had declared himself done up after the race, and had gone to bed. From his room he murmured in a sleepy voice:
"Sounds like Jerry calling—'Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!" doesn't it?"
"Cut it out!" said Phil. "I don't want to see an oar for six months again."
"It will be pigskin punts from now on," spoke Tom, as he returned from jabbing a toothpick into the clock's interior, and turned over to doze again.
"And then good old Winter!" exclaimed Frank. "I say, fellows, what's the matter with getting up some iceboat races," and he galvanized into uprightness.
"Talk about it to-morrow," sleepily murmured Sid, but the suggestion bore fruit, as you may learn by reading the next volume of this series, to be called "Rivals of the Ice; A Story of Winter Sports at College." It will tell how, after a strenuous football season, the lads formed an ice league, for skating, hockey playing, and ice-yacht racing.
Outside the college there was singing and the building of bonfires to celebrate the victory of the crew. But In their room, four of the eight-oared victors dozed dreamily on, living over again in fancy that strenuously-fought-out race which they had so labored over. And there, for a time, we will leave them.
THE END
