"Team gone to pieces." He stirred uneasily.
That was certainly tough luck. It must be serious when "Bull" talked like that. It had usually been the good fortune of Blue teams to make the other fellows go "to pieces." Now it really seemed as though the good old colors were in danger of being dimmed, if not disgraced.
They hadn't been disgraced when he wore them, he remembered. How they had wound up the season in a blaze of glory the last year he had played on the team! He saw even now, the crowded stands, the riot of colors, the frenzied roars of the Blues, when he had squirmed out of the mass piled on him, and grabbing the ball, had rushed down the field for a touchdown, with the enemy thundering at his heels. He felt still the thrill of that supreme moment when the fellows had hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him in triumph off the field.
He half rose from his chair, but sank back.
"If it wasn't for that confounded deal," he groaned.
He had been so used to Blue victories that their failure for the last two years had made him "sore." In his business associations and at his club he came in contact with many graduates from different colleges. He had usually been able to "josh" them good naturedly over the way the Blues had "done them up." But lately the shoe had been on the other foot and they had delighted in getting even.
He was not too thin skinned, and took their jibes smilingly, even though the smile was a trifle forced. They were entitled to their revenge. Sometimes, however, he winced when they flicked him "on the raw." There was Evans, for instance, an old Princeton tackle. Good fellow, Evans—corking good fellow—but after the Blues lost last fall, he had gloated a little too much. He had met him on the street and clapped him hilariously on the shoulder.
"Ha, ha, Ames," he shouted, "how about it? We tied the can on the bulldog's tail, and we'll do the same next year."
That had stung. His face flushed now as he recalled it:
"We tied the can on the bulldog's tail, and we'll do the same next year."