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 in the coach's heart, but his voice was cool. "What difference would it have made to you fellows?"

"A lot of difference. We didn't see this thing right. We've got the spirit."

"Have you? What kind of spirit?"

"School spirit."

"Anybody can claim that. Prove it?"

"We've got fighting spirit, too." Vance was shaking his fist above his head.

"Prove that," cried Jennings. His voice rang with the vibrant note that sounds in a bugle call that blows the charge. "Fighting spirit, eh? Then get out there and beat Hastings."

The door of the locker room opened. The Owl, stooped a bit, his mild eyes blinking behind his glasses, peered at the group.

"You want me, Mr. Jennings?"

"Want you?" It was Vance's hand that fell upon his hand. "We've wanted you right along and didn't know it. You're sitting on the bench to-day. Do you know what that means? You're our mascot. We're going to show you what a real Northfield team looks like."

The Northfield students who had come to the game that day had come as a sort of solemn duty. They looked more like mourners assembled to bury a corpse. Even the school band seemed to find something melancholy in the atmosphere, and