Clif and Johnny were metaphorically presented with the Key of the City by their grateful team mates on Friday night. That score had been sorely needed to prop up the Scrub’s declining self-respect, and so those who had provided it were momentary heroes. Tom didn’t stop lavishing praise on Clif all the evening, and he was ably abetted by Loring. Tom was inclined to lose track of the fact that the First Team was in all ways a superior organization and to lay every detail to the Scrub’s shortcomings rather than to the adversary’s fuller knowledge and better playing. It was hard to make him see why the Scrub didn’t have an even chance at every game. Tom was making a very good captain, although, as frequently happens, being captain had slowed up his progress as a player. Not that Tom wasn’t still holding down the left halfback position in good shape, for he was. He was a more certain gainer through the line than Lou Stiles, was a better punter than any one on the First except “Big Bill” Fargo and could get a forward-pass off in fine style. It was just that his anxiety to have the Scrub a great team caused him to give more thought to its development than to the individual duties of Tom Kemble, with the result that Tom’s progress was not quite keeping up with that of the others. Tom was far from realizing this, although Mr. Babcock, who played no favorites, was after Tom a good deal during practice. Doubtless if Tom hadn’t had so many things on his mind it would have dawned on him that his playing wasn’t meeting with “Cocky’s” entire approval. Clif encountered Wattles in the corridor on his way back from supper that Wednesday evening. Wattles was carrying Loring’s tray to the dining room. Clif said, “Hello, Wattles,” and would have passed, but Wattles would have speech with him. “Mister Bingham,” said Wattles earnestly, “may I take the liberty of complimenting you, sir, on that remarkable run you made this afternoon? Really, sir, it was a most stirring performance!” “Think so, Wattles?” laughed Clif. “Well, you’re likely to see much better stuff than that if you stick around.” Wattles shook his head, apparently incredulous. “It doesn’t seem possible, sir. The way you evaded those young gentlemen of the opposing side was wonderful. What I call a most clever performance, sir, a really bang-up bit of playing, sir!” “Why, thanks, Wattles, that’s very nice of you. Getting to like our style of football better, eh?” “I’m beginning to understand it, Mr. Bingham, and I don’t hesitate to say that, barring what looks to me like too heavy a stress on what I may call the slugging features, it is a more exciting game than we play, sir.” “But look here, Wattles, we don’t slug!”