plain to Clif, resented the infrequent visits of "G.G." Once, seeing the head coach's approach, Tom, at the receiving end of a ten-yard pass, opened his arms wide as the ball came to him and made a most ridiculously amateurish effort at catching. The ball went through, bounded from his body and trickled across the turf. Tom affected deep chagrin and followed it. He picked it up a few yards from Mr. Otis and then looked at him invitingly. The coach returned the look for a moment. Then he said: "Your left shoe lace is trailing. Fix it."
Tom sped the ball across vindictively. In a pause he said to Clif: "Did you hear him? Didn't I tell you I wasn't going to like that guy?"
Clif laughed and then sobered. "What did you want to do that for, anyway? Just to show off?"
"Why, heck," answered the other indignantly, "a fellow can't catch it every time!"
"Run along and sell your papers!" jeered Clif. "You did that on purpose. You just wanted Mr. Otis to jump on you so you could have a grouch on him. Anyway, I see you've tied your lace!"
"Oh, go to the dickens," grumbled Tom.
To-day's practice lasted longer than yesterday's and, since it involved a good deal of running around, it left the candidates rather more wrung out than on the previous afternoon. Clif confided to Tom that if he was called on to jog the track he'd die before he was half-*way around. Fortunately, then, only a handful of fellows, all from Mr. Otis's squad, were called on for that final martyrdom, and Clif was able to reach the
