aper, placed this in plain sight upon
the table, and tiptoed noiselessly out.

And the message read:

"We failed on the Greek. I'm sorrier than I can tell you.--Digbee."

CHAPTER XIII

THE GAME WITH ST. EUSTACE.

There is a tradition at Hillton, almost as firmly inwrought as that
which credits Professor Durkee with wearing a wig, to the effect that
Thanksgiving Day is always rainy. To-day proved an exception to the
rule. The sun shone quite warmly and scarce a cloud was to be seen. At
two o'clock the grand stand was filled, and late arrivals had perforce
to find accommodations on the grass along the side-lines. Some fifty
lads had accompanied their team from St. Eustace, and the portion of the
stand where they sat was blue from top to bottom. But the crimson of
Hillton fluttered and waved on either side and dotted the field with
little spots of vivid color wherever a Hilltonian youth or ally sat,
strolled, or lay.

Yard and village were alike well-nigh deserted; here was the staid
professor, the corpulent grocer, the irrepressible small boy, the
important-looking senior, the shouting, careless junior, the giggling
sister, the smiling mother, the patronizing papa, the crimson-bedecked
waitress from the boarding house, the--the--band! Yes, by all means,
the band!

There was no chance of overlooking the band. It stood at the upper end
of the field and played and played and played. The band never did things
by halves. When it played it played; and, as Outfield West affirmed, "it
played till the cows came home!"

There were plenty of familiar faces here to-day; Professor Gibbs's, old
"Peg-Leg" Duffy's, Professor Durkee's, the village postmaster's, "Old
Joe" Pike's, and many, many others. On the ground just outside the rope
sat West and a throng of boys from Hampton House. There were Cooke and
Cartwright and Somers and Digbee--and yes, Wesley Blair, looking very
glum and unhappy. He had donned his football clothes, perhaps from force
of habit, and sat there taking little part in the conversation, but
studying attentively the blue-clad youths who were warming-up on the
gridiron. A very stalwart lot of youngsters, those same youths looked to
be, and handled the ball as though to the manner born, and passed and
fell and kicked short high punts with discouraging ease and vim.

But one acquaintance at least was missing. Not Bartlett Cloud, for he
sat with his sister and mother on the seats; not Clausen, for he s