When Harold and Cavendish were again on their feet, the Freshman approached the coach jauntily, did his Lester Laurel jig.
"I'd like to play on your football team," chirped the Freshman, "if you don't mind."
Cavendish stared at him in amazement. Then he elected to handle the situation with his well-known gift for sarcasm.
"Can you kick a football?" Cavendish asked.
When Harold nodded, the coach handed him a ball.
Cavendish turned to the squad gathered around for the fun. "Run down the field a ways and receive this young man's kick, Crawford."
A lithe youth loped down the field thirty or more yards. But Harold was not satisfied. He had done the punting for Sanford High School. He could punt. He motioned Crawford to go further back. Then, in his eagerness to give the ball a mighty boot, he nearly missed it entirely. His foot glanced off the pigskin. The ball flew up over his head and backwards over the fence clear out of the field!
Harold, blushing furiously, turned and fled out of the gate after the ball. He was gone so long that Cavendish, resuming his harangue to the squad, had almost forgotten the freak
