Meanwhile, across on the main gridiron, Mr. Cotting was hammering speed into his teams. The formation used this year for the backfield differed somewhat from that of the previous season and the players were having difficulty with it, simple though it was. The left half, fullback and right half lined up behind quarter in a slanting tandem in the order named, left half being to the left of quarter, the fullback behind him and the right half at his right. From this formation the order to shift—which became “Hep!” in the quarterback’s vernacular—was followed by one or two quick jumps to the right or left as the signal demanded. It was a good “shift formation,” since it allowed the backs to get into position for the play very quickly, and at the same time was capable of all sorts of combinations.[149] A jump to the right by the tandem changed what seemed like an attack on the right of the opposing line to an attack on the left, and, since it was only necessary for the backs to come to momentary pause before the ball was snapped, the enemy had short time in which to change its defence to meet the play at the threatened spot. Even when the shift had taken the backs to the right of their quarter there was, however, no certainty that the play would hit that side of the line. Often enough left half and fullback would plunge around quarter for an attack on the opposing tackle, while the right half caused a diversion by banging straight ahead. Or sometimes it was the left half who faked an attack on the other side, leaving fullback and right half to charge at the enemy’s center. And it lent itself excellently well to end running besides. But it was new as yet and Coach Cotting had much fault to find with the execution of the plays. And he wasn’t over kind that afternoon to the forwards of either team.  
“Where were you going that time?” he demanded sharply of Tyson after a line plunge had been smothered by the second.
 
[150]
 
“Through guard, sir.”
 
“No, you weren’t! You were over here at tackle. Why didn’t you follow your signal?”
 
“There was no hole at guard, sir. That man was in the way, and so——”
 
“I don’t care who was in your way, Tyson! The signal told you to carry that ball through guard. If the hole wasn’t there for you that’s none of your business. That’s up to the linemen. You go where you’re supposed to. Now, then, whose place was it to open up that hole? Yours, Doyle? All right, then it’s up to you. Now try it again. And don’t try to push them back; get down and lift ’em up!”
 
The play was tried again, and this time a second squad back plunged through and upset the runner in the line. The coach jumped into the mêlée.
 
“Who got through then? Watson? That’s the way to do it, Watson!” He thumped the second squad man on the back. “That was dandy! You keep on playing like that and I’ll have you over on this side, by jingo! Now, then, you first team, what have you got to say? Who let that man through? That was you,[151] Pounder. Look at him! Weighs half what you do! Now you fellows quit this half hearted playing and get down and work! I want to see that play go and go right! Same signals, Quarter! And make it good!”
 
“A formation! 34—45—87! Hep!”
 
Back came the ball to Stacey, away plunged the fullback, the pigskin went to Tyson at a hand pass and, following in the wake of the big fullback, the right half tore through for three full yards, in spite of the fact that the second knew where the attack was coming and had concentrated its secondary defence there. The players scrambled or were pulled to their feet, panting, and Mr. Cotting voiced approval.
 
“That’s better, fellows! Put some punch into it! All right now! Fourth down and six to go!”
 
Then, with Gordon back and his arms outstretched for the ball for all the world as though he meant to dropkick it over the crossbars, now only twenty odd yards away, the pigskin went to Tyson again, and that youth skirted the second team’s right end and, with the coach crying “Cut! Cut!” finally found his opening and cut for a good twelve yards and a first down.
 
[152]
 
And so it went for thirty minutes or so of the hardest sort of work, with no let-ups. When a player showed signs of exhaustion he was sent off and a substitute summoned on from the waiting line at the edge of the field. There was no loafing that afternoon. And all the time the coach’s sharp voice barked criticism or censure or, less frequently, commendation. “Clean up that line, Second! Get under ’em! Put ’em back!” ... “Ball! Ball! Bring it back five yards here, First. Don’t let me catch you doing that again, Watson! All right. Third down and five to go!... Rotten! Rotten, Second! Look where your guards were playing. Spread out your line! Try that again!” ... “Signals! What are you giving ’em, Trowbridge? What? On their twenty yard line? Use your brain, man!... Fuller! Fuller! Come in here and play left tackle! Show these fellows how to hold that side of your line!... Low, low! Play low, Second! That’s better!... Wynant, where were you then? Fall asleep, did you? Start with the ball, man! You were all out of the play!”
 
And even when finally the scrimmage was[153] ended, the first having earned a touchdown and a field goal and held their opponents scoreless, there was still work for the centers, backs, and ends. The other players trotted breathlessly back to the gymnasium, but a dozen or so unfortunates remained for punting practice, the centers to snap back the ball to the punters, the backs to catch and run the pigskin back, and the ends to get down under the kicks and head off the catchers. It was almost dark when the last thump of boot against ball was heard and Mr. Cotting let them go. In the locker room at the gymnasium fellows grinned tiredly at each other, and shook their heads as if to say, “Don’t ask me what got into him to-day! All I know is I got mine aplenty!”
 
But an hour or so later, refreshed by showers, trooping into supper, the hard words and hard knocks were all forgotten, or, remembered, had lost their sting. “That was some practice, old man! Say, didn’t he rub it into us for fair? Bet you, though, we learned more than we have all season so far, eh? He’s a little wonder when he gets het up, what?” And bruises were exhibited proudly, vaingloriously, while a wonderful[154] glow of wellbeing encompassed their wearied bodies as they satisfied gigantic appetites, and already they were thinking of the morrow and looking forward eagerly to the next practice, each fellow resolved in his heart to “show him a few things next time!”
 
It’s a wonderful game, this football; wonderful for what it will do for flabby muscles and hollow chests, but more wonderful still for what it can do for flabby characters. There’s young Jones, for instance, who came to school with a quick and mighty ugly temper, an intolerance of anything savoring of discipline, and no especial ambition beyond doing as he pleased and being as selfish as fourteen years of spoiling at home had taught him to be. And there’s young Smith, fat and flabby and lazy when he came up, with only a sneering laugh for the form of school patriotism that caused other boys to keep their bodies clean and healthy and to toil on gridiron or diamond or cinder path for the glory of the school. Don’t look the same to-day do they? They fought and struggled and matched muscles and wits against each other this afternoon for a solid hour or more, took[155] hard knocks and gave them, sweated and panted for breath, and rolled in the mud of a wet field, lost their tempers perhaps now and then for a brief instant—they’re only youngsters yet, after all. And now, side by side, they’re talking it over, laughing at the mishaps, criticising the misplays, praising each other’s good feats, each feeling for the other the respect—yes, and the affection, too—that every brave warrior has felt for a worthy opponent since the world began. Yes, it’s a wonderful game, this football, a gentleman’s game.
 
Who misses or who wins the prize,
Go lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail or if you rise
Be each, pray God, a gentleman!
Young Jones learned to accept criticism and submit to authority, to govern his temper and consider the welfare of someone other than his own selfish little self. I fancy it didn’t come very easily, just at first; it was probably something of a shock to him to discover that on the football field he was only one, and an inconsiderable one, of many, and that no one cared a[156] straw if he got a black eye. But he learned and profited, and it did him a heap of good. And should you ask him to-day about the young Jones that he used to be he’d probably tell you frankly and succinctly that that boy was “a selfish little bra............