“You’re the best all-round man on the Freshman, Mac, and here’s hoping for you,” he said; and he meant it.
“Not on your cabinet photo!” retorted the son of much money. “If it comes down to us, you’re It. You’ll be here on the field, won’t you?”
“Sure thing!” said Larry; though, up to that heart-mellowing moment when McKnight had made the amende honorable, it had been anything in the world but a sure thing.
Dickie Maxwell saw a new light in his room-mate’s eyes that night as they settled themselves on either side of the study table, but Dickie had a wise streak in him which came to the surface once in a while, and he forbore to say anything. But, just before they turned in, Larry had his say.
“You remember that bleat that I made about Ollie McKnight four or five weeks ago, Dick?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I guess I was pretty thin-skinned about that. Mac’s all right. He came to me to-day and squared things like a man. I’m telling you because I beefed to you about what he said; but you’re not to let it go any further.”
The day of the Sheddon-Rockford game was all that could be desired, weather-wise. A light frost during the night—not enough to hurt the field—put a keen tang in the air: but the sun was like the one in Alice in Wonderland—shining with all its might. A “pep” meeting of the student body had been held the night before, and when the game was called there wasn’t a vacant seat on the bleachers.
The Rockford team, big fellows, to a man, showed up in fine form, and it was evident from the kick-off that it was to be a fight for blood. Brock’s men, playing for the first time in the season on their home field, and with all Sheddon present to shout encouragement, did their best; but it wasn’t quite good enough. At the end of the second quarter the score stood 7 to nothing in favor of the visitors, Rockford having pushed the ball over for a touch-down and kicked goal—at which the trainload of rooters who had come over from Rockford were yelling their heads off.