“Hear the news?” burst out Jack, as he entered the room where Tom was studying, a few afternoons later.
“No, what news?”
“Call for Freshmen and regular football candidates is posted. Practice begins to-morrow. Let’s get out our suits.”
“Fine!” cried Tom, tossing his book on the table, and scurrying for his trunk where he had packed away his moleskin trousers and canvas jacket. Jack soon had his out, looking for possible rents and ripped seams.
“I’ve got to do some mending—worse luck!” exclaimed Tom, as he saw a big hole in his trousers.
“Can you sew?” asked Jack.
“Oh, so-so,” laughed Tom. “I can make a stab at it, anyhow,” and he proceeded to close up the rent by the simple process of gathering the edges together like the mouth of a bag, and winding string around them. “There! I guess that’ll do,” he added.
It was a clear, crisp day, and “the call of the pigskin” had been heard all through the college. Several score of lads, in more or less disreputable suits, that had seen lots of service, assembled on the gridiron under the watchful eyes of the coaches.
“I hope I make the regular eleven,” said Tom, as he sent a beautiful spiral kick to Jack.
“So do I,” was the reply. “But I hear there are lots of candidates for it, and almost a whole team was left over from last season, so there won’t be much chance for us.”