I don't suppose you've ever heard of Egyptian Normal," Sevensen remarked. "It's a small school." None of us at the Offside Club had heard of. it. "We used to play some pretty good teams back in the twenties," Sevensen went on, "even Notre Dame once. That was the year I was captain."
"Well," said Leo Stertzbaugh, sensing a story, "who'd like to play some poker?"
"I was never any All-American," Sevensen continued. "All-conference would be more like it, although we weren't in the conference at that time. But I guess you'd have to say our real star was Vaughn Gormlee, one of those tall, smiling, golden-haired lads they raise out on the Coast—or used to, anyhow. He was a well-meaning chap, popular with faculty and student body alike. He sang in the Glee Club and could punt fifty yards and pass or run an equal distance."
"He ever play in any ball games?" Harry Coldstone asked.
"He galloped eighty-five yards against Sewanee Northern, to name one occasion," Sevensen said. "But I'm thinking of the game at South Bend. I don't know if any of you ever had the opportunity of playing there—"
Stertzbaugh nodded. "Many, many times. In Wisconsin, isn't it?"
"It's quite an experience," Sevensen assured us. "The team went up on a Friday, and most of the school with it—except for Gormlee. He was to stay behind for a convention of fraternity vice-presidents and drive up later in his own car. Well, we were all waiting nervously in the locker room and Gorm hadn't shown up yet—"
"No sense of responsibility," Harry observed. "Those fellows from the West Coast, I've always said—"
"We were in the locker room," Sevensen repeated, "when the telegram was brought in. The coach read it aloud. On the way up, Gorm had driven his car into the side of a freight train. He had gone on to the Greater Game."
"Sorry," Harry said.