and then like I will of
you. Good-bye.

"Your friend always,
"DON."

That note took longer to write than he had counted on, and when he got
up from the table and looked at his watch he was alarmed to find that it
was almost half-past six. He folded the paper and tucked it just under
the clothes at the head of Tim's bed, took a last glance about the room,
picked up coat and umbrella and turned out the light. Then he strode
toward the door, groping for his bag.

CHAPTER XIX

FRIENDS FALL OUT

TIM didn't enjoy supper very much that evening. The game had left him
pretty weary of body and mind, and on top of that was Don and his
trouble, and try as he might he couldn't get them out of his thoughts.
Mr. Robey was not at table; someone said he had gone to New York for
over Sunday; and so Tim didn't have to make a pretence of eating more
than he wanted. And he wanted very little. A slice of cold roast beef,
rather too rare to please him, about an eighth of one of the inevitable
baked potatoes, a few sips of milk and a corner of a slice of toast as
hard as a shingle, and Tim was more than satisfied. Tonight he was not
especially interested in the talk, which, as usual after a game, was all
football, and didn't see any good reason for sitting there after he had
finished and listening to it. All during his brief meal he was on the
alert for any mention of Don's name, and more than once he glared,
almost encouragingly, at Holt. But Holt had already learned his lesson
and was doing very little talking, and none at all about Don. Nor was
the absent player's name mentioned by anyone at that table, although
what might be being said of him at the other Tim had no way of knowing.
He stayed on a few minutes after he had finished, eyeing the apple-sauce
and graham crackers coldly, and then asked Steve Edwards to excuse him.

"Off his feed," remarked Carmine as Tim passed down the dining hall on
his way out. "First time I ever saw old Tim have nerves."

"It's Don Gilbert, probably," said Clint Thayer. "They're great pals.
Tim's worried about him, I guess."

"What do you make of it, Steve?" asked Crewe, helping himself to a third
slice of meat.

"What is there to make of it?" asked Steve carelessly. "The chap's all
out of shape, I suppose. I don't know what his trouble is, but I guess
he's a goner for this year."

"It's