was the extent of his labors for Good Old Tate that afternoon.
The same sitting program was repeated every day the rest of that week. Harold began to grow uneasy, to smart under his inactivity. He had a suspicion that perhaps Chester Trask had forgotten the existence of Candidate Lamb. He wanted to trot out to the captain, tug at the great man's sweater and announce that he was ready for some real work. But orders were orders. Trask had looked so serious when he admonished Harold not to move a muscle unless he was told to. Harold was afraid to disobey.
As Monday afternoon of the week following began to be striped with the shadows of approaching dusk and still Harold's sole duty had consisted in resting on the bench and handing the sponge to exhausted warriors, he started to worry seriously about Wednesday. He did not want Peggy Sayre to sit in the grandstand and watch him hold down a sector of a hard wood bench all afternoon. He had been guilty of some pretty tall talk with Peggy as to his football activities. He would have to make good. But what was to be done about it?
It rained torrents on Tuesday. The deluge was so intense that Coach Cavendish reluctantly sent the assembled squad back to the
