of lemonade in the other, stood before the empty grate and deplored the lack of opportunity for self-expression at Wyndham. Neither Clif nor Tom could hear him very well, but Tom stared fascinatedly at his throat, and murmured, "There it goes! Look at it! Up! Down! Up! Heck, he's swallowed it!"
But he hadn't.
Mr. McKnight sat down by Clif and talked football a while. He seemed to know a great deal about it, and presently Tom was weaned from his absorbed occupation of watching Baldwin, and took part in the talk. "Lovey" told them he hoped the Scrub would be as good this year as it had been last. "Babcock's a clever coach, fellows. He's taken some mighty unpromising material before this and turned out an excellent team." Noting Tom's grin, the instructor hastily amended. "I didn't mean to say it just that way, Kemble," he laughed. "From what I've heard and seen of his material this fall he's rather better off than usual. To my thinking Babcock would make a fine First Team coach in case Mr. Otis failed us. Of course, though, he couldn't give the time to it. Even now he's pretty hard pressed to coach you chaps."
"He's an awfully good coach, I think," agreed Clif. "He gets you to do things without telling you to, somehow. I mean, you want to please him, you know, and so you—you sort of just do things without waiting to be told!"
"That's very true, Clif," agreed Mr. McKnight. "He has always been able to win coöperation. We were
