"Gentlemen," interrupted the policeman, "this 'ere mate o' mine is Jack
Sutherland, owner of Twenty-Two Eldorado--"
"Not Sutherland of '92?" broke in the snow-blinded Minook man, groping
feebly toward him.
"The same." Sutherland gripped his hand.
"And you?"
"Oh, I'm after your time, but I remember you in my freshman year,--you
were doing P. G. work then. Boys," he called, turning half about, "this
is Sutherland, Jack Sutherland, erstwhile full-back on the 'Varsity. Come
up, you gold-chasers, and fall upon him! Sutherland, this is
Greenwich,--played quarter two seasons back."
"Yes, I read of the game," Sutherland said, shaking hands. "And I
remember that big run of yours for the first touchdown."
Greenwich flushed darkly under his tanned skin and awkwardly made room
for another.
"And here's Matthews,--Berkeley man. And we've got some Eastern cracks
knocking about, too. Come up, you Princeton men! Come up! This is
Sutherland, Jack Sutherland!"
Then they fell upon him heavily, carried him into camp, and supplied him
with dry clothes and numerous mugs of black tea.
Donald and Davy, overlooked, had retired to their nightly game of crib.
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