Ten coaches were raving and shrieking at once.
"Signal!" cried the second's quarter, Reardon. The babel was hushed, save for the voice of Mills crying:
"Steady! Steady! Hold them, varsity!"
"44--64--73--81!" came Reardon's muffled voice. Then the second's backs plunged forward. Neil and Gillam met them with a crash; cries and confusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurled themselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped "Down!" the whistle shrilled.
"Varsity's ball!" said the referee. "First down!"
The coaches began their tirades anew. Mills spoke to Foster aside. Then the lines again faced each other. Foster glanced back toward Neil.
"14--12--34--9!" he sang. It was a kick from close formation. Neil changed places with full-back. He had forgotten for the moment the rôle he had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flying toward him from center. He would do his best. The pigskin settled into his hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound. But the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretched hand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players. In a moment it came to light tightly clutched by Brown of the second eleven.
"I don't have to make believe," groaned Neil. "Fate's playing squarely into my hands."
Five minutes later the leather went to him for a run outside of left tackle. He never knew whether he tried to do it or really stumbled, but he fell before the line was reached, and in a twinkling three of the second eleven were pushing his face into the muddy turf. The play had lost the varsity four yards. Mills glared at Neil, but said not a word. Neil smiled weakly as he went back to his place.
"I needn't try any more," he thought wearily. "He's made up his mind to put me off."