More catching punts, I suppose." And his supposition was correct.

Across the width of the sunlit field Graham, the two-hundred-and-thirty-pound center rush, stooped over the pigskin.

Beside him were two pairs of end rushes, and behind him, with outstretched hands, stood Ted Foster.

Foster gave a signal, the ball went back to him on a long pass, and he sent it over the gridiron toward where Neil, Paul, and two other backs were waiting.

The ends came down under the kick, the ball thumped into Paul's hands, Neil and another formed speedy interference, and the three were well off before the ends, like miniature cyclones, were upon them and had dragged Paul to earth.
The head coach, a short but sturdy figure in worn-out trousers and faded purple shirt, stood on the edge of the cinder track and viewed the work with critical eye.