THE delighted Westcott lads poured after their team to the dressing rooms in a turbulent stream. The forward ones thronged the limited space within, interfering with the progress of the players toward cleanness and respectability, and wearying them with fierce clutches of the hand and much repetition of exclamations and idle questions. Dunn served his companions a good turn—unintentionally, to be sure—by standing near the door and delivering to a densely packed circle a disquisition on the game, which included not merely the true explanation of the weakness of the Newbury team and the faults of their playing, but a candid setting forth of the errors on the Westcott side. According to Dunn, the score might have been doubled if Westcott’s hadn’t thrown the ball away so much by punting, and had gone systematically to work at the outset to use up Thorne, the Newbury tackle who did half the defensive work of his team. “Didn’t McDowell put up a great game,—and Hardie?” exclaimed some inconsiderate enthusiast in the circle. “Yes, they both did pretty well on the whole,” answered Dunn. “It was a cinch for Hardie. He had nothing against him.” Mike and Dickie Sumner came edging by. “If Jason had only been there, you’d have seen something doing,” said Mike, in a low tone to his companion. They both laughed aloud. Dunn turned at the sound and caught a glimpse of the roguish faces, and felt, though he could not hear, the insult of their words. “Get out of here, you kids!” he called angrily. “You’ve no business here at all.” “We’re going, Jason, as fast as we can,” returned Dick, feeling safe in the crowd. “You played a corking game, Jason!” added Mike. The two went their way to the quarters of the other team to see how the Newburyites were taking it, leaving Dunn to wax violent over the necessity of having these “little fresh mutts” hanging round all the time, and the foolish encouragement they received from older fellows who ought to know better. Some of these fellows who ought to know better were at the other end of the room preparing for the shower. Jack Sumner held Talbot’s foot in his lap—the knee was stiffening again—and worked at the knot in a shoe-lace, exclaiming with delight over the playing of the team and dwelling with especial enthusiasm on McDowell’s performance. “It was just perfect,” he said, relaxing his efforts on the knot to look into the faces of his hearers. “Those tackles in the second half when Thorne got the on-side kicks and came down on him, just saved touch-downs. He’s the greatest find of the year!” “Oh, cut it!” exploded Talbot, punning without intent. He meant that Jack should drop that talk about McDowell. It was honest, without doubt, and generous, but it hurt Pete none the less, for he understood well Sumner’s disappointment. “I haven’t any knife,” said Sumner. “Here, Steve, give us a knife!”