eyized steel; how
Clayton fumed and fretted and slugged and fouled, and threatened his
men, and called them off to hold conferences that only served to give
Tug's men a chance to get their wind after some violent play; how
Tug was everywhere at once, and played for more than the pleasure of
winning this one game--played as if he were a pair of twins, and only
smiled back when Clayton glared at him; how Punk guarded the goal from
the longest punts the varsity full-back could make, and how he kicked
the goal after all but one of the many touch-downs the scrub team
made; how little Jumbo, as quarter-back, passed the ball with never a
fumble and never a bad throw; how, when it came back to his hands,
he skimmed almost as closely and as silently and as swiftly over the
ground as the shadow of a flying bird, and made long run after long
run that won the cheers of the crowd; how B.J., Sawed-Off, and Pretty,
as right-end, center, and left-end, responded at just the right
moment, and how Pretty dodged and ran with the alertness he had
learned in many a championship tennis tournament; and how Reddy, as
left half-back, flew across the field like a firebrand, or hurled
himself into the line with a fury that seemed to have no regard for
the bones or flesh of himself or the Claytonians; how--

IV

But did any one ever read such a string of "hows"? Why, that sentence
was getting to be longer and more complicated than the game it was
pretending not to describe; so here's an end on't, with the plain
statement that the game (like that sentence) came finally to an end.
But the effects of the contest did not end with the dying out of the
cheers with which the victory of the scrub was greeted. And Tug's
elevation did not cease when he had been caught up on the shoulders of
the crowd and carried all over the field, amid the wild cheers of the
whole Academy. No more did Captain Clayton's chagrin end with
his awakening from the stupor into which he had been sent by the
surprisingly good form of the scrub.

Clayton felt bitter enough at the exposure of his bad captaincy, but
a still greater bitterness awaited him, and a still greater triumph
awaited Tug, for the Athletic Association put their heads together
and decided to have their little say. The result was published in
the Kingston weekly, and Tug, after the overwhelming honor of being
interviewed by a live reporter, read there the following screaming
head-lines:

SCRUB WIP