changing quarterbacks every ten minutes. He had "Dusty" Rhoades bring over all his quarterback material from his Freshman class team. Tate field swarmed with signal-callers. Cavendish saw only one possible successor to Crawford in the lot. A blond haired Senior named Tichenor who had been playing understudy for the injured man for the past three years. Tichenor was a good mechanical quarterback. He ran the team well, could catch punts and was a good tackier. But he lacked Crawford's fire and inspiration, Crawford's knack of making a tired team suddenly brace and play its head off, Crawford's uncanny ability to diagnose the opposition and trick it, Crawford's leaping start after catching a punt and his lethal straight-arm. There was only one Crawford. Just as there was only one Chester Trask.
On Friday, Cavendish shook his head and said sadly to Trask, "Quarterbacks ain't made; they're born."
"You've given everybody else a show. Why not try my Freshman?" suddenly asked Trask.
"Who—the demon Lamb?" said Cavendish. "Don't make me laugh, Cap."
"Well, there's only five minutes of practice left. Why not please the kid by letting him in."
The coach grunted. Then he countered
