"If you please," he said, "Captain Woodhouse wants you gentlemen to come out on the gridiorn at once, for practice."
"Of course!" cried Tom. "We were nearly forgetting that in the excitement over the chair. Tell the captain we'll be right out."
There was hard, snappy practice against the unfortunate scrub, and as it progressed the captain and coach looked more gratified than at any time that season.
"They're fit, all right," declare Kindlings, with sparkling eyes.
"I think they'll do," agreed Mr. Lighton, "but you've got the fight of your life ahead of you, old man.'
"I know it—but we'll win!"
Tom and his three chums returned from practice for a brief rest before the game. It was a holiday, with no lessons or lectures to mar the sport.
"First shot at the chair!" cried Tom, as he burst into the room. He threw himself into the big piece of upholstered furniture. There was a sudden cracking, breaking and tearing sound, and the whole bottom of the chair seemed to drop out. A cloud of dust arose. Tom was like a person who had sat upon a barrel, the head of which had collapsed.
"Oh, wow!" he cried, as he vainly struggled
