JUBILATION and swaggering self-satisfaction reigned triumphant at Westcott’s Monday morning. Certain small boys who had acquired a habit of arriving half an hour before the time of opening so as to have opportunity, before the advent of interfering teachers, for tag through the play room and up the stairs, found their numbers doubled. Instead of scampering wildly off like frolicsome kittens, they gathered in solid clusters at their end of the big schoolroom and exchanged opinions and reminiscences, sprinkling their conversation richly with comments like “Wasn’t it great when Mac made that goal!” “Did you see Fat Bumpus slide on his nose?” “I was dead scared that time when Trowbridge got down to our ten-yard line!” “The paper said—” “Papa thought—” and so on, in a series that developed itself by arithmetical progression. Richard Sumner, who had a gift for drawing, spent ten minutes, hedged in by a semicircle of admirers and supervised by Mike, in chalking on the board a splendid figure of a plunging half-back, armed cap-a-pie, which he reproduced by memory from a magazine cover. The breast of his player rampant he covered with a huge W, and underneath he printed in neat characters the score by games. When this was done, Mike produced a list of an All-Triangular eleven, which he had elaborated over Sunday, and defended with a great show of expert knowledge the right of seven Westcottites to a place thereon. Then the older boys came in a bunch, driven in by the cold from the corner outside. They took places in the alcove that commanded the street, on watch for the members of the team as they arrived. Each one as he appeared was signalled at a distance, and hailed by name and applause as he entered the room. Harrison, of course, received a prolonged salvo, but Talbot, Eaton, and Hardie were welcomed almost as heartily, while Bumpus’s bruised face, and Mac’s complacent grin, called forth a special demonstration. Last of all Sumner was seen, hurrying late across the street, and an original salutation that would be sure to rattle him was suggested by Wilmot—but the bell rang and spoiled it all.