in his hand, and
said curiously: "They tell me, Tough, we held 'em four times inside
the ten-yard line."

"Four times, old boy."

"Funny I don't remember but two. Guess I was groggy."

"You didn't show it."

"It was you pulled me through, Tough."

"Rats!"

"It was. There at the last, I remember when you gripped me." As this
was perilously near sentiment he stopped. "I say, how many of us
tackled that fellow the last time?"

"The whole bunch. I say, Dink."

"Yes?"

"Stand out here--that's it, knee to knee. Can't you just feel it
behind you?"

"Yes," said Dink, surprised that in the big body there was an
imagination akin to his own. Then he said abruptly:

"Tough, I guess there won't be any fight."

"No--not after this."

"What the deuce did we get a grudge for, anyway?"

"I always liked you, Dink, but you wouldn't have it."

"I was a mean little varmint!"

"Rats! I say, Dink, we've got two years more on the old team. There's
nothing going to get around our end, is there, old boy?"

"You bet there isn't!"

All at once a flame ran up the towering bonfire and belched toward the
sky.

"Are you going to let them get you?" said McCarty.

"Me? Oh, Lord, no--I can't make a speech!"

"Neither can I!" said Tough mendaciously. "I wouldn't go back there
for the world!"

The thin posts stood out against the sheet of flame, gaunt, rigid,
imbued with a certain grandeur.

"I say, Dink," said McCarty.

"Yes?"

"I say, we're going to have some great old fights together. But, do
you know, I sort of feel after all, this will be the best."

Then a chorus of thin shrieks rose about them. They started
half-heartedly to run, pretending fury. A swarm of determined boyhood
rushed over them and flung them kicking, struggling into the air.

"Tough McCarty and Dink Stover!"

"We've got 'em!"

"On to the bonfire!"

"They're ours!"

"Hurray!"

"Help!"

"Help! We've got McCarty and Stover!"

Boys by the score came tearing out. The little knot under Dink became
a thick, black shadow, rushing forward with hilarious, triumphant
shouts. Then all at once he landed all-fours on a cart before the
flaming stack, greeted by fishhorns and rattles, his name shrieked out
in a wild acclaim.

"Three cheers for good old Dink!"

"Three cheers for honest John Stover!"

"Three cheers for the little cuss!"

He drew himself up, fumbling at his cap, terrified at the multiplied
faces that danced before his eyes.

"I