softly. "Anybody can tackle with a set-up like that. A game's different."
In the stands the loyal Tatians were cheering each member of the varsity separately, ending with a wild burst of enthusiasm for Chester Trask. All the players on the field were now idle except the first eleven, which was grimly going through their final signal practice. Crawford, a huge white bandage binding his right ankle tightly, was calling the numbers. Many an anxious Tate eye observed that the star's limp was scarcely perceptible, and rejoiced. Velie and Woolsey, the injured linemen, hobbled slightly, but were seemingly as pepful as ever. The Tate casualty list had apparently rounded into shape. The students wondered if the New York papers, commenting on the approaching gridiron classic, were not right in saying that reports of injuries at Tate were just a part of foxy Mike Cavendish's fake pessimism and designed to breed overconfidence at Union State. Where the Tatians, however, did not believe the papers was in the sporting writers' predictions that, on the face of their comparative records, Union State ought to win the game.
There were more cheers and songs from the grandstand. Then the rooters, having completed their annual last-minute demonstration
