Suddenly something happened. Scott invited a full swing from Morgan, attempted to side-step, slipped on the damp sod, and received the full blow on the point of his chin. The stars danced merrily before his eyes and he sat down with a thud. He was up almost instantly. “Good shot, old man,” he cried to Morgan, and was boxing again with as much vigor as before.
“By George, he does believe it,” Johnson yelled. No one else knew what he was talking about, but Scott smiled.
When time was called the match was declared a draw. Morgan shook Scott enthusiastically by the hand. “Scotty, you are a winner and it will be up to you to fight in the big fall meet. Why, you are not winded at all.”
“No,” Scott answered quietly, “the old prizefighter who taught me always insisted on each lesson going to ten rounds, and I am used to it.”
“Oh, ho! learned from a professional, did you? That accounts for your not being phased by that blow on the chin, and your strong in-fighting. I should not stand any show with you in a real fight. I’m winded now.”
All the fellows crowded around Scott to congratulate him and forgave him his inability to play football in their admiration of a man who could stand up to Morgan.
“Well, fellows,” Ormand shouted, “that bout was too good to be spoiled by anything else. It’s half past eleven. Let’s put out this fire and march home.”
The fire was soon extinguished, and the crowd filed out of the woods singing familiar songs and yelling fiendishly at every sleeping house they passed. Slowly it melted away as the fellows came to their various rooming houses. When Scott and Johnson turned into their house they heard the singing of the remnant of the band dying away in the distance.
“Scotty,” Johnson said with admiration written in every feature, “you are the new White Hope of the College. When you took that wallop on the jaw and praised the man who did it, I believed what you said this afternoon. Now watch me be your kind of a sport.”