“That was good, Tucker, good!” cried Mills.  “You did just as I told you.  Now give the ball to the other side.  Weight forward, defense, every one of you on his toes. Browning, watch that ball! Now get into them, every one!  Block them!”

At the other end of the field six fellows were kicking goal and six others, stretched upon the turf, were holding the balls for them.  Devoe was coaching.  Sydney could see Neil, the farthest away of any, lifting the leather toward the posts from a difficult angle on the twenty-yard line.  Even as he watched, the ball sailed away from Neil’s toe and went fair over the cross-bar, and Sydney silently applauded.  He set himself to recognizing the other kickers.  There was Gale, the tall and rather heavy fellow in the crimson sleeves; and Mason, equally tall but all corners and angles; and Smith, and Gillam, and Foster.  Devoe seemed to be laying down the law forcibly to Gale; he was gesticulating with his hands and nodding his head like a Chinese mandarin.  Sydney could not hear what he was saying, nor could he see Gale’s face; but in the attitude of the captain there was exasperation, and in that of Gale sullen impatience.

Another group at signal practise drew nigh, and Sydney gave his attention to it.  Reardon, the second eleven quarter, sang his signals in a queer, shrill voice that was irresistibly funny.  In front of Sydney he raised himself, wiped his palms on his stained trousers, grimaced at one of the halves, and took a deep breath.  Then—­

“Signal!” he cried. “7—­8—­4—­6!”

Eight half bounded by him, full-back fell in behind and took the ball, left half dashed after, and the group trotted away to line up again ten yards down the field.  But presently the lines at the east goal broke up and trotted toward the benches, and Mills called the players in from all parts of the field.  The water-pail was surrounded and the thirsty players rinsed out their mouths, well knowing the reprimand that awaited should they be rash enough to take even one swallow.  Sweaters were hurriedly donned, Simson dealing them out from the pile on the ground, and the fellows sank on to the benches.  Neil saw Sydney, and talked to him over the fence until he heard his name called from the line-up.

“I think I shall make a touch-down to-day,” said Sydney.  Neil shook his head, smiling: 

“I don’t know about that; you’re not feeling so fit to-day, you know.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” answered the cripple.  “You just watch me.”

Neil laughed, and hurrying off, was fitted with his head harness and trotted out to his place.  Sydney was mistaken, as events proved, for he—­in the person of Neil Fletcher—­failed to get over the second’s goal-line in either of the short halves; which was also true of all the other varsity players.  But if she didn’t score, the varsity kept the second at bay, and that was a good deal.  The second played desperately, being convinced that Mills would keep his promise and, if they succeeded in scoring on their opponents, give them the honor of facing Harvard the following Wednesday.  But the varsity, being equally convinced of the fact, played quite as desperately, and the two teams trotted off with honors even.