down, and in much the same way as they had made their first—on a long end run outside of Harry Harding.
Frank Windsor tackled the runner behind the goal-line and got up, fuming. He walked over to Harry.
"You'd better lay off," he said. "Holder!" He beckoned with his hand.
As the substitute ran out upon the field, Harry, smarting under the disgrace, with a thick feeling in his throat and tears in his eyes, walked to the Corinthian side line. He put on his sweater and seated himself dejectedly to watch the rest of the game. He thought of how he had started in, hoping to distinguish himself, to justify his election to the presidency, even to make the school eleven—and he could hardly keep back the tears.
The half was soon over. The Corinthian players came trooping to take up their sweaters. Then Francis Stoddard stepped out from the crowd and went up to Joe Herrick, who was standing close in front of Harry.
"Do you know what you are?" said Stod-
