lly, as he joined his mother
and the girls at breakfast. "What'll we do this morning to kill time?"

"Lois wants to go to the Library and see the Abbey pictures," Mrs.
Farwell answered.

Bob looked his disgust--he appealed to Polly--but for the first time she
deserted him.

"I'm going too, Bobby. I guess you'll have to find something to do until
luncheon," she said.

Mrs. Farwell and the girls wandered about the Library all morning, and
returned to the hotel ten minutes later than the time set by Bob for
luncheon.

He and his roommate, Jimmy Thorpe, were waiting for them in the lobby.

"I knew you'd be late," Bob greeted them. "We'll have to dash through
lunch. Did you enjoy the pictures?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Darling Bobby, are we late? We're so sorry. How do you do, Jimmy? It's
awfully nice you can be with us." Mrs. Farwell was so contrite and
charming that Bobbie's momentary huff disappeared as it always did
before his mother's smile.

"Well, we didn't have to hurry so very much," she said, when luncheon
was over and they were preparing to start. "Now are you sure we are
going to be warm enough?"

Bob and Jim looked at each other, over the sweaters and steamer rugs
they were loaded down with, and winked.

"Here's the taxi," Jim announced. "Come on, Lois."

After a considerable time lost in stopping and threading their way among
the other hundreds of cars, they reached the Harvard Stadium at last.

"Bob, how wonderful and how huge it looks to-day," Polly exclaimed, as
they entered their section, and she caught sight of the immense bowl,
and the hundreds of people.

They had splendid seats, near enough to really see and recognize the
players. Jim and Bob explained the score card, talked familiarly about
all the players and pointed out the other under graduates who had won
importance in other sports.

"Oh, but I wish I were a boy," Polly said, longingly. "Imagine the
thrill of being part of all this. Why it makes school look pale and
insignificant in comparison."

"I don't wish I were a boy," Lois said decidedly. "I'd much rather be a
girl, but, I'll admit, football does make basket ball look rather
silly."

"Oh, I don't know!" Jim said, condescendingly. "Basket ball's a good
girls' game."

Polly was indignant.

"Jim, what a silly thing to say. You know perfectly well that just as
many boys play it as girls. The only difference is that when we play we
have to use our minds--while boys--"