“Do you?” Stanley grinned wickedly. “Yes, you do! You’re tickled to death! So would I be, Dickie. Tell you what: you sit down and write a nice letter to your dad and tell him the facts and make him understand that playing football doesn’t incapacitate you for occasional attention to studies. Or you might write a little piece about how you stood highest in your class last month, and how teacher gave you a big red apple for it, and send it to the town paper. That would please your dad, wouldn’t it? And how about mentioning that you’ve made the Banjo and Mandolin Club? Think that would help any?” “You go to the dickens,” grumbled Dick. “The trouble is, dad’s easy-going as you like until he gets his back up. Then you can’t argue with him at all. He will do just as he says he will unless I make him understand that I’m working as well as playing. If,” he added ruefully, “he learned about the Banjo and Mandolin Club he’d probably send me a ticket home!” “But you played football when you were in high school, didn’t you? And did track work? And was on the Glee Club, or whatever the fearful thing was called?” “Yes, but I suppose I was sort of under dad’s eye and he knew that I was getting along all right in school. Being away off here, he sort of thinks I’m being purely ornamental!” “I don’t see how he could think you ornamental,” said Stanley soothingly. “Hasn’t he ever seen you?” “It’s all well enough for you to joke,” replied Dick, grinning half-heartedly, “but you don’t know my dad.” “Tell you what! Let me write and tell him what a whale you are in class room. After he’d read what I’d written he’d send you a letter of apology, Dickie! I can see it now. ‘My dear son, can you forgive me for my unjust and unworthy doubts? Your--er--your estimable companion, Mr. Gard, has written me the truth and I see now how terribly I misjudged you. It makes me extremely happy to know--to know that you have Mr. Gard as a friend. He is, as I discern, a young gentleman of great--er--mental attainment and----” “Oh, shut up!” laughed Dick. “You’d joke at a funeral!” “Not at my own, anyway! Well, cheer up, old top, and hope for the worst. Then you’ll get the best. If your father refuses to finance you I’ll take up a collection and your loving friends will see you through; at least, to the end of the football season!” And Stanley chuckled enjoyably.