“Sure thing! Why not? Who else is there?” asked Frank in surprise. “Unless you think you’re going to do it.” Frank was plainly amused. “Well, if anything happened to you,” said Toby gravely, “I might have a chance.” “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Tobias. So don’t set your hope on that,” chuckled Frank. “What could happen, eh?” “Well, you might fall downstairs and break something, or you might have measles or scarlet fever――” “Don’t be an idiot,” growled the other. “I dare say you’d like something to happen, though. I guess it wouldn’t do you much good, however. You’re too green yet, son.” “I suppose so,” agreed Toby reluctantly. “I dare say it will take me a long time to learn to play goal the way you do, Frank.” Frank nodded, placated and cheerful again. “Oh, I’m not such a much,” he replied. “I can’t play the game Henry can yet, but I haven’t had the practice he’s had. But if he stays out another two weeks or so it might just happen that we wouldn’t want him so much. That chap Loring’s a great coach. He’s showing me a lot of things. I’ll bet you that in another week they won’t be getting ’em by me so’s you’ll notice it, Toby.” “Yes, a lot can happen in a week.” Toby agreed thoughtfully. “Right-o! Well, good-night. How’s business? Still pressing? Oh, by the way, old scout, I still owe you a small bit, don’t I?” “One dollar, five,” answered Toby promptly. “All right. I’ll pay that to-morrow, Toby. I really meant to settle it long ago, but you know how it is. I blew in so much money at Christmas that I came back stoney-broke. There’s a chap owes me a couple of dollars, and I’ll collect it to-morrow and pay you, Toby. Good-night.” Frank went off, whistling cheerfully, and Toby entered his room and spread his books out. “I wish he would pay me,” he muttered. “But I don’t suppose he will. And I wish――I wish I knew where he got that scarf-pin!” Toby hurried out of Mr. Gladdis’s English class the next forenoon at a minute after eleven and scurried across to Whitson and up two flights of stairs. In his room he dumped his books on the table, slipped on a sweater under his jacket, put on his cap and then paused before the door and thoughtfully patted his pockets. Wasn’t there something else? Of course! He must take some money with him! So he went to the bureau and, pulling open the second drawer, rummaged around for the little pasteboard box that held his Hockey Fund. “That’s funny,” he murmured, turning over the scanty contents of the drawer. Finally he pulled everything out. The little box was certainly not there! He shook each garment and put it back hurriedly and agitatedly, and still no box came to light. He looked searchingly about the room, on the table, on the bureau, even on the floor. Then he went through the other drawers, tossing their contents about anxiously. Finally, at a loss, he stopped and, plunging his hands into his pockets, frowned at the floor. [Illustration: “THAT’S FUNNY,” HE MURMURED]