“Who dropped that ball?” thundered Mills, striding into the back-field, pushing players left and right.

“I did,” answered Neil, striving to meet the coach’s flashing eyes and failing miserably.

“You did?  Well, do it just once more, Fletcher, and you’ll go off!  And you’ll find it hard work getting back again, too.  Bear that in mind, please.”  He turned to the others.  “Now get together here!  Put some life into things!  Stop that plunging right here!  If the second gets another yard you’ll hear from me!”

“First down; two yards to gain!” called Jones, who was acting as referee.

The second came at them again, tackle-back, desperately, fighting hard.  But the varsity held, and on the next down held again.

“That’s better,” cried Mills.

“Use your weight, Baker!” shrieked one of the second’s coaches, slapping the second’s left-guard fiercely on the back to lend vehemence to the command.

“Center, your man got you that time,” cried another.  “Into him now!  Throw him back!  Get through!”

Ten coaches were raving and shrieking at once.

“Signal!” cried the second’s quarter, Reardon.  The babel was hushed, save for the voice of Mills crying: 

“Steady!  Steady!  Hold them, varsity!”

“44—­64—­73—­81!” came Reardon’s muffled voice.  Then the second’s backs plunged forward.  Neil and Gillam met them with a crash; cries and confusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurled themselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped “Down!” the whistle shrilled.

“Varsity’s ball!” said the referee.  “First down!”

The coaches began their tirades anew.  Mills spoke to Foster aside.  Then the lines again faced each other.  Foster glanced back toward Neil.

“14—­12—­34—­9!” he sang.  It was a kick from close formation.  Neil changed places with full-back.  He had forgotten for the moment the role he had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flying toward him from center.  He would do his best.  The pigskin settled into his hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound.  But the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretched hand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players.  In a moment it came to light tightly clutched by Brown of the second eleven.

“I don’t have to make believe,” groaned Neil.  “Fate’s playing squarely into my hands.”

Five minutes later the leather went to him for a run outside of left tackle.  He never knew whether he tried to do it or really stumbled, but he fell before the line was reached, and in a twinkling three of the second eleven were pushing his face into the muddy turf.  The play had lost the varsity four yards.  Mills glared at Neil, but said not a word.  Neil smiled weakly as he went back to his place.

“I needn’t try any more,” he thought wearily.  “He’s made up his mind to put me off.”