boys, stolid Scandinavians and other varieties of citizens who would be insulted if one were polite to them.
If Mike's tactics with his men brought protests from the more conservative Tatians, they also brought results on the field. Tate, with only fair material, had beaten Union State both years of the Cavendish régime. And while the unsuccessful candidates for Cavendish's team hated him cordially and called him a man-killer, the survivors worshiped the man like a god. A giant of hasty and gusty decisions, of vitriolic tongue and piercing eye, Cavendish knew football and human nature. He frequently worked his men until they collectively dropped in their tracks, but on the snappy November afternoon when Tate lined up against Union State he had thus far been able to trot out a splendidly conditioned, excellently coached machine that had bored through the rival university to glorious victory.
On the afternoon following Harold Lamb's fateful promise to Peggy to go out for football, Mike Cavendish was in a tantrum.
That Tate varsity football squad one and all had incurred their coach's deep displeasure. They could not tackle. With the opening game of the season only a few days away, they could not tackle. They grabbed around
