There was a consultation of the officials and a toss for choice.  Holwell got the kick-off, and Captain Denton was rather glad of it, for he had instructed his lads, in case they got the ball, to make the most of the early periods of the game, and rush the pigskin for all they were worth.

“If we can get a touchdown in the first period it will almost mean winning the game,” he said to the coach.

“That’s right.  Well, play as fast as you can, for I think we’re in for a storm, and there are too many chances on a wet field to make anything certain.  Strike while the iron is hot.  Slam-bang through for a touchdown, if you can, before the rain comes.”

It was a raw, chilly day, with every promise of rain or snow, and though the crowds in the stands kept themselves warm by stamping their feet and singing, there was much discomfort.

Tom had been given his old position back of the line, and as he trotted out for practice he felt a sense of elation in the coming struggle.

“I’m not going to think about that miserable old business,” he told himself, but his resolution received a rude shock when, as he passed where Sam was talking to one of the Holwell players, the bully was heard to say: 

“Yes, lots of us think he dropped the poison in the mangers to get even with Appleby.  But of course there’s nothing proven.”

“I see.  A sort of Scotch verdict.”

“Something like that.  I should think he’d get out of the eleven at least, if not out of the school, but he sticks.”

“Indeed I do!” murmured Tom, clenching his fists, and almost deciding to challenge Sam.  But he knew a row would do no good, and would only hurt his case; so he kept silent.

“Line up!” came the call, and with the last of the preliminaries the practice balls were called in, and the new, yellow one placed on a little mound of earth in the center of the field.

There was that ever-inspiring thrill as the spheroid was booted high into the air.  Tom had the luck to grab it and then, with fairly good interference, he dashed down the field.

“Stick to him, boys!  Stick to him!” yelled the captain as he raced onward.  But some of the Holwell school players broke through, and Tom was thrown heavily.

“Now, boys, tear ’em up!” entreated Morse, as the first scrimmage was to come.  Sam began on a signal that would have sent Tom through guard and tackle, but Morse, hearing it, quickly stepped to the quarterback, whispering: 

“Not yet!  Tom’s too winded.  Give him a chance to get his breath.  Try a forward pass.”

Sam scowled, but he had to obey.  It had been his intention to play Tom fiercely until, out of weariness, our hero would have been [missing words] or would have played so raggedly that he would be sent to the side lines.  But Sam’s plan was frustrated.

The forward pass was not much of a success, and a fake kick was called for.  This netted a slight gain and then Morse again whispered to Sam.