Five minutes later the field was empty of the sixty-odd boys who had reported for the second day's practice and the sun was going down behind the tree-clad hill to the west. In the gymnasium was the sound of rushing water, of many voices and of scraping benches. Mr. Robey wormed his way through the crowded locker-room to where Danny Moore, the trainer, stood in the doorway of the rubbing-room in talk with Jim Morton, this year's manager of the team. Morton was nineteen, tall, thin and benevolent looking behind a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles.
"Did you put them on the scales, Dan?" asked the coach.
"Sure, the first, second and third, sir. Some of 'em dropped a good three pounds today. By gorry, I feel like I'd dropped that much meself!"
"It certainly is warm. Look here, Jim, is this all we get to work on? How many were out today?"
"Sixty-two, Coach. That's not bad. I suppose there'll be a few more dribble along tomorrow and the next day."
"Well, they look pretty fair, don't you think? Some of the new fellows seem to have ideas of football. All the last year fellows on hand?"
"All but Gilbert. He hasn't shown up. I don't know why, I'm sure."
"Better look him up," said the coach. "Gilbert ought to make a pretty good showing this year, and we aren't any too strong on guards."
"Gilbert rooms with Tim Otis, I think," replied Morton. "Oh, Tim! Tim Otis!"
A light-haired boy of seventeen, very straight, and very pink where an enormous bath-towel failed to cover him, wormed his way to them.