"They got through once or twice," mumbled Tom.
"Oh, for a yard or so," scoffed Steve. "Who gave you that peach of a mouth, Tom?"
"Johnson, I think." He touched it gingerly. "It feels as big as a house."
"You're a blooming hero, Tom. Say, Marvin told me the New York papers have got all about that business at Oakdale yesterday. He didn't see it, but someone told him. Wouldn't you love to read what they say? I'm going to get the papers as soon as the game's over."
"Silly rot," mumbled Tom. They were waiting for the throng ahead to get through the doorway. When they followed Tom paused a moment in the hallway, his gaze following the striped legs of the Claflin players as they went up the stairs. Steve tugged at his arm.
"Come on, slow-poke! What's the matter?"
"Nothing. That is, I was just thinking how rotten those fellows will feel if they get beaten."
"Maybe they won't," said Steve soberly. "If they don't, think how rotten we'll feel!"
Tom smiled, wincing with the twinge from his swollen lip. "I suppose someone's got to feel bad. Come on."
In the locker room and in the rubbing room beyond all was bustle. The rubber was hard at work over the table and Danny Moore was already busy with surgeon's plaster and medicated gauze and nasty smelling lotion. There was very little talk as yet. Fellows sank on to benches and wearily relaxed their tired muscles. Mr. Robey and "Boots" were consulting in low tones by one of the grated windows. Tom eased himself to a seat and began to strip down one torn woollen stocking, displaying an abrasion along the shin bone that brought an exclamation from Steve.