handed me for you and your mother, aren't they?" Harold asked.
"Right in the center of the field. I'll be patching you every minute."
Friday afternoon Cavendish took his charges across the street from the practice field over to the great Tate Stadium, where the game was to be played. He wanted to accustom them to the turf and air currents. Large piles of straw were banked along the sides of the field, ready to be spread as soon as the practice was over to guard against rain. The huge tiers of seats looming upward from the horseshoe-shaped arena seemed miles high. Harold, catching punts with the other quarterbacks near the north goal, cast a hurried eye around and could not believe that to-morrow this vast wilderness of concrete and timber would be filled with people.
Then the strains of a jaunty band came from in back of the walls. Harold's head turned in the direction of the music. But he jerked back to attention again as Cavendish's barking voice shouted, "Lamb! Snap into it, man. Take quarter on the scrubs for a while."
Harold trotted obediently over. With Cavendish glowering not five feet from his elbow, he ran the second team through a short signal practice. He was engaged thus when the Tate Band, in gay red sweaters, red caps and creamy
