“Get in there, Ripley!  Don’t be afraid.  It’s only a leather dummy.  It can’t hurt you!  Now, tackle the dummy around the hips –­hoist!”

A laugh went up among the crowd as Fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy.

Young Ripley’s face was red, but he took the coach’s stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year.

“Now, Prescott!  Show us that you can beat your last performance!  Imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!”

Dick rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right.

“Let go!” called the coach, laughingly.  “It isn’t a sack of gold!”

Another laugh went up.  This was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of Gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work.

For half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for Coach Morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling.

“Now,” continued the coach, in a voice that didn’t sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, “it’ll be just as well if you fellows don’t get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled.  The provisional first and second teams will now line up.  Second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal.  You fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or School eleven.  Fight for all you’re worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going!  You fellows of the first, or School eleven, I want to see what you can do with real tackling.”

There was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection.  The ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly.

The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball.  Second’s right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School’s line.  On School’s left, Dick and Ripley raced in together, while second’s interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through.  But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field.  He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort.  Dick, too, understood.  He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead.  At Ripley, therefore, the second’s interference hurled itself savagely.  It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and Dick Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle.  In an instant the ball was “down.”  Second had gained less than a yard.

“Good work!” the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle.”  Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work.”

Again second essayed to get away with the ball.  This time the forward pass was employed –­that is to say, attempted.  Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs.

Now School had the ball.  As the quarter-back’s signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School’s right end.  As the ball was snapped, School’s right wing went through the needful movements, but Dick Prescott, over at left end, had the ball.  Ripley and Purcell were supporting him.

Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting.  It was team work again.  Dick was halted, for an instant.  Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition –­on and on!  Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through.  He was over second’s line –­touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers.

As Dick came back he limped just a bit.

“I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game,” remarked one citizen admiringly.

“Nerve? pooh!” retorted his companion.  “Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another.  The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve.”

The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically.

“Would it take any nerve for you,” he demanded, “to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed,”

“Yes; I suppose so,” admitted the kicker.

“Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life.”

“But they’re not looking for it,” objected the kicker, “or they wouldn’t go in so swift and hard.  Real nerve?  I’d believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!”

“Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game,” pursued the first speaker.  “Coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer.  Yet I can’t help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs.”

“I want to see the nerve, and I want to see the game prove its worth,” insisted the kicker.

Second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it.  Thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with High School eleven.

And now the practice was over for the afternoon.  The whistle between coach’s lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring –­aching a bit, too –­came off the field.  Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling.  Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field.  But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed.

Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered.  As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information.

“Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?” asked one man.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Morton promptly.

“Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?” questioned another.

“No; of course not, as yet.  Each day some of the young men develop new points –­of excellence, or otherwise.  The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division.  In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team.  We shall have it all decided within a few days.”

“But you’re rather certain,” insisted another, “that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?”

“It would be going too far to say that,” replied Coach Morton slowly.  “The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game.  Our judgment is even more reliable after they’ve been through the second game.”

By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate.  Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them.  The kicker was still on hand.

Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence.  There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries.

“He’s bent on killing the officer!  Run!”

“Look out!  Here he comes!  Scoot!”

“He’s crazy!”

Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all.

Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open.  Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad.  The citizens followed, running and puffing.

Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight.  One of the smallest members of Gridley’s police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street.

Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over.  Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself.  But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him.  The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow.

Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed.

Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely.  It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway.

“Look out, boys!  He’ll kill you!” shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background.

“Will he?” grunted Dick grimly.  “Greg, I’ll tackle the fellow –­you be ready to fall on him.  Head down, now –­charge!”

As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy’s goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow.

“Get outer my way!” roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them.

Dick’s head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair.

“Get out of my way, you kid!” gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him.

Greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter

But Dick sailed straight in.  As he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side.

Fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young Prescott.

But Dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man.  The big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists.

Dick wasn’t hit, however.  Instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat –­all quick as a flash.

That big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled.  Red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse.

As he fell, Greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow’s chest.  In another instant young Prescott was a-top of the fellow.

“Keep him down, boys!” yelled Coach Morton.

Just before the coach sprinted to the spot Dave Darrin, then Tom Reade, and then Tom Purcell, hurled themselves into the fray.

When the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold.

The policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could.

“Will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?” asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets.

“Will we?” ejaculated Dave.  “Whoop!”

“Roll the fellow over!” called Dick Prescott.

With a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back.  There was a scuffle, but Coach Morton helped.  A minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place.

In the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm.

“What do you say, now?” asked that man’s companion.  “Though, of course, Prescott and Holmes knew that help wasn’t far off.”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” retorted the recent kicker.  “Either boy might have been killed by that big brute before the help could have arrived.”

“Then does football teach nerve?”

“It certainly must!” agreed the recent kicker.