“Do you call that being loyal to your team?” Johnson asked.
“Certainly. It’s simply giving the other fellow credit for what he does. There is no team loyalty in pretending the fellows they beat are no good, and still less in saying that the team that defeated them was no good.”
That seemed to put the question up to Johnson in a new light. He pondered over it for a minute and then looked up cheerfully.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Scotty. We play to win and let the other fellow look after his credit, but there’s some sense in that last. Can you really see the beauty of the play that goes against you?”
“Certainly.”
“Well,” Johnson laughed, “wait till I see you praising some fellow’s skill in blacking your eye in some boxing bout. Then I’ll believe you. Come on, let’s walk home. We’ll have plenty of time before supper.”
There was a little talk at the supper table of the football game, most of the men taking the same view as Johnson, that it was a pretty poor exhibition because Lawrence had not been completely overwhelmed, but most of the time was taken up with a discussion of the coming campfire. The upper classmen hinted mysteriously of the sacred rites that had been prepared for the new members.
“Ormand,” Morgan hissed in a stage whisper which could be plainly heard by every one at the table, “did you feed the goat tonight?”
“No,” Ormand answered in the same tone, “he’ll be more savage if he is hungry, and besides, he’ll get plenty of green stuff to eat tonight.
“Johnson,” he continued, “if you and Scotty had taken my advice and paddled each other every night for half an hour for the past two weeks you would be better prepared.”