Then he turned the shower off, reached for his towel and dried himself, avoiding the still trickling sprinkler above. Well, that was over! No more football until next fall. It was a sort of relief, too. There had been just about enough of it. Of course he would feel horribly lost for a week or so, but there were compensations. For instance, eats! For six weeks and more he hadn't had a piece of pie, and the pie at Wyndham was good! To-morrow he wouldn't have to pass his piece across to Crosby. No, sir. And he wouldn't have to think whether he ought to eat this, that and the other. No, sir, he'd just eat it!
There wasn't much drying necessary, and after a moment Clif wrapped the damp towel about him and padded his way along the wet tile floor to the locker-*room. And there was Johnny Thayer, disgracefully unadorned, striding toward him and grinning like a catfish, and holding him with a glittering eye. Clif knew that something portentous was about to happen. He had one of Tom's "hunches." Johnny stayed him with two hands against his bare chest and spoke in in hoarse elation.
"You and 'Wink' and I go to the First! What do you know?"
"Ice-cold water on the head is good," replied Clif. But his levity was strained, for he knew that Johnny was talking true talk.
"It's gospel! 'Cocky' just told me. Ask 'Wink.' He's over there."
"Did he say me, too?" asked Clif, conscious of the
