"Supposing he does?" he went on, pressing his knuckles against his teeth. What a humiliation after his boast! There would be only one thing to do--leave school at once, and never, never return! He had wandered down to the football field where the candidates for the school eleven were passing and falling on the ball under the shouted directions of the veterans. The bulky figure of Turkey Reiter, gigantic with its padded shoulders and voluminous sweater, hove into view, and the tackle's rumbling voice cried out: "Hi there, old Sockarooster, this won't do! Keep a-laughin'; keep cheerful; tumble down here and shag for me." Lovely Mead went gratefully to fetch the balls that Turkey booted, far down the field, to the waiting halfbacks. "Feeling a bit serious, eh?" said Turkey. "Well----" "Sure you are. That's nothing. Don't let the Gutter Pup see it, though. He's got to believe we are holding you in, chaining you up, keepin' you under the bars, 'cause you're barking to get at him. Savvy? Chuck in a bluff, old sport, and--keep cheerful. Better now?" "Yes, thank you," said Lovely, who was in nowise suffering from an excess of hilarity. He did not see the Gutter Pup until supper, and then had to undergo again his solicitous inquiries. By a horrible effort he succeeded in telling a funny story at the table, and laughed until his own voice alarmed him. Then he relapsed into silence, smiling furiously at every remark, and chewing endlessly on food that had no flavour for him. "Lovely," said the Gutter Pup upstairs, shaking his head, "you don't look fit; you're getting nervous." "Sure," said Lovely, remembering Turkey's injunction. "I'm a high-strung, _vicious_ temperament!" "Your eye acts sort of loose," said the Gutter Pup, unconvinced. "You're new to fighting before a big assemblage. It's no wonder. I don't want any _accidental_ advantages. Say the word and we'll put it over." "No," said Lovely, quite upset by his friendly offer. "I only hope, Lazelle, I can hold myself in. I've got an awful temper; I'm afraid I'll kill a man some day." "No, Lovely," said Gutter Pup, shaking his head. "You don't deceive me. You are ill--ill, I tell you, and you might as well own up." The truth was, Lovely was ill and rapidly getting worse under the insouciance of the veteran of the ring. "Why, my aunt's cat's pants, Lovely," said the Gutter Pup seriously. "That's nothing to be ashamed of. Didn't I get it the same way the first time I went up against Bloody Davis, of the Murray Hill gang, on a bet I'd stick out three rounds?" Lovely Mead drew a sigh of relief. The red blood seemed to rush back into his veins once more, and his lungs to resume their appointed functions. "September's a good month for these little things," he said hopefully. "October's better, more snap in the air," said the Gutter Pup. "September's muggy. I remember when I was matched against Slugger Kelly; it was so hot I lost ten pounds, and the fight only went five rounds, at that."