And they were, a score of them, with Amy in the lead, Amy laughing and jubilant and devil-may-care!  And Clint, protesting, still a bit faint and pale, but immeasurably happy, was lifted to willing shoulders from where, a little vaguely, he looked down upon a sea of frantically cheering youths who waved maroon-and-grey banners and behaved in the time-honoured custom of the conqueror.

“Gangway!” shouted Amy.  “Hold tight, Clint!  Here we go, fellows!  Gangway!”

Clint’s bearers broke into a shambling run, and Clint, clutching tightly at Amy’s neck, lurched and bobbed dizzily as they hurried across the field.  For an instant he caught a view of the gravely pleased countenance of Penny Durkin.  Penny waved and was lost to sight again.  Other faces he knew swam past him.  Smiles and shouts and waving hands greeted him.  Other players, caught before escape was possible, were swaying about in front of the stand where Brimfield was forming into a procession to march in triumph about the trampled field of battle.  Straight for the head of the parade scuttled Amy and his cohorts.  “Gangway!” babbled Amy.  “Let us through here!”

“Amy!” remonstrated Clint.  “Let me down, you crazy Indian!  I—­I’m tired!”

“Let you down!” cried Amy incredulously.  “Not much!  You’re a bloomin’ hero, Clint, and you’ve got to act the part.  You’re the chap who knocked the ‘laf’ out of Claflin!  Hold your head up now and look like Napoleon!”

“But, Amy, honest—­”

“Shut up and don’t queer the show!  Gangway!  Gangway for Left Tackle Thayer!”

THE END