Mr. Bonner gave an excellent imitation of a slave driver that Thursday afternoon, even looking the rôle as well as acting it. Simon Legree, cracking his whip in a performance of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” was a genial, mild-mannered gentleman by comparison. After the others were dismissed he exhibited an absolutely medieval cruelty by keeping the punters and drop-kickers at work until it was too dark to tell a ball from a head-guard. The second team, with no scrimmage to take part in, was dismissed a half hour earlier than usual. Most of the members hurried from the scene, but a few heartless ones stood about and gloated over the sufferings of their antagonists. One of these was Brewster Longley, and he and Ned Musgrave, center on the first, and a natural rival, almost came to blows on one occasion when Ned took exception to one of Longley’s humorous gibes. Davy thereupon “shooed” the idlers away from the side-lines in a fine flow of English strongly tinctured with Welsh brogue. Perhaps Longley resented having his pleasure cut short and perhaps his resentment was accountable for what happened when he met Hugh and Peet in front of the field house. Peet, although engaged in remorseless rivalry with Hugh for a half-back position on the second, had taken rather a violent liking to him and was becoming somewhat of a nuisance, although Hugh didn’t let Peet suspect it. Peet was an upper middle fellow, a few months younger than Hugh and extremely uninteresting. He seldom ventured an original remark on any subject, confining his conversational contributions to frequent giggles which Hugh was beginning to find irritatingly monotonous. Today Hugh had lingered long over his shower and dressing in the hope that Peet would take his departure. But no such luck, for there was the other boy awaiting him when he was ready to go, and they passed out of the building together and almost into the arms of Longley and Bowen, the latter right guard on the second and rather a crony of Longley’s. Hugh murmured an apology for his share in the narrowly averted collision and Peet laughed his inane giggle. Bowen nodded and pushed past, but Brewster Longley seized Hugh’s arm and swung him round. “Hey there, my cockney friend!” he exclaimed. “Want the whole place to yourself?” Hugh had a peculiar aversion to being “pawed,” as he termed it. Even if Bert, of whom he was really fond, laid a hand on his shoulder, Hugh was uncomfortable until it was removed. Longley’s unexpected and unwelcome familiarity exasperated him instantly, and it was that grasp of his arm and not the words accompanying it which sent the blood to his cheeks and made him wrench himself indignantly away. “Hands off, please,” he said. Tone and manner were distinctly haughty, and Longley flared up at once. “Oh, mama! Don’t touch me, I’m ticklish! Why, you blooming British ass, don’t you try any of your high-and-mighty airs on me or I’ll slap you on the wrist and break your watch!”