- ber 34, and, throwing himself on Tom's bed, remarked
maliciously that, as for Yale or Princeton, there was only one real football team doing business that fall. "Listen, you two. Cornell could lick either of them without getting really warmed up well!"
Forgetting their previous differences, Tom and Billy united in a common cause and spent the succeeding ten minutes telling Clif what an ignoramus he was.
On Monday, facing a patched-up First Team, the Fighting Scrub dug its claws deep and gouged and tore its way to a one-score victory. There was no luck about it, either. It was no fluke win. Scrub just took the ball away from a somewhat dreamy First near midfield and hammered and thrust its way to the six yards. Johnny Thayer sustained facial abrasions that made him look like an utter stranger to his companions, Lou Stiles delayed proceedings while they pumped air back into him, and Tom walked with a pronounced limp for the rest of the day, but between them they landed the ball on the six yards. Coach Otis, pursuing his charges with stinging comments and much excellent advice, wore a somewhat dazed expression by then. Sportingly, however, he refrained from strengthening his team with even one of the eager aspirants who dragged their blankets along the side-line.
"Watch the ball, First!" he snapped. "Hold them now! Higgs, get down, man! Close up there, Smythe, and stop this play! Throw them back, First!"
"Let's have it!" shouted Sim hoarsely. "Smear 'em, Scrub! Let's have this score!"
