ble. He looked as if he might cry. He gulped and turned to walk away toward the gate that he had entered. His dream of being a second Chester Trask, of pleasing Peggy, was being shattered! He walked slowly and with head down.
At the gate the Freshman hesitated, half hopeful that somebody would call him back.
But there was no pity in the heart of Michael Joseph Cavendish. The coach continued to sputter after the retreating form. The Cavendish eyes shifted for a moment to that other object of his wrath, Hughie Mulligan, working feverishly on the tackling dummy. Between Hughie and "Speedy" and the team's terrible tackling, Mike's day was a total loss. In the instant that Harold was about to disappear through the gate and kiss the Tate football field good-by forever, a brilliant idea struck the brain of Cavendish. Why not? If this awful Freshman excuse for a football player had come, or been sent there as a joke, why not turn the joke the other way? If this freaky rookie was so set upon playing football, why not let him? What was his name?—Lamb?—was so heavily padded that he couldn't get hurt much.
"Hey, you!" Cavendish called after the chagrined form of Harold. "Hey, Freshman—come back here."
