"Houston or Ogden," said Tom. "Say, look here, you fellows! Here's something I've had on my mind for days. How—"
"Where did you say you'd had it, Tom?" asked Loring. "I'm afraid I didn't hear you right."
"Shut up. Say, how many of the old Scrub fellows do you think were on the team when we made that touchdown?"
"Four," said Loring. "You, Clif, Thayer—"
"Wrong, old son! Five! Count 'em! Five! Clem Henning—"
"Oh, well," objected Clif, "he was off the Scrub long before—"
"Doesn't matter! And who won their old game, anyway? Why, the old Scrub won it! Henning was right guard, 'Wink' was right tackle, Johnny took the pass from center, Clif made the touchdown and I—er—supervised it! Now, then, I ask you, who won the old ball game?"
Three voices answered loudly, proudly and in chorus "The Fighting Scrub!" And—
"Hooray!" said Wattles, still articulating with difficulty. "Quite so, sir!"
THE END
