drive, with the inauguration of Dean Pennypacker, for a bigger and better college, it was recognized that one of the essentials was a consistently winning football team. No college can have a better advertisement than that, it was urged. Besides, did not Tate now have the largest athletic stadium in America? And could one expect to fill this concrete and marble amphitheater with sport-loving American spectators at three dollars per spectator if one could not produce A-1 football teams?
In the emergency, influential alumni insisted that the present coach, who had been producing indifferent teams, be fired and the the services of the famous Mike Cavendish be secured at any cost. Did not Union State, Tate's ancient rival, have a coach who contributed signed articles to a newspaper syndicate and had written a book on football? Could Tate do less? Obviously not. Without inquiring into the personality of the one and only Cavendish, the alumni athletic committee signed a five-year contract with him and he had come to Tate two years previously.
If Cavendish was a roughneck in appearance, he was even more so in action on the football field. Himself the product of a wild and woolly western university, he was accustomed to molding football teams out of brawny lumberjacks, thick-hided farmers'
