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 a warm afternoon, with but little air stirring, and, although Freeburg was set well amongst the lesser slopes of the Berkshires, that air was decidedly humid. Tom mopped his forehead with the sleeve of a brown jersey and then tried to fan himself with an ancient headguard. "Hope the coach doesn't give us much to do," he muttered. "It's too hot for football."

"You might suggest it to him," answered Clif. "I guess that's he now; the man in the white shirt."

Tom looked and said he guessed so, too, but he didn't leave his seat to offer the coach any advice. A more self-assured fellow than Tom would have hesitated to approach "G.G." on any matter not vitally important. "G.G.'s" name was George G. Otis. Some said the second "G" stood for "Grumpy," but it really didn't. It stood for Gray. Mr. Otis wasn't very large—Captain Dave Lothrop, beside him, was four inches taller and quite as wide of shoulders; and even the long trousers of faded gray flannel didn't wholly conceal the fact that he was slightly bowlegged. But there was plenty of body there, and the fact that his legs weren't quite straight hadn't kept him from winning a fair share of fame as a plunging half not many years back. He hadn't greatly distinguished himself while at Wyndham, but his subsequent career had been linked with two football teams by which all later teams at his college were judged. He had a rather bullet-shaped head, with thin hair of a faded brown, sharp eyes of a brown that wasn't the least bit faded, a short nose a bit too flat for beauty, a mouth that closed tight and straight and an