He was inclined to be revengeful. Being a fine athlete, a handsome fellow, and the admired idol of his team, Fillmore was conceited and spoiled. He was a splendid player, but regarded himself as even better than he actually was. It had always filled his heart with fiery bitterness when Hopkins had gone down in defeat before the swift Canadians, who never failed to show their superiority when Hopkins met the champions from the North. It had been his ambition to develop at Hopkins a team that could hold its own with the Canadians, as well as defeat all opponents in the United States; but now he realized that unless the Baltimore lads could do better against the Cambridgeites, they would have very little show with the boys from beyond the northern border. It must not be supposed from this that Hopkins was weak in any respect; instead of that, the team was faster than ever before in all the years lacrosse had been played in Baltimore. But the former Hopkins men on the Harvard team had coached their fellows to meet and offset the plays of the Marylanders, and Harvard had progressed fully as fast as Hopkins. Therefore Fillmore was doomed to see the crimson players keep at it with such earnestness and skill that, three minutes before the time of the second half elapsed, another goal was made and the Southerners were tied. But no one seemed prepared for what followed. Hopkins took the ball on the face-off, carried it down to Harvard’s end, tried three times to score, lost the ball, saw it sail up the field, saw Onslaw take it in, and try to score, saw it driven back, secured, passed to Onslaw again, and then Onslaw sent it whizzing into the net! Almost immediately the whistle sounded, and the game was over. Fillmore fell back and covered his eyes with his hands, biting his lip to keep from cursing the fates. He was white as death, and a comrade who was near fancied he must be suffering fearful pain from his injured hip. It was, however, mental anguish which drove the blood from his face, bodily pain being entirely forgotten for the time. “Onslaw did it!” he whispered, with blue lips. “He knocked me out on purpose! I’ll get even with him if I live long enough! I’ll find a way!” It seemed that Fillmore’s longing for revenge was destined to go ungratified for an indefinite period. Harvard played no second game with Hopkins that season, and Onslaw was a senior who would leave college before the two teams could meet again. One warm spring evening Fillmore sauntered up McCulloh Street and paused at the steps of a students’ boarding house, on which a number of young fellows were sitting. He was hailed by several of them and paused to chat with his particular chum, Tom Hackett, who played centre on the lacrosse team. “Haven’t seen you for several days to more than chirp at you,” said Hackett. “Where have you been keeping yourself?” “Home.”