“Oh, no, you didn’t,” Willard assured him. “I saw what was up before I consented. At first I thought you were all just crazy. Then I remembered how you had asked my name and if I’d come from Schuyler High and understood. You chaps pulled a neat trick down there at the station. I’ll say that. I didn’t even suspect that you meant me to lose that train.” Joe nodded joylessly. “That was Bob’s idea. The poor simp saw the name on your bag and fell for it!” “So did you when I told you,” retorted Bob resentfully. “Any fellow would have been fooled!” “Seems to me,” said Martin, “it’s up to us to apologize to Harmon. If anyone has a right to be peeved it’s he.” “Guess that’s right, too,” replied Joe. “I’m sorry, Harmon. Hope you’ll--er--overlook the way we treated you and--and everything.” “Same here,” said Bob. “Of course, we didn’t know--” “I’ll apologize, too, for my part in the affair,” said Martin, “but I’m not going to pretend that I’m sorry, for I’m not. It was a lot of fun while it lasted, and even if we didn’t capture a football star we did Kenly out of a mighty decent sort of a chap!” “Hear! Hear!” laughed Joe. “Mart’s right. Harmon, we welcome you to our midst, and we trust that you will never regret your decision to--er--to--” “Join the gang,” ended Martin, jumping up. “Fellows, the occasion demands a celebration!” He went to his partly unpacked trunk and dug out a tin cracker box which he placed triumphantly on the table. “And here’s the wherewithal!” A generous section of a chocolate layer-cake and many doughnuts came to light and were hailed with acclaim. “Wait a sec!” said Bob. “We’ve got some ginger-ale. I’ll fetch it. Keep ’em off the cake till I get back, Mart!” “I’ll do my best,” Martin assured him, “but you’d better hurry. I know that gleam in Joe’s eye of old!” Bob made what was probably a record trip to Lykes Hall and return, arriving anxious and breathless and laden with four bottles of ginger-ale. Then Martin cut the cake in four equal wedges, doled out the doughnuts and bade them “Go to it!” For a minute or two conversation was taboo, and then Bob held his bottle aloft and, speaking somewhat thickly, offered a toast. “Gentlemen, I give you Mr. Willard Harmon, the brand plucked from the burning, the lamb saved from the slaughter, the--the--” “The innocent victim of a deep-dyed plot!” supplied Martin. “The full-back who was only a half!” cried Joe. “The gold brick!” laughed Willard. “Charge your glasses, gentlemen! To the--the Brand!” And Bob drank deeply, with mellow gurgles. “The Brand!” chanted Joe and Martin, and followed the example.