“Yes, it’s a dandy H. I wish, though, the two hadn’t quarrelled, Molly. It seems so sad. Aren’t you going to—what do you call it—hem it around the edges?”
“Of course, but I wanted to see how the letters were going to look first. I ought to have a stick for it, oughtn’t I?”
“I’ve got one you can have. It’s got a flag on it now but I can take that off. I say, if we win Saturday I think you ought to give us that for a trophy.”
“I will!” Molly clapped her hands delightedly. “And you must put it over the Silver Shield. Will you? Hoop says the shield will hang in the parlor.”
[“Why does the W look so rakish?”]
“All right. Now I have something to fight for. What I’ve needed right along, Molly, was an incentive. ’Tis there! Consider the game won!”
Oddly enough it was Cal, practical, matter-of-fact Cal, who had entertained a vast contempt and hearty dislike of football a few weeks before, who, of all the West House fellows, lost his appetite toward the end of the week and had what Spud called “the jumps.” Cal’s short taste of battle had left him with a wild, impatient desire to return to the ranks and match his strength and skill with the enemy once more. He pestered Ned for days asking whether the latter thought he would get a chance in the last game.