“It’s always been a sorrow in my young life,” went on the coach meaningly, “that I didn’t have red hair. I’d have done a heap better at everything, I guess.” “You――you’re fooling, aren’t you, sir?” asked Toby. “Fooling? Nary a fool, Tucker. Red hair is the hall mark of getthereness, Tucker. It means pep and fight and determination, red hair does. Sometimes it means temper, too, but temper is all right if you learn to control it. And sometimes――” he paused a moment――“sometimes it means stubbornness. But stubbornness is all right, too, if exercised in a good cause. Of course, when a fellow says that black is white, when he knows it isn’t, and sticks to it, or insists that red is――ah――brown――” Toby burst out laughing and Mr. Loring turned and regarded him smilingly, his thoughtful solemnity gone. “It――it’s a little red, sir,” gasped Toby. “I thought it couldn’t be all due to the sunset,” responded the coach with a chuckle. “Well, here we are.” They stopped at the gymnasium steps. “Where do you room, Tucker?” “In Whitson, sir. Number 22.” “That’s on the third floor, isn’t it? Mind if I look in on you some time? I haven’t really finished my little lecture on red hair.” “No, sir, only――” “Only what? You mean you’re busy and have no time for callers?” “No, sir,” floundered Toby. “I mean――I was afraid――you see, my room isn’t very――very comfortable――” “Oh, that’s it? Well, you’ve got a chair, I dare say.” “Two of them,” answered Toby. “Fine! Going to be in this evening?” “Yes, sir.” “I’ll be up for a few minutes, then, between nine and ten. Better get inside quickly, Tucker, or you’ll get stiff.” Toby hurried up the steps and through the door, excited and elated. Maybe, he was thinking, Coach Loring would tell him how to better his goal work. Toby had heard that Mr. Loring had been a fine hockey player in his day and had captained his team here at Yardley. He wondered if, by any chance, he had played goal. He would ask some one. But in the locker room the idea was put out of his head for the time, for just inside the swinging doors he almost collided with Frank Lamson. It was the first time they had been near enough to exchange words since the night they had met in the upper corridor of Whitson. If Toby expected to detect signs of guilt in Frank’s countenance he was doomed to disappointment. Frank only smiled in his careless, somewhat patronizing manner and asked: “Did you get that money from Arn, Tucker? Sorry to be slow about it.” He didn’t sound very sorry, or look especially penitent, and a few days ago Toby would have resented the fact. To-day, for some reason, he didn’t, however. Frank seemed much less important than before, much less capable of irritating the other. Toby nodded. “Yes, thanks,” he said. “All right. Well, you and I seem to be rivals, old scout, eh?” “How is that?” asked Toby, although he knew what Frank meant.