That evening the Scrub was carelessly enough christened with a name that stuck the season through. Some unknown witness of the afternoon’s struggle uttered the phrase, and it met with favor from a listener, and was repeated, probably as his own, and by the next afternoon it had captured popularity, and written itself into school language. After that it was never, save officially or in the polite pages of _The Lantern_, “Mr. Babcock’s Team.” Nor was it the “Second.” It was the “Fighting Scrub.” That was a name to live up to, and the Scrub, from Adams to Tyson, taking it alphabetically, resolved to merit it. Mr. Babcock smiled in his sleeve. He believed in fight. Fighting, though, won’t always win, especially if the odds against the fighter are long. And if the Scrub thought to repeat its victory of Thursday right away it was doomed to disappointment. Because on Friday, during the brief ten minutes of real scrimmage that took place, the First, having knocked together a hasty and temporary defense against forward-passes, seized the Scrub by the nape of its neck and fairly wiped up the gridiron with it. Smarting under the defeat of the day before, and the gibes of its schoolmates, it sought vengeance and obtained it in handfulls. It scored two touchdowns and followed the second with a goal, and later, in the gymnasium, held up thirteen points for the infuriation of the Scrub. The Scrub, which had “rubbed it in” good and hard yesterday, tried its best to grin and found the effort painful. That evening twenty youths crowded into Clem Henning’s room, which he shared with Jimmy Ames, and, occupying practically every horizontal surface therein, set about the election of a captain. A week before the undertaking had not seemed important. Any fellow would do; especially Clem, who was already holding down the job temporarily. But since a week ago the lowly Scrub had become the Fighting Scrub. It had seen service, acquired traditions, and won honor. It was no longer merely twenty youths brought together by chance. It was a fellowship, a fraternity, a shoulder-to-shoulder clan. It was――well, it was the Fighting Scrub! And so the election of a leader had suddenly become a matter of vast importance, something to be done carefully, and only after much thought. A good deal of the thinking had been done by Tom, and he had shared some of his thoughts with Clif. But not all, as it turned out. “I was talking with Clem Henning this afternoon,” Tom announced on Wednesday, “and he says he doesn’t want to be captain. Says he won’t be if he has to.” “Guess it will be Coles, then,” said Clif. “Coles is all right. But how about Jimmy Ames?” “Ames? Why, I don’t know. I like Coles better. Or Stiles.” “Stiles, eh? We-ell, yes, maybe. You know, Clif, I wouldn’t say no if they offered it to me.” “Offered what?” “Captaincy.”