant incentive to the players.  There was a strong sentiment throughout the college in favor of leaving nothing undone that might secure a victory over Robinson.  The defeat of the previous year rankled, and Erskine was grimly determined to square accounts with her lifelong rival.  As one important means to this end the college was searched through and through for heavy material, for Robinson always turned out teams that, whatever might be their playing power, were beef and brawn from left end to right.  And so at Erskine men who didn’t know a football from a goal-post were hauled from studious retirement simply because they had weight and promised strength, and were duly tried and, usually, found wanting.  One lucky find, however, rewarded the search, a two-hundred-pound sophomore named Browning, who, handicapped at the start with a colossal ignorance regarding all things pertaining to the gridiron, learned with wonderful rapidity, and gave every promise of turning himself into a phenomenal guard or tackle.