the neck. They hit below the shoe-strings. They struck the runners so lightly that the runners shook them off and ran right along. Only once in a while could Mike find a tackle that warmed his heart; a good old Cavendish sledgehammer tackle that swooped a man off his feet as if he had been cut down by a gigantic scythe and smashed him to earth as if he had fallen from the Woolworth Tower.
Mike watched the first and second varsity teams scrimmaging. His wrath was rising. It boiled over. He rushed in between the two rows of linemen and scooped up the ball. "Come over here, you bunch of butter fingers!" he yelled at his squad. They formed a half-circle around him, sheepish and with lowered heads. They knew the tackling had been rotten. They realized they were in for some Cavendish acid.
He started off very low and deliberate, "I didn't really think we were running a little petting party out here. I didn't really think it. The way you fellows toddle up to each other and gently hand out little slaps on the wrist and little love taps on the hips. It's pretty. It sure is. You ought, all of you, to be pouring tea somewhere this afternoon instead of getting your complexions all ruined out here in the open air." Suddenly he thrust out his jaw. He ran his sharp eyes all around
