On the 5th of October a varsity and a second squad were formed, and Neil and Paul found themselves at left and right half respectively on the latter.  Cowan was back at right-guard on the varsity, a position which he had played satisfactorily the year before.  Neil had already made the discovery that he had, despite his Hillton experience, not a little to learn, and he set about learning it eagerly.  Paul made the same discovery, but, unfortunately for himself, the discovery wounded his pride, and he accepted the criticisms of coach and captain with rather ill grace.

“That dub Devoe makes me very weary,” he confided to Neil one afternoon.  “He thinks he knows it all and no one else has any sense.”

“He doesn’t strike me that way,” answered his chum.  “And I think he does know a good deal of football.”

“You always stick up for him,” growled Paul.  “And for Mills, too—­white-haired, freckle-faced chump!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Neil.  “One’s captain and t’other is coach, and they’re going to rub it into us whenever they please, and the best thing for us to do is to take it and look cheerful.”

“That’s it; we have to take it,” Paul objected.  “They can put us on the bench if they want to and keep us there all the season; I know that.  But, just the same, I don’t intend to lick Devoe’s boots or rub my head in the dirt whenever Mills looks at me.”

“Well, it looks to me as though you’d been rubbing your head in the dirt already,” laughed Neil.

“Connor stepped on me there,” muttered Paul, wiping a clump of mud from his forehead.  “Come on; Mills is yelling for us.  More catching punts, I suppose.”

And his supposition was correct.  Across the width of the sunlit field Graham, the two-hundred-and-thirty-pound center rush, stooped over the pigskin.  Beside him were two pairs of end rushes, and behind him, with outstretched hands, stood Ted Foster.  Foster gave a signal, the ball went back to him on a long pass, and he sent it over the gridiron toward where Neil, Paul, and two other backs were waiting.  The ends came down under the kick, the ball thumped into Paul’s hands, Neil and another formed speedy interference, and the three were well off before the ends, like miniature cyclones, were upon them and had dragged Paul to earth.

The head coach, a short but sturdy figure in worn-out trousers and faded purple shirt, stood on the edge of the cinder track and viewed the work with critical eye.  When the ends had trotted back over the field with the ball to repeat the proceeding, he made himself heard: 

“Spread out more, fellows, and don’t all stand in a line across the field.  You’ve got to learn now to judge kicks; you can’t expect to always find yourself just under them.  Fletcher, as soon as you’ve decided who is to take the ball yell out.  Then play to the runner; every other man form into interference and get him up the field.  Now then!  Play quick!”