"I'll do my best," said Frank, feeling his hopes for a place on the team slipping away, for he knew well that in the short time still left in the season his chances were small to learn that most difficult of line positions—end.
"You are fast and about the only clean tackler I have on the squad," said Howard. "Get in and try it."
Bostwick, having been temporarily fixed up and led limping away in the arms of two of the substitutes in the direction of the car, play was resumed with Armstrong in his new position.
"Don't you let anyone get past you on the outside," commanded Howard. "And don't be drawn in, no matter what happens. If you can't break the interference, spill it so the defensive half can get the man with the ball. Come on, try it."
Frank did try and tried hard. His ankle had improved, and under the punts he went down the field like a streak of lightning, missing but few tackles. But when the team was on the defensive, he showed the weakness of inexperience.
"Outside of you that time," bawled the coach, and when the new end moved out further, the play went inside. Sometimes he stopped the interference and sometimes, digging desperately through the tangle of legs, he got the runner on a driving tackle, which earned for him a "Good boy, Armstrong," from Howard.
But it was bitter hard work, and never in his life had the welcome "That's enough for to-day" found him so ready to quit. His body felt bruised and sore all over from the driving work of the afternoon and his legs were as heavy as lead, as in the gathering dusk he dragged himself to the waiting trolley car which was there to carry the team to the city.
"You did well to-day, Armstrong, for a starter," said the coach kindly as he came through the car. "It's a hard dose I've given you."
Frank smiled a wan smile as he loosened his shoe laces.
"How heavy are you?"