It was a spectacular performance, as all such long runs are, but it is doubtful if Hugh deserved all the praise he received. Granted that he had displayed football acumen in diagnosing the play and getting into it as he had, the subsequent task had required little ability beyond that of running as hard as he knew how. He had not been forced to worm his way through a scattered defence or dodge a hungry quarter-back on his way to the goal. He had merely made the most of a fortunate opportunity. Probably if he had been playing against the full strength of the first team he would never have been able to catch the pass, or, having caught it, to get away with it. Much of this he explained subsequently to Bert and Nick and Pop and others, for he refused to view himself as a hero, but they all scoffed and reminded him that he had made the longest run of the season on Lothrop Field. Just now, having been released from the oppressive attentions of Milford, he was being ecstatically thumped and beaten by his mates of the second team as, ball under arm, he walked it out for the try at goal. Coach Crowley even expressed mild commendation, and in Hugh’s belief every chap on the team took an enthusiastic whack at his tired shoulders except Longley; and Longley grinned at him in a most friendly and approving manner. Ayer insisted that Hugh should hold the ball for him, and Hugh was very glad that he had watched that operation often enough and carefully enough to be able to perform it. Ayer had mercy on his breathlessness and gave him plenty of time before he said “Right!” and stepped forward. Then Hugh carefully withdrew his fingers from under the end, heard the thud of leather on leather and, prone on the turf――and very willing to remain so, if the truth were known!――watched the pigskin rise, turning lazily over end on end, up and away and――yes, over the cross-bar! Second team celebrated the advent of that seventh point by again lavishing blows on his back and playfully maltreating Neil Ayer. Then they scattered to take the kick-off and Peet tugged at Hugh’s elbow, looking very, very admiring and very, very apologetic, and said: “You’re off, Ordway. I’m sorry. Give me your head-guard, will you? Say, that was a peach of a run!” Hugh yielded his guard and place, acknowledging Peet’s compliment with a nod, and walked off a trifle incensed with Mr. Crowley. Of course he hadn’t done enough to have the fellows make such a fuss, he thought, but he had scored a touchdown and it did seem that the coach might reward him by letting him play the time out. Mr. Crowley, however, only waved to him in the direction of the field house and Hugh got his sweater and weariedly trotted off, turning deaf ears to the approving remarks of those on the benches. If he had done anything, he asked himself impatiently, why didn’t they let him keep on playing?