"Some run, Tom," added the captain. "Come on now, line up boys, and we'll walk through 'em!"
"Yes you will—nit!" jeered the scrub captain.
As Tom was panting from his long run, the other halfback was sent at the line with the ball. He did not gain much, and then the fullback was allowed to try. He gained a few feet.
"We'd better kick," whispered the captain to Sam, who was giving the signals.
"No, keep the ball," advised the coach. "I want the boys to have practice in bucking the line. Let Fairfield try again. He has his wind back now."
"All right," assented Morse, nodding at Sam, who began to give the signal.
Tom stiffened, ready to take the pigskin, and, at the same time he moved up a little nearer Sam, for somehow, he felt that the passing of his enemy might not be just accurate. And it was well that he did, for the quarterback threw the ball short.
"Look out!" cried the captain, but his warning was not needed, for Tom made a jump and met the pigskin. With it safely tucked under his arm, he made a jump between guard and tackle in the hole made for him by his players, and completed the gaining of the necessary distance.
"Down!" he panted, as nearly half a score of lads threw themselves on top of him. "Down!"
"Good work, old man!" the captain shouted in his ear. "Great line-bucking!"