A level ray from a momentary cloudrift in the western sky smote the stained glass of the dome, lighting its gleaming inscription with a fleeting radiance. “But the light comes rarely and is so far away, and between times, only the cave, and the dark ways behind it leading to the river,” he said gravely. The sorrow of hopelessness was his tone. “Not unless one chooses to burrow downward,” she replied softly. “Let's hurry home. Tomorrow you will be 'Victor the Famous' again. I hope this shower won't spoil the ball game.” As night deepened, the rain fell steadily. Up in Victor Burleigh's room Bug Buler grew drowsy early. “I want to say my pwayers now, Vic,” he said. The big fellow put down his book and took the child in his arms. Bug had a genius for praying briefly and for others rather than for himself. Tonight he merely clasped his chubby hands and said, reverently: “Dear Dod, please ist make Vic dood as folks finks he is, for Thwist's sake. Amen-n-n.” When he fell asleep, Victor sat a long while staring at the window where the May rain was beating heavily. At length, he bent over little Bug and pushed back the curls from his brow. Bug smiled up drowsily and went on sleeping. “As good as folks think I am, Bug!” he mused. “You have gotten between me and the rattlesnakes that were after my soul a good many times, little brother-of-mine. As good as folks think I am! Do you know what it costs to be that good?” Ten minutes later he sat in Lloyd Fenneben's library. “I have come for help,” he said in reply to the Dean's questioning face. “I hope I can give it,” Fenneben responded. “It's about tomorrow's game. There are sure to be some professional players on the other team. I want Sunrise to win. I want to win myself.” Vic's voice was harsh tonight. And the Dean caught the hard tone. “I want Sunrise to win. I want you to win. There will probably be some professionals to play against, but we have no way of proving this,” Fenneben said. “What do you think of such playing, Doctor?” Vic asked. “I think the rule about professionalism is often a strained piece of foolishness. It is violated persistently and persistently winked at, but so long as it is the rule there is only one square thing to do, and that is to live up to the law. You should not dread any professionalism in the game tomorrow, however. You'll bring us through anyhow, and keep the Sunrise name and fame untarnished.” The Dean smiled genially. Burleigh's face was very pale and a strange fire burned in his eyes.