the following salute is given--with fists beating on the table in
unison--

[Illustration: THE OLD FAITHFULS]

"One, two, three! _Oh, what a gosh darn lie!_"

But deep in every man's heart, is the keen realization of the trainer's
value, and his eager effort for their success. His athletic achievements
and his record are well known, and appreciated by all. He is the pulse
of the team.

The scrub team at Princeton during my last year was captained by Pop
Jones, who was a martyr to the game. He was thoroughly reliable, and the
spirit he instilled into his team mates helped to make our year a
successful one. This picture will recall the long roll of silent heroes
in the game, whose joy seemed to be in giving; men who worked their
hearts out to see the Varsity improve; men who never got the great
rewards that come to the Varsity players, but received only the thrill
of doing something constructive. Their reward is in the victories of
others, for every man knows that it is a great scrub that makes a great
varsity. If, as you gaze at this picture of the scrub team, it stirs
your memory of the fellows who used to play against you, and, if, in
your heart you pay them a silent tribute, you will be giving them only
their just due. To the uncrowned heroes, who found no fame, the men
whose hearts were strong, but whose ambitions for a place on the Varsity
were never realized, we take off our hats.

The fiercest knocks that John DeWitt's team ever had at Princeton were
in practice against the scrub. It was in this year, on the last day of