around behind his own left tackle while the second team quarterback hurled two useless plunges into the line. A third plunge was sent directly toward Harold's position. There was a sharp thud of canvas and human flesh meeting. Brief milling around. Then suddenly a sharp cry. A fumble. And, taking a freak bound, the ball shot clear of the mêlée and out upon the cinder track bordering the field. Harold, the only man free, tore after the pigskin, dived at it, hugged it, and, executing perfectly the famous Trask recovery, was on his feet and on his way down the field. The referee's whistle shrilled. But Harold did not even slow up. He stopped only when Mike Cavendish's husky form, arms raised aloft menacingly, halted him.
"Where do you get that stuff—running with an out-of-bounds ball?" shouted Cavendish.
"Why—I—" started Harold, blood trickling slowly down from a cut or two where the cinders had pierced his skin.
"Oh, go along into the locker room," said Mike impatiently. He turned and blew his whistle. The practice was over for the day.
Cavendish turned to Chester Trask and said sadly, "You see—once a boob, always a boob."
"Oh, he didn't do so badly," defended Chester. "I only gave him the signals a minute before he went in. He had no chance to
