Harold turned eagerly, hardly believing his ears. He rushed back to the side of Cavendish. The rookie was beaming from ear to ear.
"Now then, the first thing I'm going to teach you is tackling," explained Prof Mike. "The best way to learn how to tackle is to be tackled. I'll have a few of the boys line up and tackle you gentle-like. Stand here, Lamb. Go ahead, Trask, and line the squad up. Over there, by Mulligan. Right here, Lamb. Hurry up, you ladies' men. Snap into it! All right?"
He walked over to the players, out of earshot of Harold. He ripped out at them, "Now come on and show me whether you can tackle or whether I've got to can the whole bunch of you. One at a time, hit this kid with all you've got. You can't kill 'em when they're as green as he is. Besides, he's all padded up like a mattress." He rushed back and stood by Harold. He soothed, "Don't worry, kid. You won't feel it no more than a feather. Come on now, you love-tappers! Come on, Crawford—you're first."
A lithe, sweatered figure shot out of the single file of varsity players, streaked over the spiace between them and Harold, left the earth five feet from Harold in a neat diving
