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 "You have a cousin at Highland, haven't you?" asked Gordon. "Is he here to-day?"

"No, he's only in the Second Year Class, and they don't let any but the Fourth Year fellows go away from school. They're strict as anything. I'm glad they didn't send me there. Dad wanted to, but ma and I were dead against it." Fudge grinned reminiscently. "I told ma I didn't think I was strong enough for it."

"Fudge, you're a fakir," said Gordon cheerfully. Fudge was starting to deny this indignantly when Lanny White, returning from the center of the field where he had won the toss-up, summoned the players.

"All right, fellows," said Lanny. "They kick-off and we take the west goal. Get into it, now, and let's get the drop on them!"

"Now let's see who's who," murmured Gordon as the team trotted out and spread over the west end of the field. "Haley, center; Cable and Kent, guards; Horsford and—Hello, Will Scott's playing right tackle! What's the matter with Wayland?"

"Sick; has tonsilitis or something. Who's that going to play left end, Gordie?"