Mills nodded to him and rolled the pigskin toward him.
Neil dropped on his hip, securing the ball under his right arm.

Like a flash Mills was over him, and with a quick blow of his hand had sent the leather bobbing across the turf yards away.
"When you get it, hold on to it," he said dryly.

Neil arose with reddening cheeks and, amid the smiles of the others, went back to his place trying to decide whether, if he could have his way, the coach should perish by boiling oil or by merely being drawn and quartered.

But after that it was a noticeable fact that the men clung to the ball when they got it as though it were a dearly loved friend.
Later, passing down the line in front from end to end, the head coach threw the ball swiftly at the feet of one after another of the candidates, and each was obliged to drop where he stood and have the ball in his arms when he landed.

When Mills came to Neil the latter was still nursing his resentment, and his cheeks still proclaimed that fact.