. Tom Ashley, with
the ball clutched tight against his breast, his set face gleaming white
in the half-light, sprints down the long barred space toward victory,
keeping the distance between himself and the straining pack, running as
only one man has ever run for Stanford.

And Diemann, tearing along the side-line, knows that Ashley himself
never could have done it.

The fullback falls across the line, the ball gripped in his convulsive
hold, just as the linesman's whistle blows. Diemann is there almost as
soon. He keeps back the frenzied men crowding about them, and bends over
the unconscious player, calling him "Fred" irrationally, while the place
catches fire with the cardinal and Stanford goes mad on the field.

* * * * *

Ashley came to consciousness at the hotel. Diemann sat beside him, and
Lyman and Dr. Forest stood by the window. The substitute fullback sat
up.

"I felt faint just then," he said. "I couldn't help it; you know about
it, Diemann." He looked at the other men.

"Did they get it over?" he asked.

Lyman ran across the room.

"Tom, old man," he said, choking, "you won it for us, and you'll never
be forgotten, you and your run!"

The fullback looked at him blankly.

"My run?" he faltered.

Diemann came between them.

"Better lie down and rest a bit, my boy; you can talk later."

Then, turning to the others:

"You see," he whispered, "he's wandering a little yet."

TWO PIONEERS AND AN AUDIENCE.

Two Pioneers and an Audience.

"The Mother sits beside the bay,
The bay goes down to wed the sea,
And gone ye are, on every tide
Wherever men and waters be!"

On the Sunday night following the Game the smoking-room at the Rho house
held the greater part of the Chapter. As a rule, there were not so many
loafing there Sunday nights; that time was generally given either to
sentiment in other places, or to digging out Monday's work upstairs,
while the fire burned for the two or three who seemed never to have any
work more important than magazine reading or solitaire. To-night,
however, nearly every one was gathered there, for two "old men" were
visiting.

These old men had been out of college for two whole years. One of them
was Ralph Shirlock. If you were at college in his days you knew him by
sight, at least, though you were the mossiest dig that ever kept bright
till morning the attic window of a prof's house on the Row. If