“No, but they will.”
“I suppose so. Well, just have ’em let me down easy; will you? I’m a Soph myself, by rights, if old Hammond hadn’t marked me low in maths. But have the Sophs give it to Fairfield and his chum good and proper; will you?”
“Sure I will. We’re going to do some hazing after the football game. We thought we’d put it off until then.”
“All right, only do Tom Fairfield up if you can.”
“I will. I don’t like him any more than you do. He’s got too many airs to suit me—he and that Jack Fitch.”
“Line up! Line up!” called the coach, and the practice began. Sam Heller was called on to take his place in the scrub, which he did with no good grace, casting envious eyes at Bert Wilson, and with a feeling of bitterness in his heart toward Tom. And with no good cause, for Tom had done nothing to Sam.
“Now, boys, play your heads off!” ordered the coach. “I want to see what sort of stuff you’re made of. The best players will go against Holwell to-morrow.”
Then the scrub game began, with the Freshmen players doing their best to shove back their opponents, and the latter equally determined to make as good a showing as possible. Back and forth the battle of the gridiron waged, with Tom jumping into every play, looking for openings where he might wriggle through with the ball, or help the man who had it to gain a yard or two.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the members of the first eleven, as they got the ball well down toward the scrub goal. “Make it a touchdown!”
It would have been, but for the fact that Bert Wilson fumbled the ball in passing it back from centre. A scrub player broke through, grabbed the pigskin, and was off down the field like a shot.