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It was from no lack of college spirit that Larry Donovan did not turn out that night to join in the song-singing, cheer-bellowing “snake dance” wherewith Sheddon celebrated its victory. A bruised ankle—that he didn’t know was lamed until the game was over—kept him in his room, and it was here that Dick found him when the long, noisy parade wriggled its way back to the campus after having shouted itself hoarse all over town.

“How’s the old foot-knuckle by now?—hurt much?” inquired the celebrator, peeling off the white night-shirt which was the regalia for the parade.

“Nothing to weep about,” said Larry. “It’ll be all right in a day or so. Parade over?”

“Fellows were just coming across the campus when I skipped out. Going to disband at the gym., I guess,” he added, stepping to the window to look out. Then: “No, by jinks! They’re coming this way: Larry, you old snipe, they’re coming for you!”

Pallid panic leaped into the eyes of the temporarily crippled substitute half-back.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Dick—can’t you stop ’em?” he gasped.