Several other newcomers reported that afternoon, and so Tubb was not alone as a tyro. Toby haled him at once to Sam Wansworth, the manager, and Tubb replied grumpily to the few stereotyped questions asked. Then practice was started and the two parted, Toby joining his usual squad and Tubb the bunch of latest recruits. It was an afternoon of good football weather, bright and crisp, with a straight breeze blowing down the field from the marshes across the glistening river. Beyond, on the First Team gridiron, a half-dozen punters and drop-kickers were busy in front of the north goal, and the pigskins arose and fell against the blue distance. Just above the boathouse the single occupant of a bright yellow canoe was struggling gamely against wind and tide, the sunlight flashing on the dripping paddle.
Twenty minutes of passing and starting, and then Toby’s squad was trotted over to the tackling dummies and he had his first clutch at the moving, swaying canvas effigy. That his first clutch wasn’t a firm one is easily understood by those who have been through his experience. “Gyp” Harris was in charge, and Gyp wasn’t one to be easily satisfied. Working the rope that sent the dummy rattling along the cable between the posts with one hand, he used the other to point and gesticulate. Toby thought he had never seen any one more eloquent with one hand than the trainer! Not, however, that Gyp was dumb, or even tongue-tied. On the contrary, he had a strong voice and an effective vocabulary, and he kept both busy in a sort of sing-song fashion.
“Next man! Feet together! Let ’er go! Off on the left! Get him! Hold him! Pull him down! Rotten, perfectly rotten! You tackled too high again! Next man!...”
Occasionally there was pause while Gyp left the pulley and strode over to the head of the line and gave an illustration or criticized with ample detail some glaringly unfortunate attempt. “What have I told you about getting your body in front of the dummy, Bowen? Can’t you understand that when you tackle a runner from behind he’s going to drag you a way before you can stop him? Get in front of him so that your body blocks him. A man can’t push with his legs below the knees when he’s on his feet. Of course, you’re supposed to get to him hard enough to put him off his feet. But if he has slowed up to meet you your game is to lift him and throw him back toward his own goal. You can’t do that if you’re behind him because he will throw his weight forward. Get your body in front, lock his knees and lift. And don’t land on your stomach when you dive, Bowen. Land on your hip. See if you can’t get it right the next time.”
Toby came to the conclusion that he was more than ordinarily stupid, but it is probable that he did as well as any of the others that first day. Presently they were dismissed, though not with the trainer’s blessing, and another squad took their place. Coach Burtis and Captain Beech had formed a tentative team of the more experienced or more likely candidates, and these were trotting around the field in signal work with Frick at quarter-back. Toby and three other fellows were sent across to the further side of the gridiron to catch punts, or, failing the catch, to recover them as best they could. At that game Toby found himself rather clever. He seemed able to judge the wobbling, descending balls with more certainty than his companions and to hold them better when they reached him. Having got a ball, he trotted back part way across and threw it the rest of the distance. He would have liked to punt it, but this was forbidden.
Still later, he was set to taking snap-backs and passes from Watson, one of the candidates for center. He gathered that Watson had shown himself deficient in that branch of his play. It wasn’t very interesting work, for Watson was earnest and determined and erratic, and Toby spent half of his time chasing around after the pigskin. Once, taking passes from a distance of five yards and at an angle, or trying to, he became aware that some one was looking on and turned to discover Coach Burtis behind him. The coach nodded encouragingly. “Not bad, Tucker. Try to be a little more shifty on your feet, though. Keep on your toes, ready to go in any direction. In play it’s rather disastrous to let the ball get past you, you know.”
He went on, leaving Toby surprised and gratified that he had remembered his name.
There was no scrimmage to-day, and practice ended with a two-lap trot around the gridiron and then up to the gymnasium, where most of them arrived very much out of breath. During practice Toby had caught an occasional glimpse of Tubb looking harassed and mutinous, but it wasn’t until they met in the locker-room that Toby had an opportunity to speak to him. Tubb sank onto the bench with a grunt of weariness and disgust and savagely attacked the laces of his borrowed shoes. Toby, hiding a grin, asked pleasantly:
“Well, how did it go, Tubb?”