the third-string quarter. The latter's face was pale and tense. He was locking and unlocking his hands, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Sweat stood out on his pale forehead. Hollister was a Senior who had been trying for four years to make the Tate team. He was a good mechanical quarterback but lacked the spark that makes a good field general. Four years Hollister had worked for this moment. For his letter. And now moment and letter had come! And he was scared to death. He was so nervous that he could not have told one his own name if asked quickly.
Up in the Tate stand, Sheldon was saying gleefully to his chum, Garrity, "Look at 'Speedy' on the bench. He still thinks he has a chance to get in the game."
Cavendish stared at Hollister and the coach's heart sank. The lad was almost sick with fright. Could he trust this trembling funker out there running the Tate team? Well, what better could he do? He surely couldn't send in this fool Lamb, the joke of the squad.
"Hollister! Take Crawford's place," snapped Mike. "And, for the love of Mike, buck up, man. Your chance has come. Go out there and run those blue-bellies ragged!"
Hollister could hardly get his headguard over his head for trembling. But he reported
