"Turner wins the middleweight bout for the Freshmen. The third bout will not be pulled off."
The Freshman cheer that went up rattled the windows in Durfee Hall. As Turner was putting on his clothes, and while calls were going out for heavyweight candidates, a man wearing the 'Varsity Y stepped up to him.
"Do you play football?"
"Yes, a little," said Turner, rubbing tenderly a red welt across his right forearm, which had been raised by one of the Sophomore's love taps.
"Report to me at the Field next Monday. I'm the Freshman football coach. Maybe I can use you."
Turner thrilled. "So the old Codfish didn't get me in wrong after all. I'll forgive him," he thought to himself. Finished with his dressing, he was allowed to pass through the thinning wall of spectators, and was picked up by Frank who had wriggled from his position with difficulty.
"Great stuff, Jimmy," cried Frank. "It was worth real money to see you in action!"
"I don't deserve any credit for it," said Turner. "I happened to get a lucky lift on him. He knows more about the game than I'll ever learn. I hope I didn't hurt him."
"Never fear, his pride was hurt more than his body," returned Frank. "I wonder where Hercules Gleason went to. He disappeared after his meteoric burst of wrestling form."
"As I'm a sinner, there he is now," exclaimed Jimmy, pointing to a dejected figure leaning against the bole of a huge elm tree. The boys pranced up to him, and sure enough it was the Codfish, mussed and bedraggled. Great blotches of green grass stain ornamented his beautiful light gray trousers, and one knee peered out through a six-inch rent which had been made when his overzealous opponent dragged him along the ground in the second bout. His usually sleek hair was all awry and a zigzag scratch beautified the side of his face.