"Never tackle a man that way. You might get hurt."
"Harder, Blythe! Don't kiss him—tackle him!"
"Jar him up. Make believe he's got the ball and make him fumble it!"
"That's better, Childers. Help the Freshman up, Mulligan."
After what seemed to be hours, Harold, through the haze, discerned a familiar face headed his way. Fast as the face was coming, he saw it was Chester Trask. Like an arrow speeding to its mark Trask ran, leaped, locked steel arms around Harold's knees, whirled him cleanly off his feet and, with a peculiar sidewise wrench, spun him around in a semi-circle. Harold felt that every ligament in his body had been suddenly jerked out of place. This was Trask's famous corkscrew tackle, as might be testified by many an opponent of Tate who had fumbled a ball when hit by Trask.
"That," enthused Cavendish at last, "is the way to tackle!"
But Trask did not hear the compliment He was looking down anxiously at the battered body of Harold. The Captain stooped swiftly and helped the human tackling dummy to his uncertain feet.
"Hurt?" he asked.
