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Larry nodded, and Dick explained: “Half-back; he’s too modest to tell you so himself. But what about this bridge scrap?”

“It’s the pure quill,” said Merkle. “Dark night; single-span concrete bridge about a mile back in the country. Sophomores defend it; Freshies try to rush it. Two upper classes on hand to keep the murder list as low as possible. You’ll like it.”

“What do we get out of it if we win?” Dick demanded.

“Undying fame—and the right to paint the numerals of your class on the portal arch. It’s been eight years since a Freshman class did it.”

Dick nodded.

“Sounds pretty all right to me.”

“And how about you, Curlyhead?” Merkle turned to Larry.

At this, the Donovan downrightness came to the fore.

“I’m not aiming to play horse,” he said, speaking slowly, as his habit was when he was appealed to. “I came here to study.”

The upperclassman’s frown was portentous, as became his dignity.

“See here, Donovan,” he returned; “I can tell you one thing: you won’t get very far if you begin by knocking the college spirit. You’ll not be urged, or even asked, personally, to go with your class into the bridge scrap. But unless you can flash up a doctor’s certificate to show that you’re physically unfit—well, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes after the fact; that’s all.”