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There was more than a drop of good, warm, Irish blood in Larry Donovan’s veins, as his name would indicate, and for an impulsive half-second he wanted to throw his arms around the pampered son of Consolidated Steel. He didn’t quite do that, but he did say what was fitting.

“That’s all right, Mac—perfectly all right. You just forget it. I won’t say that it didn’t rub me the wrong way at the time, but——”

“Thanks, old scout,” McKnight broke in. “I’ve had that on my chest until I’m sore as a boil. What chance do you think we’re going to stand to lift the hoodoo to-morrow?”

The morrow was the day set for the “Blacksmiths” to play Rockford Poly on the home field. Rockford was not in the Conference, but it had a strong eleven, and even the best friends of the Sheddon team were saying that they hadn’t a chance in the world. But at McKnight’s question Larry scraped around and found a bit of the newly boosted college loyalty.

“We’ll never say die till we’re dead,” he asserted. “We’ve got to get in with both feet and put a barrel of pep behind our fellows to-morrow. We simply can’t let them lose!”