be a question whether he gets killed by himself or whether I kill him. I warn you, Cap. One more bat out of this Lamb lad and out he goes on his head. Either that or out I go—see?"
Trask laid a soothing arm on the coach's broad shoulder. "Calm down, Mike," he cajoled. "Don't worry about the kid. I'll take care of him. He won't annoy you."
The coach went away unconvinced and muttering. Trask saw Harold, who had just pulled himself to his feet.
"You want to do all you can for Tate, don't you, Freshman?" Trask asked him gravely.
"You bet!"
"Well, get this then: Don't do a thing out here on the football field till you get orders from me. Don't move. Go over there and sit on the bench now till I call you."
Harold went. He sat on the bench from half past two until six o'clock. Neither Trask nor Coach Cavendish had once looked his way. Other players sat on the bench, were called out to the scrimmage, pulled off sweaters and put them on again, returned to the bench panting to rest, doused mouths, faces and necks in the water bucket beside Harold's resting place. Once or twice he handed them the huge sponge when, eyes filled with water, they groped for it without success. But that
