The Wyndham Team held its banquet on Wednesday night at the Inn. There were many speeches made and many songs sung, and a whole batch of congratulatory messages were read by Captain Dave. There was one from Coach Otis and another from “Big Bill” Fargo amongst them. Nearly forty persons occupied the three big tables that had been placed end to end, but all were not team members. Besides the coaches, and Dan Farrell, the trainer, and Mr. Frost, representing the Faculty, there was a boy in a wheel chair. Several speakers of the evening had done their best to embarrass this guest; notably Mr. Babcock who had gone into sickening details in his account of how Wyndham had spiked Wolcott’s guns. But Loring bore up very well, for, after all, he was only human, and he _had_ done his bit toward that 8 to 3 victory. They sang that charming ditty “We Beat Her” several times, though now the last line had been altered to “And what we did last Saturday we’ll do again next fall!” And finally they sang “Shadowed Walls,” all standing, and cheered for Wyndham――the long cheer with nine booming “Wyndhams” on the end――and broke up. Wattles, waiting outside the door, took charge of Loring, and the wheel chair trundled along Oak Street with Clif on one side and Tom on the other. Ahead of them and behind echoes of the evening sounded. Carlson and Jensen, arms entwined, confided to a star-sprinkled sky that “We beat her back in ’16.” Farther behind a cheer arose. Tom, who had emptied the contents of a dish into a pocket before leaving, shared salted nuts with the others. Wattles’s refusal to partake availed him nothing. Tom stopped traffic while he filled Wattles’s mouth, and for some distance Wattles couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to. “Wonder who they’ll elect Saturday,” mused Clif a moment later. “Houston or Ogden,” said Tom. “Say, look here, you fellows! Here’s something I’ve had on my mind for days. How――” “Where did you say you’d had it, Tom?” asked Loring. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you right.” “Shut up. Say, how many of the old Scrub fellows do you think were on the team when we made that touchdown?” “Four,” said Loring. “You, Clif, Thayer――” “Wrong, old son! Five! Count ’em! Five! Clem Henning――” “Oh, well,” objected Clif, “he was off the Scrub long before――” “Doesn’t matter! And who won their old game, anyway? Why, the old Scrub won it! Henning was right guard, ‘Wink’ was right tackle, Johnny took the pass from center, Clif made the touchdown and I――er――supervised it! Now, then, I ask you, who won the old ball game?” Three voices answered loudly, proudly and in chorus “_The Fighting Scrub!_” And―― “Hooray!” said Wattles, still articulating with difficulty. “Quite so, sir!” THE END BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR _Yardley Hall Series_ Forward Pass