“That’s the 1911 track team,” said Tad. “They slammed it into Bursley good and hard, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” murmured Rodney. His gaze had wandered to a group of football players, eighteen sturdy looking youths in togs of whom the center figure, holding a football on his knees, looked strangely familiar. It took a second look to identify the youth as Ginger Merrill, for Ginger in the picture looked years younger, and of course was without the carefully cared for mustache that nowadays adorned his upper lip.
“That,” said Tad at Rodney’s shoulder, “was the team that won 12 to 6. That was your brother’s first year as captain. He was only a Third Former then. Here he is the year before that.”
Rodney looked where Tad pointed, and finally distinguished his brother peering over the shoulder of a comrade from the rear row of the group. He looked in that picture scarcely older than Rodney himself at the present moment. Tad exhibited him several more times—as captain of the victorious eleven which had sent Bursley down to defeat by the 28 to 9 score, as a substitute on a hockey seven, and as a member of a baseball team which had met defeat.
“Seems to be all over the shop,” grunted Rodney. “Wonder if he ever did a lick of work when he was here.”
“Who cares?” asked Tad flippantly. “He did a heap of things that counted just as much.”
“Better not let any of the faculty hear you say that,” laughed Rodney. “They wouldn’t agree with you.”
“Faculties never did agree with me,” responded Tad, leading the way down stairs. “I can’t stand the things. I’m in favor of abolishing ’em, Rod.”