the uneasy half-moon of men. His voice barked out like a Gatling gun. "You dubs are dead from the dandruff down! What this team needs is the fighting spirit! I've a good mind to fire every one of you off this field and use the whole Freshman team against Carver on Saturday. I told Captain Trask here that, and he said, 'Give 'em one more chance.' So listen. I'm a soft-hearted fool, but I'll give it to you. We'll stop the scrimmaging. We'll work out on the tackling dummy from now till every man on the squad has made five perfect tackles, whether we quit at six o'clock or at midnight! Understand?" And he turned and started yelling loudly for "Mulligan! Mulligan! Where's Mulligan?"
A squatty little Irishman with a ragged sweater on his chest and a dirty baseball cap on his head came trotting up.
"Mulligan, get out the tackling dummy and rig it," Cavendish snorted.
Mulligan looked uneasy. He passed the back of his hand over his peanut of a nose and sniffled. Mulligan was in charge of the equipment around the varsity practice field. He said in a very small voice, "Mr. Cavendish, sor, the tacklin' dummy was busted Tuesday, if you will remember, and it ain't been fixed."
"What!" roared Coach Cavendish and he
