“Then you ought to be ashamed to tackle like that,” said Dick severely. “Try it again, please. And remember that the idea is to stop the man and not tickle him under the knees!”
Tom flushed, choked down a retort that his companions in the line surmised was none too patient and poised himself again while the swaying dummy once more crossed the pit.
“Now get into it!” urged Dick. “Stop him! Put him back!”
Perhaps chagrin was responsible for what ensued. Tom made a hard dive and whipped his arms out for the canvas body, but in some way the dummy eluded him and Tom rolled over sprawling on his back, while the stuffed figure, with its faded C, went dancing crazily on its way. Tom picked himself up, angrily aware of the amused expressions on the faces of the others, and, brushing his hands absorbedly, took up his position again at the end of the line. Dick said nothing. Another candidate hurled himself at the dummy, with a rattle and bang of chain and pulley, and then another and another. Dick awarded each one a word of criticism, approving or disparaging. “Better, Way.” “All right, Jack.” “Rotten, Bert. Get in front and not behind.” “Brimmer, you act as if you were afraid of it! Try it again.” Ultimately it was once more Tom Haley’s turn, and Tom had a little disk of white on each cheek as he watched Manager Cotner pull the dummy back and lay hold of the other rope. An expectant silence fell. Dick nodded and the figure started across the pit on its iron trolley. Tom, hands clenched, ran forward a few steps and launched himself. His arms enwrapped the dummy’s thighs, there was a mighty grunt from Tom and the sound of ripping canvas, and tackler and dummy reposed in the dirt while the chain and ring sped jangling around the block toward the further end. A burst of hilarity greeted the performance. Dick smiled.
“That’s the way to do it, Tom,” he approved heartily as Tom tossed the dummy from his prostrate form and arose, “and I’d like to see every one of you tear it off the ring every time! Get a new strap made for that by to-morrow, George, please. That’s all for to-day, fellows. On the trot now. Two laps around the field before you go in.”
The mass meeting didn’t materialize. No one had really expected it to. What had seemed a catastrophe on Saturday had become merely an unfortunate incident by Monday. No one, you may be sure, had mentioned the matter to Dick, but he was not in ignorance of the sentiment of the school in general. But if it bothered him he made no sign. He went on his way smiling. Even when on the next Wednesday it became known that Will Horsford had been forbidden further participation in football by reason of a weak heart discovered in the course of a physical examination by Mr. Murray, and the fellows learned that Dick had insisted on a revival of a regulation that had become virtually a dead letter and criticism was rampant, Dick appeared to be quite unaware of it. Horsford was a good player, a lineman who had performed creditably at guard and tackle for two seasons, and there was no contradicting the assertion so loudly made that the team had lost one of its best men. Dick’s course in insisting on physical examinations for the candidates was labeled absurd.
“What’s the good,” fellows asked, “of reviving that rot? If Faculty is satisfied why do we need to complain? And look what the result is! One of the best players we had lost to us!”
Nor was the explanation of Dick’s friends that it was good policy to take no chances with fellows physically weak and so liable to injury accepted as sufficient. “Lovering’s too much of a granny for this job,” was the answer. “He ought to be coaching the grammar school team!”
On Thursday Dick began the formation of a First Squad—Squad A he called it—and to it he gathered an even two dozen. The balance he formed into Squad B. There were some surprises in that partitioning. Page Kent, right guard in the Highland Hall game, was relegated to Squad B, as was Jack Toll, right end. Guy Felker, who had always played half or fullback, was tried out as end, and Fudge Shaw was made unintelligible for days by being placed on Squad A amongst the candidates for the position of guard. Harry Partridge, who had started the season as captain of the Scrub, found himself elevated to the upper squad, and it was Tom Nostrand who fell heir to his honor. That alone was sufficient to excite comment, for Nostrand had never shown any particular ability as a player. He had, however, a full set of brains, as Dick pointed out to Lanny when the latter showed surprise at the selection.