“Where are you, Tucker? Didn’t you hear the call?” Mr. Burtis was a trifle incisive as to voice, for prompt obedience was something he insisted on. Toby, alarmed, jumped to his feet and looked wildly about him.
“N-no, sir! What—where——”
“Well, hurry up.” The coach waved a hand toward the north goal. “Quarter-backs down there for punting.”
Toby stared, opened his mouth, closed it, stood irresolute until Mr. Burtis asked sharply: “Well, what’s wrong? You’re trying for quarter, aren’t you?”
“N-n——” Toby gulped hard. “Yes, sir!”
“Well, get busy then! Want me to lead you by the hand?”
Toby found his feet and hurried away, pursued by the laughter of the others along the bench.
“So I’m a quarter-back, am I?” he asked himself bewilderedly as he ran. “Gee, that’s a new one on me! Well, it’s fine to know what you are, even if you know you aren’t! I guess he will change his mind after he’s seen me try it!”
There were four other fellows there when he reached the scene: Frick, Stair, Rawson, and Bird. Stillwell was coaching. Toby knew very little about punting as a science, although he could kick a football for varying distances from five yards to thirty—if he didn’t miss it altogether! There was very little actual punting that day, for Stillwell had a lot to say on the theory of it, and for the most part the pupils practiced holding the ball and dropping it, standing and stepping forward and swinging the leg. At the end Stillwell let them try a few punts, and Toby, for his part, hoped that Coach Burtis wasn’t watching! That evening he had a brand-new lot of aches situate in the right hip and down the right leg. “Stillwell,” he confided ruefully to Arnold, “thought he was coaching a bunch of ballet dancers. He was never happy unless we were standing on the left foot and pointing the right toe straight at the zenith, whatever the zenith is! I don’t feel happy on both feet, Arn. Mind if I tuck one over the transom?”