—hey, Mulligan!" And when Mike Cavendish's man-of-all-work waddled up, "Outfit Lamb here with one of those uniforms from last Thursday, will you?"
Mulligan shuffled away obediently. It had rained the previous Thursday and the varsity had practiced for four hours in the downpour and a sea of mud. Mulligan had been since then trying to dry out the uniforms. The players on the squad had experienced no inconvenience, being equipped with an extra suit apiece and the promise of a complete new outfit on the eve of the Union State game.
In a couple of minutes Mulligan came scuffing back with sweater, pants, socks and shoes. With a thrill Harold recognized the flaming red colors of Tate with the thin white stripes. The red was very much faded, to be sure, and it had run badly into the white. But still he was about to don the sacred colors of Tate. He was about to do or die for Good Old Tate on the gridiron. His gyrations before the mirror back in Sanford might not have been in vain after all.
The sweater and socks were musty and still damp. The trousers were stiff as a board in spots. The shoes were out of shape, caked with mud and unyielding as steel. Mulligan dumped the motley array of paraphernalia at the Freshman's feet and clanged open a
