he looking at?" he thought in wonder, as The Roman
sat silently staring at the blank sheet.

Finally he turned over the page, as though carefully perusing it,
poised a pencil, and said in a low voice, without glancing up:

"Well, John, I think this will just about pass."

XXVI

The football season had ended victoriously. The next week brought the
captaincy for the following year to Stover by unanimous approval. But
the outlook for the next season was of the weakest; only four men
would remain. The charge that he would have to lead would be a
desperate one. This sense of responsibility was, perhaps, more acute
in Stover than even the pleasure-giving sense of the attendant
admiration of the school whenever he appeared among them.

Other thoughts, too, were working within him. Ever since the
extraordinary outcome of his examination at the hands of The Roman
Stover had been in a ferment of confusion. The Roman's action amazed,
then perplexed, then doubly confounded him.

If The Roman was not his enemy, had not been all this time his
persistent, malignant foe, what then? What was left to him to cling
to? If he admitted this, then his whole career would have to be
reconstructed. Could it be that, after all, month in and month out, it
had been The Roman himself who had stood as his friend in all the
hundred and one scrapes in which he had tempted Fate? And pondering on
this gravely, Dink Stover, in the portion of his soul that was
consecrated to fair play, was mightily exercised.

He consulted Tough McCarty, as he consulted him now on everything that
lay deeper than the lip currency of his fellows. They were returning
from a long walk over the early December roads in the grays and drabs
of the approaching twilight. Stover had been unusually silent, and the
mood settled on him, as, turning the hill, they saw the clustered
skyline of the school through the bared branches.

"What the deuce makes you so solemncholy?" said Tough.

"I was thinking," said Dink with dignity.

"Excuse me."

"I was thinking," said Dink, rousing himself, "that I've been all
wrong."

"I don't get that."

"I mean The Roman."

"How so?"

"Tough, you know down at the bottom I have a sneaking suspicion that
he's been for me right along. It's a rotten feeling, but I'm afraid
it's so."

"Shouldn't wonder. Have you spoken to him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. And then, I don't know just how to get to it."

"Jump right