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M ike and his dog, Harry the Airedale, had walked from the field across the empty lot to Coach Hawkins’s house. They were now
     seated in the living room trying to give the coach a message.
    “Bad news, Coach,” Mike began. “We won’t have —”
    “Pass it to Barker, Tip! To Barker!” Coach Hawkins shouted, interrupting Mike.
    The coach was sitting on the edge of his chair in front of a television set, watching a football game and waving his arms
     excitedly.
    “Attaboy! Now run with it, Barker! Run! Good boy! Five yards! Ten! Good run, Barker!”
    Mike glanced down at his dog and shrugged. “We came at the wrong time, Harry,” he said, disappointed.
    “Yeah,” Harry agreed. “But keep butting in. He’s sure to hear you after a while.”
    “I hope so,” thought Mike.
    As far as Mike knew, Harry was the most unusual dog in the world. Mike had found Harry in a pet shop and had discovered that
     the dog could communicatewith him by mental telepathy. He had brought Harry home that day and they had been friends ever since.

    Mike looked from Harry to the coach. “I bet he’s forgotten why he asked us in,” Mike thought.
    Suddenly the big man glanced around at them, and an apologetic smile came over his round face. “Sorry, Mike,” he said. “But
     I just had to watch that play. What can I do for you?”
    “I just saw Bobby Doan,” Mike explained. “He can’t quarterback the team in next Saturday’s game. He and his family are going
     on a vacation.”
    “He
what?
” The coach rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and slapped his knees, frustrated. “Of all the lousy luck! Well, there’s
     only one thing to do, Mike.
You
will have to play quarterback.”
    “Me?”
    “Yes, you. I know you don’t have much experience, but you’ve tried hard in practice. There’s a lot at stake in thatgame, kid,” the coach said seriously. “The Number Seven Firemen, our team’s sponsor, promised us new uniforms if we beat the
     Browns. And you know how badly we need uniforms. Ours are beginning to look like rags.”
    “Yeah,” Mike agreed.

    “I think you can do it, kid,” said the coach. “Just go home and study your playbook. And now that that’s settled, please excuse
     me.”
    He turned his attention back to the football game on the TV set, watched it a few seconds, and began yelling again: “Run it
     through right tackle, Jim! Right tackle! Attaboy! See that?” he said to Mike. “He played it just as if he had heard me!”
    “Right. Well, see you at practice, Coach,” Mike said quietly. He walked out of the house, Harry trotting at his side.
    “He sure gets wrapped up in football games, doesn’t he?” remarked Harry.
    “He sure does,” said Mike. “But helives by himself and he must not have much company. I guess that’s why he likes getting out and coaching us.”

    “I suppose,” replied Harry, “but he lives almost close enough to the field to coach us from his back porch.”
    They reached the intersection, waited for the light to change, then crossed the street.
    “Harry, I can’t play quarterback,” Mike said, thinking of all the things a quarterback had to do. “I’m a better linebacker.
     I don’t know a thing about calling signals.”
    “Well, as you humans say, it’s never too late to learn,” said Harry.
    “Yeah, sure,” Mike shot back, and they glumly walked home.
    The Jets practiced on Tuesday, and Coach Hawkins had Mike work out at the quarterback slot.
    He didn’t do very well. Twice he fumbled the ball, and three times he threw passes that were either too far beyond, or too
     far short of, the receivers. He felt terrible.
    “Coach, I’m playing lousy,” he complained. “Can’t you get someone else to play quarterback?”
    The coach patted him on the shoulder. “Settle down, Mike,” he said encouragingly. “You’ll do okay.”
    “Sure, he will. Except for two passes that sailed over my head he was great,” Butch Stevens, the right side wide