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 *ing to this, he didn't score a point. He was in the line-up, though; played right end."

"Probably Wolcott didn't pull many forward-passes," said Clif. "Guess she didn't have to. Maybe she thought we'd have some scouts there. Say, I wonder why 'G. G.' didn't go over, or send some one."

"Next week," answered Tom. "He'd rather get his dope fresh. That's what I heard, anyway."

After church Clif's father appeared in the blue car and there was another gorgeous feed at the Inn. This time Tom was the only guest, for Walter was taking dinner with friends in the village. The weather was not at all kind, and the ride in the afternoon was short, and Mr. Bingham's brief visit came to an end well before darkness had set in. When he said good-by and was speeding off down the drive, the red tail-light gleaming between the trees, Clif had a momentary qualm of something very like homesickness. But it didn't survive the journey up to Number 34, where Tom and Billy Desmond, the latter stretched luxuriously between the protuberances of his beloved couch, were wrangling joyously over the relative merits of the Princeton and Yale teams. Besides, Clif recalled, his father had promised faithfully to come up for the Wolcott game, and that was but three weeks away. He was to make an early start from Providence on Saturday morning, get to Freeburg by noon and then take Clif and Tom and probably a couple of other fellows over to Cotterville in time for the big event. Clif got over his brief depression as he reached Num