"Fine. First rate," said McNab, skipping down. "Forget the past, think only of the bright furniture. We've got a block of tickets for Poli's Daring-Dazzling-Delightful Vaudeville to-night. You're elected. We'll end up with a game at Reynolds'. Seen the Evening Register?"
"No."
"My boy, you are famous," said McNab, brandishing a paper. "I'm lovelier, but you get the space. Never mind, I'll be arrested soon—anything to get in the papers!"
While McNab's busy tongue ran on, Stover was gazing at the account of the game, where, among the secondary headlines, there stared out at him the caption:
STOVER, A FRESHMAN, PLAYS
SENSATIONAL GAME.
The thing was too incredible. He stood stupidly looking at it.
"How do you feel?" said McNab, taking his pulse professionally.
There was no answer Stover could give to that first throbbing sensation at seeing his name—his own name—in print. It left him confused, almost a little frightened.
"Why, Dink, you're modest," said the irrepressible McNab; and, throwing open the door, he shouted at the top of his voice: "I say, fellows, come down and see Dink blush."
A magnificent scrimmage, popularly known as a "rough house," ensued, in which McNab was properly chastised, though not a whit subdued.