Fudge’s modesty again asserted itself. “Well,” he answered frankly, “I’m no sprinter; not built for it. I can run a long time, but I’m not fast, if you see what I mean. So I thought that if I could pass the ball to one of you fellows who was a better sprinter I’d do it. You see, it didn’t matter who made the runs so long as we got the touchdown.” Faint murmurs of admiration greeted this noble sentiment. Pete Farrar’s countenance expressed slight amazement. It didn’t sound quite like Fudge. Still, that youth’s expression was so guileless that Pete concluded that perhaps, after all, Fudge was as unselfish as he pictured himself. “There was no one to take it, though,” continued the hero, warming to the narrative; “and so I saw that I’d have to make the score myself. Shores was right after me, and a lot of the others too. Once Shores almost had me, but I swung aside――――” “It was Grover who put Shores out,” said Sawin. “I know. It was good work, too,” declared Fudge heartily. “But he wouldn’t have caught me, because I’d got my second-wind by that time, and the rest was easy. With the start I had none of them could have caught me.” “Hm,” said Captain Nostrand, “you sort of hate yourself, don’t you, Fudge?” But the consensus of opinion was that Nostrand’s sarcasm was in poor taste, although perhaps excusable to some extent since envy is a common failing. Nor was Sprague McCoy’s remark thought any better of. McCoy chuckled and observed: “I thought once or twice, Fudge, you were going to lie down and go to sleep! The trouble with you is that you’re geared too high!” Fudge smiled patiently, sweetly, as if to say: “’Twas ever thus! Success is always a target for the shafts of Envy!” At that moment, as if Fate sought to secure an even balance between joy and sorrow, Jim Grover, who had gone to the telephone a minute before, hung up the receiver and faced the others with gloomy countenance. “Wouldn’t that make you sick?” he demanded. “Corwin won!” There was an instant of silence. Then, “Who says so?” demanded McCoy incredulously. “I called up Castle’s. They got it by telephone from Corwin. Twelve to ten. What do you know about that?” Grover kicked disgustedly at a bench. A chorus of dismay arose. “Twelve to ten? How’d we make ten?” “Touchdown, goal and field-goal, of course.” “Isn’t that the limit? Say, they ought to let us play instead of the Varsity!” “We haven’t won a game since Methuselah was in rompers!” “Wait till you hear them roast Lovering! Wow! I wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything!” “Did they say anything about it, Jim?” “No, they just heard the score, that’s all. Gee, I wish Lovering would quit his kindergarten stuff and let us spring some plays! We never will win a game with the sort of things he gives us!” “Well, that comes of putting a fellow who doesn’t know football in as coach,” declared Burns. “It’s up to Lanny White, all right.”