“Yes. And you know that Mr. and Mrs. West, whom I always believed to be my parents, until lately, admitted that I was only adopted by them, taken from the poorhouse. Then there was that poor Ben Davis. It looked to me that he might be the one; but we saw him before he died, and he denied that he knew anything about me. Oh, this is a terrible fix for a fellow to be in!” “Cheer up, old chap. Come around to-night, and I’ll get father to take a hand in the game. Perhaps he can induce Uncle Jim to explain who sends this money on the sly through him. He said he had promised not to tell, but dad may influence him some way. I wouldn’t say anything more about it now. The fellows are looking over this way, as though wondering.” So Ralph tried to change his look of anxiety and gloom to one that corresponded more nearly with the uproarious delight that caused the others to break out in almost continuous cheering under the inspiring influence of Herman Hooker. That energetic individual was as hoarse as a crow by this time, however, and had to give a rest to the “best yelling voice that Columbia ever knew,” taking it out in gestures that were almost tragic. And so in the evening of that never-to-be-forgotten day they arrived home, to find the town gaily decked in bunting, and crowds of students parading the streets cheering and singing. Columbia promised to be painted red that night of the great victory over the strong Bellport team. Even the girls joined in the cheering and singing; while an old cannon was made to do duty on the green, with a salute to the boys who had carried the colors of Columbia High to victory that day. One returning pilgrim saw nothing to boast about in the snatching of this close game from Bellport. That was Lef Seller. All the way back he had been in more or less of a wordy war with various enthusiastic rooters on the trolley, and his remarks had been of a nature that almost caused him to be tossed overboard. “His father may own this road, but that doesn’t excuse him for running down his own school!” declared one of the old graduates of Columbia High, in disgust. Lef was in a very bitter frame of mind. To see Frank come out a winner was like gall and wormwood to his envious spirit. He racked his brain, with the idea of finding some way of “pulling that climbing duck down a peg,” as he muttered to himself. As a rule, when Lef Seller set about discovering some means of playing a “trick,” as he called it, upon a school mate, he usually managed to get there, even though the gun he held sometimes kicked worse at the butt than it did damage from the muzzle. “Be sure and come around after supper, Ralph. I’d ask you to go home with me now, but I know you want to wash up and get into some other duds. I’ll look for you,” remarked Frank, as the crowd went ashore and walked into the town.