“I’ll bet anything!” said Steve Edwards, “that they had two balls that day!  If they didn’t, I’m blessed if I can see how they got that one across the field there.”

“Maybe that chap who made the touchdown had a string tied to it,” suggested Still.  “That wouldn’t be a bad scheme, eh?”

“I don’t know how they did it,” said Marvin soberly, setting down his empty glass with a last fond look, “but if you take my advice, Tracey, you’ll have it understood next year that there’s to be no miracles!”

Clint regretted that defeat, but it didn’t affect his spirits any.  As a matter of fact, Clint had reached a state of second team patriotism that precluded his being heart-broken about anything save a humiliating beating of the second.  And most of the other members of Mr. Boutelle’s constituency felt the same way.  It was regrettable to have the school team worsted, but the main thing in life was the glory of the second.  If Coach Robey had suggested that Clint should throw in his lot with the ’varsity just then Clint might have felt flattered but he would probably have gently and firmly declined the promotion.  “Boots,” in short, had in a bare fortnight endowed his charges with an enthusiasm and esprit de corps that was truly remarkable.  “Anyone would think,” said Amy one day when Clint had been singing the praises of the second team, “that you dubs were the only football players in school.  Ever hear of the ’varsity team, Clint?  Of course I may be mistaken, but I’ve been given to understand that they have one or two fairly good men on the ’varsity.”

Clint grinned.  “That’s what they tell you, Amy!”

“Well, of all the swank!” exclaimed the other incredulously.

“What’s that?”

“Side, swell-headedness, dog, intolerable conceit—­er—­”

“That’ll do.  You talk like a dictionary of synonyms.”

“You talk like a blooming idiot!  Why, don’t you know that the second team is nothing on earth but the ‘goat’ for the ’varsity?”

“Yes, and the ‘goat’ butts pretty hard sometimes,” chuckled Clint.

Amy threw up his hands in despair.  “You fellows are so stuck on yourselves,” he said finally, “that I suppose you’ll be expecting Robey to discharge the ’varsity and let you play against Claflin!”

“He might do worse, I dare say,” returned Clint carelessly.

“Might do—­Here, I can’t stand this!  I’m going out!  Where’s my cap?” And Amy fled.

Clint didn’t see a great deal of Amy those days except during study hour, for Amy was busy with the Fall Tennis Tournament.  Besides playing in it he was managing it, and managing it entailed much visiting in the evenings, for the tournament insisted on getting horribly mixed up every afternoon owing to the failure of fellows to play when they were supposed to, and it was one of Amy’s duties to hunt up the offenders and threaten them with all sorts of awful fates if they didn’t arise at some unseemly hour the next morning and play off the postponed match before Chapel.  Clint went over to the courts one afternoon before practice in the hope of seeing his room-mate perform.  But Amy was dashing around with a score-sheet in hand and the matches in progress were not exciting.