Then Coach Cavendish was announced. Harold was surprised at the subdued appearance the fiery-tongued football mentor made in his unaccustomed white collar and long trousers. Mike, the Freshman guessed correctly, would have felt much more at home in his usual faded blue sweater and tattered moleskins. Cavendish stepped hesitantly to the front of the platform, amid cheers.
"If you fellows are counting on betting money on Tate—don't!" began the coach, subduing his husky voice until it was an almost inaudible rasp. "These Union State lads are there—and don't you forget it for a minute. And, in spite of the New York papers saying it's the bunk, we have a lot of men in pretty bad shape. But I'll say this for them: They'll all be out there with their heads up, fighting. You can bank on that." He turned and swept the team with the fighting eyes they knew so well. Then he sat down. And there were more cheers. They stopped as Cavendish rose again and said in a louder voice, "I forgot to say that the varsity team is now going home and go to bed. And I want every member of the squad that has been ordered to report in uniform at the Stadium to-morrow to go home and go to bed too. I want fresh, snappy people to work with out there. Don't forget that!"
