he passed it to the fullback. The opposing line bore down upon
him frantically, but too late. One mighty kick and the pigskin rose in
the air like a bird, soared over the bar between the goal posts, and the
'Varsity was three points to the good. An instant later and the whistle
blew. The game was over.

The hearts of the scrubs went down into their boots. Another minute and
the game would have ended with the ball in the middle of the field, and
the score a tie; and a tie on the part of the scrubs was equivalent to a
victory. But that last kick had dashed their hopes into ruin.

Still, they were not wholly cast down. They had deserved success, if
they had not actually won it. They had really played the better game and
beaten their foes to a standstill. The nominal victory of the 'Varsity
was a virtual defeat.

And the 'Varsity knew it. For an instant they felt an immense relief, as
they crowded around Wilson, the fullback, and clapped him on the
shoulder. But their momentary exultation was replaced by chagrin, as
they filed past the coach on the way to the shower baths, and their eyes
fell before the steely gleam in his.

"I won't say anything to you dubs, just now," he announced with ominous
calmness, as they shambled along wearily and shamefacedly. "I don't dare
to. What I'd have to say wouldn't be fit for the ears of young ladies
like you. Besides, I don't want to commit murder. But I may have a few
quiet remarks to make before practice to-morrow."

"A few quiet remarks," muttered Ellis, when they got beyond earshot.
"Gee. I'll bet life in a boiler factory would be peaceful compared with
the training quarters when he once gets going."

"I've always thought deafness an affliction," said Drake, "but I think
I'd welcome it for the next twenty-four hours."

"Ten to one that's why they call a football field a gridiron," grumbled
Axtell. "The fellows that play on it get such a fearful roasting."

Just then, Morley, the captain of the scrubs, came along with a broad
grin on his face.

"Buck up, you fellows," he joshed, "the worst is yet to come. I can see
just where you 'false alarms' get off. Your epitaph will be that of the
office boy."

"What was that?" queried Martin, biting at the bait.

"Monday, hired-Tuesday, tired-Wednesday, fired," retorted Morley.

"Don't you worry about epitaphs," snapped Tom Henderson. "We're not dead
ones yet, as you'll find out the next time we take your measure."

"What was tha