n
for him out here in Kansas; spite of all that, HE LIKES DENNIE SAXON.
The oracle hath orked, the sibyl hath sibbed. But say, Vic, if he does
come down hard on you, what will you do?"

"Come down hard on him, and play anyhow."

The grim jaw and black frown left no doubt as to Vic's purpose.

Late November is idyllic in the Walnut Valley. Autumn's gold has all
been burned in Nature's great crucible, refining the landscape to a wide
range from frosted silver to richest Purple. Heliotrope and rose
and amethyst blend with misty pink and dainty gray, and the faint,
indefinable blue-green hue of the robin's egg, and outlined all in
delicate black tracery of leafless boughs and darkened waterways. Every
sunrise is a revelation of Infinite Beauty. Every midday, a shadowy soft
picture of Peace. Every sunset a dream of Omnipotent Splendor.

On such a November Thanksgiving day, the great game of the season was
played on the Sunrise football field, which all the Walnut Valley folks
came forth to see.

By one o'clock Lagonda Ledge was deserted, save for old Bond Saxon, who
sat on his veranda, watching the crowds stream by. At two o'clock the
bleachers were packed, and the side lines were broad and black with
a good-natured, jostling crowd. And every minute the numbers were
increasing. Truly Sunrise had never before known such an auspicious day,
such record-breaking gate receipts, nor such sure promise of success.
The game was called for half-past two. It was three o'clock now and the
line-up had not been formed. Even the gentle wrangle over details and
eligibility could hardly have spun out so much time as seemed to the
waiting throng to be uselessly wasted now. Evidently, something was
wrong. The crowd grew impatient and demanded the cause. Out in the open,
the two squads were warming up for the fray, while the officials hung
fire in a group by the goal posts and talked threateningly.

"What's the matter?"

"When will the freight be in?"

"Merry Christmas!"

So the crowd shouted. The songs were worn out, the yell-leaders were
exhausted, and the rooters were hoarse.

"Where's Vic Burleigh?" somebody called, and a chorus followed:

"Burleigh! Burly! Burlee! Come home! Come home! Come home!"

But Burleigh did not come.

"Maybe they are shutting him out," somebody else suggested, and the
Sunrise bleachers took fire. Calls for Burleigh rent the air, roars and
yells that threatened to turn this most auspicious college