"That's what I thought. I knew you used to go with Madge, but since---- Oh, hang it all, I can't explain--I'm Ruth's brother, you know. But if you think I want to cut you out----" "It's all right," broke in Tom with a forced geniality that Phil noticed. "Forget it, old man. Of course, you had a perfect right to go with Madge. I dare say she'd a heap sight rather have you than me." "I don't know about that," interposed Phil; "but I was afraid I was treading on your corns." "It's all right," repeated Tom quickly. "Fine dance, wasn't it?" "Very. But are you sure----" "Oh, dry up!" exclaimed Tom, more like himself. "Here's a letter Ruth gave me to give you. It's from your mother. Your sister meant to hand it to you at the dance, but she forgot. Came late to-night--or, rather, last night--it's morning now. She's a little better, it seems." "That's good!" exclaimed Phil eagerly. "But I wonder why she didn't write to me." "She couldn't manage but one letter, I believe Ruth said," went on Tom gently. "Say, I wish you fellows would cut out that gab!" suddenly exclaimed Sid, turning over in bed. "I want to sleep. I don't go out to dances, where there are a lot of silly girls, and then sit up all night talking about it." "Get out, you grumpy old misogynist!" exclaimed Phil, shying a sofa cushion at his chum. "Wake up and hear the glad tidings of the dance!" "Glad pollywogs!" grumbled Sid. "Get to bed and douse the glim." Which Phil soon did, as Tom showed no further inclination to talk. In spite of Tom's assertions to the contrary, Phil could not help feeling that a coldness had sprung up between himself and his chum. That it was about Madge, Phil could not deny, yet he hesitated to speak further of it to Tom. "Maybe it will work itself out," he said to himself. "I hope so, anyhow." Meanwhile, the time for the final and deciding championship football game was drawing closer. Randall and Boxer Hall were easily the two best teams, not only in the Tonoka Lake League, but in that section of the country. Neither had done any remarkable playing, nor could it be said that their goal line had not been crossed, but the championship lay between them. The practice was exacting and constant, and the 'varsity eleven was "as hard as nails," to again quote my friend, Holly Cross, who had an extensive sporting vocabulary. They were eager for the contest. Tom and Phil, between whom there was still a shadow of coldness, came walking together from the gridiron. They were talking about a wing-shift play that had been tried with some success. "I don't like the signal for it," said Phil. "It's too complicated, and the other fellows may get on to it. I think I can work out a better combination. I'll use some of the old signal letters and numbers that we discarded. I've got a copy of them in my room." "Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea," commented Tom. "I think, myself, that the signal takes too long to understand. It ought to be snappier."