The candidates in threes and fours crouched on a designated line, dug their toes in the sod and raced forward at the clap of a hand, for a good fifteen yards.
"Take your place, Moore," said Jock finally. "Dig down and get off with a jump."
Piggy, embarrassed by the stiffness of his collar and the difficulty of retaining his derby without loss of dignity, made a lumbering attempt.
"Try again. You're not racing a baby buggy! Get back on your marks," said Hasbrouck, and moving to a position directly behind him, he thundered: "Now, one—two—three!"
A stinging hand descended upon the crouching Piggy, who leaped forward in indignant amazement.
"That helped," said Jock, with an approving nod. "Once more."
Piggy, red to the ears, a second time was forced to humble himself and receive the indignity of such propulsion.
"Here, Piggy, catch!"
Moore had just time to spin around, when a football vigorously thrown, smote him full in the stomach.