“That’s enough! Get up off him! Don’t you know enough, Gaffington, to tell when a man’s down?”

Andy heard the sharp voice of the coach, Holwell, but the tones seemed to come from a great distance.

“Water here!”

“Somebody’s keeled over!”

“It’s that freshman, Blair. Plucky little imp, too!”

“Who tackled him?”

“Gaffington. Took him a bit high and fell on him!”

“Oh, well, this is football; it isn’t kindergarten beanbag.”

Dimly Andy heard these comments. He opened his eyes, only to close them again as he felt a dash of cold water in his face.

“Feel all right now?”

It was the voice of the coach in his ears. Andy felt himself being lifted to his feet. His ears rang, and he could not see clearly. There was a confused mass of forms about him, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet.

Then like another dash of cold water came the thought to him, sharply and clearly:

“This isn’t playing the game! If I’m going to go over like this every time I’m tackled I’ll never play for Yale. Brace up!”

By sheer effort of will Andy brought his staggering senses back.

“I—I’m all right,” he panted. “Sort of a solar plexus knock, I guess.”

“That’s the way to talk!” exclaimed the coach, grimly. “Now then, fellows, hit it up. Where’s that ball? Oh, you had it, did you, Blair? That’s right, whatever happens, keep the ball! Get into the play now. Varsity, tear up that scrub line! What’s the matter with you, anyhow? You’re letting ’em go right through you. Smash ’em! Smash ’em good and hard. All right now, Blair?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get in the game then. Scrub’s ball. Hurry up! Signal!”

Sharp and incisive came his tones, like some bitter tonic. Not a word of praise—always finding fault; and as for sympathy—you might as well have looked for it from an Indian ready to use his scalping knife. And yet—that is what made the Yale team what it was—a fighting machine.

Once more came the line-up, the scrub quarter snapping out his signals.

Andy took his old place. He was rapidly feeling better, yet his whole body ached and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height. He was terribly jarred, for Mortimer had put into the tackle all his fierce energy, adding to it a spice of malice.

Andy heard the signal given for the forward pass, and felt relieved. He could take another few seconds to get his breathing into a more regular cadence. He looked over at Mortimer, who grinned maliciously. Andy knew, as well as if he had been told, that the tackle had been needlessly fierce. But there was no earthly use in speaking of it. Rather would it do him more harm than good. This, then, was part of the “getting even” game that his enemy had marked out.

“He won’t get me again, though!” thought Andy, fiercely. “If he does, it will be my own fault. Wait until I get a chance at him!”

It came sooner than he expected. The forward pass on the part of the scrub was a fluke and after a few more rushing plays the ball was given to the varsity to enable them to try some of their new plays.

Several times Mortimer had the pigskin, and was able to make good gains. Then the wrath of the coach was turned against the luckless scrubs.

“What do you fellows mean?” cried Holwell. “Letting ’em go through you this way! Get at ’em! Break up their plays if you can! Block their kicks. They’ll think they’re playing a kid team! I want ’em to work! Smash ’em! Kill ’em!”

He was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet—a veritable little cyclone of a coach.

“Signal!” he cried sharply.

It came from the varsity quarter, and Andy noticed, with a thrill in his heart, that Gaffington was to take the ball.

“Here’s where I get him!” muttered Andy, fiercely.

There was a rush—a thud of bodies against bodies—gaspings of breaths, the cracking of muscles and sinews. Andy felt himself in a maelstrom of pushing, striving, hauling and toppling flesh. Then, in an instant, there came an opening, and he saw before him but one player—Mortimer—with the ball.

Like a flash Andy sprang forward and caught his man in a desperate embrace—a hard, clean tackle. Andy put into it all his strength, intent only upon hurling his opponent to the turf with force enough to jar him insensible if possible.

Perhaps he should not have done so, you may say, but Andy was only human. He was playing a fierce game, and he wanted his revenge.

Into Mortimer’s eyes came a look of fear, as he went down under the impact of Andy. But there was this difference. Mortimer’s previous experience had taught him how to take a fall, and he came to no more hurt through Andy’s fierce tackle than from that of any other player, however much Andy might have meant he should. Our hero did not stop to think that he might have injured one of the varsity players so as to put him out of the game, and at a time when Yale needed all the good men she could muster. And Gaffington, in spite of his faults, was a good player.

There was a thud as Andy and Mortimer struck the earth—a thud that told of breaths being driven from their bodies. Then Andy saw the ball jarred from his opponent’s arms, and, in a flash he had let go and had rolled over on it. An instant later there was an animated pile of players on both lads, smothering their winded “Downs!”

“That’ll do! Get up!” snapped the coach. “What’s the matter with you, Gaffington, to let a freshman get you that way and put you out of the game? Porter!” he shouted and a lad came running from the bench, pulling off his sweater as he ran, and tossing it to a companion. He had been called on to take Gaffington’s place, and the latter, angry and shamed-faced, walked to the side lines.

As he went he gave Andy a look, as much as to say:

“You win this time; but the battle isn’t over. I’ll get you yet.”

As for Andy, his revenge had been greater than he had hoped. He had put his enemy out of the game more effectively than if he had knocked the breath from him by a tremendous tackle.

“Good tackle, Blair!” called the scrub captain to him, as the line-up formed again. “That’s the way to go for ’em!”

The coach said nothing, but to the varsity captain he whispered:

“Keep your eye on Blair. If he keeps on, he may make a player yet. He’s a little too wild, though. Don’t say anything that will give him a swelled head.”

The practice went on unrelentingly, and then the candidates were ordered back to the gymnasium on the run, to be followed by a shower and a brisk rub.

Glowing with health and vigor, and yet lame and sore from the hard tackle, Andy went to his room, to find Dunk Chamber impatiently waiting for him.

“Oh, there you are, you old mud lark!” was the greeting. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come on around to Burke’s and have some ale and a rarebit.”

“No thanks. I’m in training, you know.”

“That’s so. Been out on the field?”

“Yes. I wonder you don’t go in for that.”

“Too much like work. I might try for the crew or the nine. I’m afraid of spoiling my manly beauty by getting somebody’s boot heel in the eye. By the way, you don’t look particularly handsome. What has somebody been doing to you?”

“Nothing more than usual. It’s all in the game.”

“Then excuse me! Are you coming to Burke’s? You can take sarsaparilla, you know. Thad and his bunch are coming.”

“Sure, I don’t mind trailing along. Got to get at a little of that infernal Greek, though.”

“All right, I’ll wait. The fellows will be along soon.”

And as Andy did a little of necessary studying he could not help wondering where Dunk would end. A fine young fellow, with plenty of money, and few responsibilities. Yale—indeed any college—offered numberless temptations for such as he.

“Well, I can’t help it,” thought Andy. “He’s got to look out for himself.”

And again there seemed to come to him that whisper:

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Surely Dunk was a college brother.

Andy had scarcely finished wrestling with his Homer when there came a series of loud and jolly hails:

“Oh, you Dunk!”

“Stick out your top, Blair!”

“Here come the boys!” exclaimed Dunk. “Now for some fun!”

The three friends trooped in.

“Some little practice to-day, eh, Blair?” remarked Bob Hunter.

“And some little tackle Gaffington gave you, too!” added Thad.

“Yes, but Andy got back at him good and proper, and put him out of the game,” remarked Ted. “It was a beaut!”

“Did you and Mortimer have a run-in?” asked Dunk quickly.

“Oh, no more than is usual in practice,” replied Andy, lightly. “He shook me up and I came back at him.”

“If that’s football, give me a good old-fashioned fight!” laughed Dunk. “Well, if we’re going to have some fun, come on.”

As they were leaving the room they were confronted by two other students. Andy recognized one as Isaac Stein, more popularly known as Ikey, a sophomore, and Hashmi Yatta, a Japanese student of more than usual brilliancy.

“Oh boys, such a business!” exclaimed Ikey. He was a Jew, and not ashamed of it, often making himself the butt of the many expressions used against his race. On this account he was more than tolerated—he had many friends out of his own faith. “Such a business!” he went on, using his hands, without which he used to say he could not talk.

“Well, what is it now?” asked Dunk with good-humored patience. “Neckties or silk shirts?” for Ikey was working his way through college partly by acting as agent for various tradesmen, getting a commission on his sales. Dunk was one of his best customers.

“Such a business!” went on Ikey, mocking himself. “It is ornaments, gentlemans! Beautiful ornaments from the Flowery Kingdom. Such vawses—such vawses! Is it not, my friend Hashmi Yatta?” and he appealed to the Japanese.

“Of a surely they are beautiful,” murmured the little yellow lad. “There is some very good cloisonne, some kisku, and one or two pieces in awaji-yaki. Also there is some satsuma, if you would like it.”

“And the prices!” interrupted Ikey. “Such bargains! Come, you shall see. It is a crime to take them!”

“What’s it all about?” asked Dunk. “Have you fellows been looting a crockery store?”

“No, it is Hashmi here,” said the Jew. “I don’t know whether his imperial ancestors willed them to him, or sent them over as a gift, but they are wonderful. A whole packing case full, and he’ll sell them dirt cheap.”

“What do we want of ’em?” asked Andy.

“Want of ’em, you beggar? Why they’ll be swell ornaments for your room!”

That was an appeal no freshman could resist.

“What do you say?” asked Dunk, weakly. “Shall we take a look, Andy?”

“I don’t mind.”

“You will never regret it!” vowed Ikey. “It is wonderful. Such bargains! It is a shame. I wonder Hashmi can do it.”

“They are too many for me to keep,” murmured the Jap.

“And so he will sell some,” interrupted Ikey, eagerly.

“And pay you a commission for working them off, I suppose,” spoke Thad.

Ikey looked hurt.

“Believe me,” he said, earnestly, “believe me, what little I get out of it is a shame, already. It is nothing. But I could not see the bargains missed. Come, we will have a look at them. You will never regret it!”

“You ought to be in business—not college,” laughed Dunk, as he slipped into a mackinaw. “Come on, Andy, let’s go and get stuck good and proper.”

“Stuck! Oh, such a business!” gasped Ikey, with upraised hands. “They are bargains, I tell you!”