drawn face and a peculiarly limp looking shoulder. He tried to sneak back behind his burly center without Cavendish seeing him. But Mike was wise. He came trotting up.
"Let's see that shoulder, Tichenor," he barked. And, turning, "Mulligan! Mulligan!!"
The trainer kneaded the bruised member with sensitive fingers. "It ain't broke; but it's a pretty bad sprain," announced Mulligan to the coach.
"Gee," said Cavendish. "It's a tough year on quarterbacks. You're through for the day, Tichenor. Let Hughie bandage that shoulder for you and, for the love of Mike, take care of it." He turned toward the bench and looked over the occupants. "Hollister," he yelled. "Take Tichenor's place here."
Harold settled back in his seat again. He had been certain it would be Hollister, but he had leaned forward to catch the coach's eye anyway. He was sorry for Tichenor, of course. But the fact remained that there were only four quarterbacks on the field—Crawford, Tichenor, Hollister and—Lamb. Of these, the first two were now in a brittle condition.
As if to confirm Harold's optimistic calculations, Chester Trask gave him a copy of the
