“Better than Tom Hanrihan, in my estimation,” said Nick. “I’d like to see Ben make it this time.” “So would I,” agreed Pop, “but he isn’t the player Tom is. Tom’s got the zip, you know. Ben’s too good-natured, I guess.” “There’s something in that,” mused Guy. “Remember Powell, who pitched for us year before last, Pop? He was a nifty twirler, all right, and had a fast one that would fool you two times out of three, but you simply couldn’t rile him, and when things got away from us Powell was no earthly use in the box. When you’re a run or two behind along in the eighth or ninth you want just nine fellows in the field who are mad clear through!” “I say,” exclaimed Hugh, “you’re spoofin’, what?” “Nary a spoof, Duke,” replied Guy. “Getting your mad up is what does the business. I don’t mean you’re to show it or froth at the mouth, you understand, but you want to have it inside you. Then when your chance comes you bust out and something happens.” “Really?” marveled Hugh. “I’ve always thought quite the contrary. It seems to me, you know, that a chap who keeps his temper is the one who can do the best.” “Sure! I said that. _Have_ a temper, but keep it! Am I right, Pop?” “Yes, I think so. I know that when a fellow plays football he has to sort of seethe inside before he can really do much.” “Did you ever seethe?” asked Nick incredulously. “I’ve been mad enough to bite,” said Pop, smiling. “Haven’t you?” “Me? Great Scott, yes! But you’re such a sleepy, unemotional beggar, Pop, that I didn’t suppose you ever felt that way. Bert and I, now, being sort of temperamental――――” “I always get mad,” confessed Bert, “the first time a fellow tackles me or gives me a jolt. I’ve got a rotten temper, anyway.” “Good reason to play football, then,” said Pop. “Football’s a fine thing for temper.” “I fancy I’d never make a player, then,” remarked Hugh ruefully. “I don’t get angry very easily, you see.” His regret was so evident that the others laughed, and Nick said: “Don’t worry about that, ’Ighness. You’ll get over it bravely when you come to play. Just let a couple of fellows sit on your head and another one twist your ankle for you and you’ll be mad enough to eat dirt!” Nothing came of Thursday night’s affair. Possibly faculty didn’t quite know where to begin, since fully two-thirds of the school was concerned. The fracas went down in history as the Junior Meeting Riot, and the _Campus_, the school monthly, managed to get a lot of sly fun out of it in its next issue. Leslie and several other more prominent members of the senior class were taken to task for allowing matters to go as far as they had, which, considering the fact that they had sustained various injuries in their efforts to promote peace, was rather unkind. In the end faculty prohibited future interference with junior meeting and, lest the temptation should prove too great for the lower middlers, provided that the meeting should take place in Manning common room.