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 charge. There was no scrimmage with the Scrub, for the First, while it had run up a big score against its adversary on Saturday, had found plenty of opposition, and not a few of the players were nursing wounds. "Big Bill" Fargo didn't even put in an appearance, although most of the temporary invalids sat on the bench or, draped in their blankets, followed the drill. The Scrub, left to its own devices, took up that new forward-pass play and another, of Mr. Babcock's devising, and worked at them until they were running quite smoothly. Of course, however, as Loring realized, the forward-pass play couldn't be fairly judged until it had been tried out in actual playing. The opposition put up by the Scrub Team substitutes, with "Cocky" at left guard to make up the eleven, provided no real test for the play.

That evening, after spending the whole afternoon groaning and writhing in Number 34, Tom faced Mr. Wyatt across that well-remembered desk and somehow floundered through an examination. Mr. Wyatt displayed no enthusiasm over the performance, but he did say, somewhat wearily, at the end: "All right, Kemble. I haven't the heart to say what I ought to. Please go before I give way to unmanly emotion!"

"Yes, sir," said Tom, "Thanks!"

Deserted by his chums—for Clif, too, had failed to show up after supper—Loring sat in his chair with the chess-board before him. He had started to work out a problem, but had not got far with it. Another prob