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receiver,
     snickered.
    In Thursday’s practice Mike figured he played worse than he had on Tuesday. His long passes to Butch, and to Tom Reed, the
     wide receiver on the left side, were way off and he had trouble remembering which plays to call.
    “Concentrate and try throwing shorter passes, Mike,” the coach suggested.
    Mike did, and discovered that he could throw them on target better than he could the longer ones. He felt a little better.
    “Nice going.” Harry’s pleased words came into his thoughts from the sideline. Harry, Mike saw, was standing next to the coach.
    A little later Mike glanced over and saw Coach Hawkins scratching Harry’s head. Harry seemed to enjoy it, judging from the
     silly look on his face.
    “I guess the coach has gotten to like the little monkey,” Mike thought, smiling to himself.
    “Dog, Mike, not monkey,” Harry’s thoughts shot back to him. “I sure hope you know the difference.”
    Mike’s face turned red. “I sure do, and I’m sorry, Harry,” he apologized.

    The team practiced again on Friday, hoping to be well prepared for Saturday’s game against the Browns. They had to win it,
     or their chance to get brand-new uniforms would go down the drain.
    Mike was amused by the friendship that had developed between his dog and the coach. “I just hope that they don’t start reading
     each other’s mind like we do,” he told himself. “I like Harry being special to me.”
    “Relax, pal,” Harry’s thoughts came through to him. “I have tried to talk with him. It didn’t work. Satisfied?”
    Mike grinned. “Satisfied!”
    Harry was just a dog, but that brain of his was working every minute.
    Saturday came, and Mike walked to the game with Harry at his side. In spite of the coach’s telling him not to worry, Mike
     still felt butterflies in his stomach. Why did Bobby Doan have to go on a vacation this weekend, anyway?

    They reached the football field, and Mike compared his Jets’ worn, tattered uniform with the Browns’ spanking new ones. “What
     a mess,” he thought.
    “In more ways than one,” Harry said.
    Just before the game started Harry ran over to Coach Hawkins’s side and trotted back and forth with him behind the sideline.
     Mike laughed at the sight, and so did a lot of other people.
    The Jets won the toss, and Mike chose to receive. The Browns kicked off. Butch caught the ball and ran it back to the Jets’
     twenty-six-yard line. But, in the huddle, Mike panicked and wasn’t sure what play to call.
    “Quit stalling or we’ll get penalized,” Butch said.
    “Eighteen pass,” Mike said quickly.
    The guys stared at him. “What? A pass play the first thing?” Larry Curtis said.
    Mike looked nervously at him.
    The team lined up, and Mike called signals. Sweat poured off his face. Larry was right. Calling for a pass on the first play
     was stupid.
    He got the ball from center, and half a dozen Browns broke through the line and swarmed on him before he could throw it. An
     eight-yard loss!
    Mike called for an end-around run on the next play and lost two more yards. Third and twenty to go. What a lousy start!
    More sweat poured down his face.What play should he call now? He thought again of the eighteen pass play, and called it.
    This time he fumbled the ball, but fell on it in time.
    Frank Tooney, the fullback, punted it to get it as far away from the Jets’ end zone as possible. But in two plays the Browns
     ran it back down to the Jets’ eight-yard line. Then they tried a pass.
    Mike, playing safety, intercepted it in the end zone! He dodged several Browns players, stiff-armed two, tripped over another’s
     legs, got his balance, then ran all the rest of the way for a touchdown!
    “What great open field running!” Butch cried, slapping him on the back.
    Mike, breathing hard, couldn’t believe it. He had scored a touchdown!
    “Nice run, pal,” said Harry.
    “Thanks, Harry!” said Mike.

    After the kickoff the Jets got lucky again; the