“Oh, cut out the comedy,” said Lanny. “What was the matter with our team?” “Search me,” replied Fudge, in an injured tone. “We just couldn’t get started, it seemed. Logan scored in the first period and the second, and we didn’t do anything until about five minutes before the end of the game. Then that fellow Hull shot a forward off to Gordon and Gordie got away with it for about thirty yards. After that they couldn’t stop us and Nelson Beaton went over for the touchdown.” “What sort of a game did Logan play?” asked Lanny, plainly disconsolate. “Fine! They had a grand time running around our ends, or they did until Dick put Gordon Merrick in for Felker. Felker was rotten to-day on defense. Gee, but Gordie played a great little game after he got in! And, say, Lanny, that fellow Hull is a wonder! You ought to have seen the way he fooled those fellows on quarterback runs! It was fine!” “It must have been if we got licked like that!” said Lanny. “Was McCoy good?” “I guess so. Pretty fair. We didn’t seem able to stop them outside of tackles, though. That right half of theirs made a seventy-yard run one time. That was when they got their first touchdown. They fooled us on a fake-kick play and sent a back around Felker’s end from our fifteen yards.” “I knew we’d get licked,” muttered Lanny. “We must have played a solid-ivory sort of game, Chester!” “You ought to hear the fellows roasting the team afterwards,” chuckled Fudge, struggling with another spoonful of ice-cream. “Dick, too. They say he didn’t more than half try to win. He put in six subs in the last half. What sort of a way is that?” “I take it you didn’t get in,” said Chester, sarcastically. “I’m on the Scrub,” replied Fudge, untroubledly. “Bet you I could have done as well as Thad Brimmer did, though. How was the Springdale game, Lanny?” “Pretty good,” Lanny replied absently. “Six to nothing, Springdale. Well, I must be getting on. See you later, Chester.” Chester nodded and Lanny went out. “He feels pretty bad about it, I guess,” said Chester. “He’d have felt worse if he’d been here and seen it,” replied Fudge, philosophically. “It was p, u, n, k, punk!” “Say, for goodness sake, what sort of a mess is that you’re eating?” asked Chester, his curiosity at last demanding satisfaction. “This?” asked Fudge, stirring his spoon about in the glass and watching the resultant blending of colors with admiring eyes. “This is what I call an Opalescent Dream.” “Looks more like a nightmare! What’s in it?” “Strawberry and chocolate and lemon ice-cream and blood-orange sirup. You take a third of each and――――” But Chester, with a gesture eloquent of repugnance, had flown. Fudge smiled calmly and stirred again with still more interesting results. “Some folks don’t know what’s good,” he murmured blissfully.