locker for him. Harold divested himself briskly of his clothes and slipped on the messy gridiron attire, succeeding after a tough struggle in pinching his feet into the stiff shoes. The rest were already out on the field clustered around the brawny figure of Mike Cavendish as Harold emerged from the field house and sped to join them. The reclaimed uniform was too small for him.
Cavendish, paying no attention to his new; Freshman recruit, set the squad to practicing on the tackling dummy, newly repaired by Mulligan.
"One tackle apiece," boomed Cavendish. "And, if you guys want to keep your jobs, make it a good one!"
The players formed in a long single line. Harold, without invitation, fell in at the end. One after the other, they ran, flung themselves at the woolen effigy of a football player hanging by its pulley, and brought it to earth. Cavendish observed them grimly. The tackling was much improved, though the coach's hard-boiled face did not admit it. When the last man ahead of Harold had made a perfect tackle, Cavendish walked over to Mulligan, who was standing by the dummy, and muttered something to him.
It was as the result of Mulligan's prompt obedience to the coach's order that Harold
