parabola and struck the Freshman at the waist line with the force of a locomotive. Tackier and tackled hit the ground with a crash, with Crawford's head pillowed against Harold's side. The quarterback sprang to his feet. Harold pulled his shattered wits and bruised body together slowly and painfully in time to hear Cavendish roar, "Rotten, Crawford! Too high. Much too high. A good man could shake that tackle off as if you'd just slapped him on the back. Hit him here—here!" And Mike hit the back of Harold's legs a smart crack with his arms and Harold almost pitched to the ground again.
"Come on, Mershon—your turn," yelled the insatiable Cavendish.
The varsity center repeated Crawford's performance. Only this time the tackle weighed over two hundred pounds instead of a mere hundred and fifty.
"Not around the shoe strings!" boomed Cavendish.
Then Harold's ears began to sing, his head was half groggy, his body racked and twisted. The air seemed full of human bodies, all catapulting at him. Crash! Tough young flying flesh hit him. Bang! He hit the ground. And each time more laboriously he raised himself to his feet, while Cavendish's husky, complaining accents punctuated the din:
