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 "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.

The Board of Strategy, as George Cotner chose to call it, met in Dick's parlor that evening at half-past seven, Dick, Lanny, Cottrell and Cotner present. Dick disposed of the afternoon's contest with Logan in few words.

"They outplayed us," he said frankly. "Our line