Parkinson did not add a goal to her touchdown. She did not even try, for the crowd that overspread the field refused to be dispersed, and, since the last second of play had ticked itself off just before Myron had reached the line, no one insisted very hard. Parkinson was satisfied with that lone 6; and if Kenwood was not, why, that was of small moment! Blue banners waved, the band led, the victors followed, caps floated across the goal bars, the big drum said Thump! Thump! Thump! and pandemonium reigned supreme over Parkinson Field.
Some four hours later, Andrew Merriman, crossing the campus on his way to Sohmer, almost collided with a small and visibly excited youth who, panting an apology, added: “They’ve elected the new captain! I got it from a waiter!”
“Have they, son? Well, who is he?”
“Bet you couldn’t guess! I’ve told three fellows already and not one of them guessed right!”
“Then there’s no use in my trying,” replied Andrew amiably. “Suppose you tell me.”
“It’s—Cummins!”
“No!”
“Yes, it is! What do you think of that? Why, no one expected he’d get it!”