the bitter tears of disappointment from rushing to his eyes, saw that Miller, the substitute tackle, had had three-quarters of his sweater torn off in the mêlée that had laid Crawford low. Harold, obeying without a word, peeled off his sweater and handed it to the half-clad player. Then he trotted slowly back to the bench.
They carried Crawford in on the stretcher that seemed to be working overtime for Tate that day.
"There's only ten minutes to go. I won't quit now. I tell you I won't!" Harold could hear the half-delirious, blanketed figure of the star quarterback half sobbing ten feet from the bench. "Mike, I can stay in. I can stand. Just give me a minute." But his mouth was twisted with pain and his ankle hung limply. Harold, relieving Trask of his part of the burden of carrying the quarterback, saw tears streaming down Crawford's dirty face. Cavendish gloomily ordered Mulligan to have his star transported down to the college infirmary.
Harold, resuming his seat on the bench, tried not to look conscious as Cavendish sadly surveyed the rest of his quarterback material. The rough Union Staters were making big inroads into the ranks of the Tate substitutes. Cavendish gave a quick glance at Hollister,
