Lambert was a big, rawboned fellow with a shock of yellow-brown hair which, since he had lost his head-guard, made a vivid note of color. It was evident to Hugh that both Pop and Lambert were engaged in a private and personal rivalry that was of absorbing interest to them. And both youths looked as if they had had hard wear. Lambert sported a strip of plaster across his nose like a saddle and Pop had one very discolored eye. On offense Lambert played well outside of Pop Driver, for the Grafton line was no longer attempting to stretch as wide as the opponent’s, and, theoretically at least, it was Captain Trafford who should have engaged the shock-haired left guard. But Hugh noted with amusement that almost every time it was Pop who tried conclusions with Lambert, often, as it appeared, most impolitely ignoring the center’s efforts to interest him. Hugh couldn’t see anything that looked like slugging, however, in spite of the visible marks of combat. It was merely a very pretty struggle for supremacy, with the honors fairly even, Hugh concluded. But a few minutes later, when Rotan, having failed at a run around Roy Dresser’s end and lost three yards on a forward pass that went awry, finally punted to midfield and the two teams lined up close to the fifty-yard line, he began to have his doubts. With the ball in Grafton’s possession and the lines playing close and compact, Lambert and Pop faced each other at arm’s length. On the first play, a direct plunge at the guard position on the left, Hugh, watching Pop and his adversary rather than the runner, saw the rivals clash together and Lambert’s fist, under cover of the confusion, jerk upwards to Pop’s chin. He almost, he thought, heard the thud of the blow. He saw Pop’s head go back and Pop reel for an instant. Then the Rotan line buckled and the whistle shrilled. Hugh turned to Hanser, but it was evident that the incident had escaped him just as it had apparently escaped everyone else, including the officials. “That chap Lambert there is slugging like the mischief,” said Hugh. “Is he?” Hanser chuckled. “He’d better not try it on with Pop Driver, then. Pop’s sore with him, anyway, after last year’s game.” “I fancy he’s sorer now,” replied Hugh dryly, “for Lambert just drove his fist under Pop’s chin.” “Lambert did?” asked Hanser incredulously. “Did you see him?” “Rather!” “Then it’s good-by, Lambert, all right, all right! Pop’ll get him before long.”