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Updated: May 2, 2025
Ken came face to face with a tall, bronze-haired, freckle-faced sophomore, whom he had dodged more than once. There was now no use to dodge; he had to run or stand his ground. "Boys, here's that slugging Freshie!" yelled the Soph. "We've got him now." He might have been an Indian chief so wild was the whoop that answered him. "Lead us to him!" "Oh, what we won't do to that Freshie!"
He spurted for Carlton Hall, and almost ran into the arms of still more sophomores. Turning tail, he fled toward the library. When he looked back it was to see the bronze-haired leader within a hundred yards, and back of him a long line of shouting students. If there was a place to hide round that library Ken could not find it. In this circuit he lost ground.
Across the coach Rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with "Judge" Chase, right end, on an obscure point of ruling. "If you're making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs against you intentionally or otherwise, you're interfered with, and the rules give your side fifteen yards," declared Rutland.
It was no wonder that his eye gleamed, that his voice took on the old vibrant tone, that every gesture, in thought or in spite of thought, assumed the tender deference of the lover. It was a fair woman, this chance guest of the highway whom he now accosted bronze-haired, blue-eyed, soft of voice, queenly of mien, gentle, calm and truly lovable.
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