Tom exchanged glances with Clif and then grabbed his brushes and smoothed his hair into place. “We’ll be right down, Wattles,” he said. Wattles departed and Clif seized the brushes that Tom had abandoned in favor of a whisk. Finally, a trifle awed, they set forth. But neither Mr. Deane nor Mrs. Deane proved formidable. Loring’s father was a tall, rather thin gentleman with a closely cropped gray mustache and pink cheeks, who looked more like an army man than the popular conception of a multimillionaire. He had a way of half closing his eyes when he smiled that was most engaging. Loring looked more like his mother, who, as Tom enthusiastically confided to Clif later, was “a pippin.” They were still in the handsome big car that had aroused Clif’s admiration several weeks before, and Loring sat between them. They had been to the shore for luncheon, Loring explained, and―― “Lobster,” said Mr. Deane, squinting his eyes in his funny way and sighing. “They were good, weren’t they, Lory? Um-m!” “My dear,” chided Mrs. Deane, “do you think it’s kind to gloat over lobster before Clif and Tom? You don’t mind if I call you Clif, do you?” She smiled apologetically on Tom. “Loring speaks so often of you, you know.” “No, ma’am,” stammered Tom. “Perhaps Clif does, though,” laughed Loring. “You’ve got them mixed, mother.” “Have I? Well, that’s your fault, Loring. Your introduction was so sketchy! Which of you is it who plays football so nicely?” “Both of us, Mrs. Deane,” replied Clif daringly. “But I’m the one you had in mind.” “Huh-huh,” chuckled Mr. Deane appreciatively. Mrs. Deane dimpled and then sighed. “I’m afraid you’re making fun of me. Anyway, you’re both gorgeous looking boys, and I like you both for being so nice to my boy. And I’m coming up next Saturday――it is Saturday, isn’t it?――to see you play.” “I hope you will,” said Tom intensely. “We won’t be playing, but it’s going to be a corking game, Mrs. Deane.” “But I want to see _you_ play,” she demurred. “And you.” She included Clif in her glance. “Perhaps, just as a favor to me, you will, won’t you?” Tom’s mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to be able to find anything to say. Then his eyes, wandering from Mrs. Deane, encountered Loring’s grin and he got very red and made a choking sound. Clif came to his rescue. “We’ll do our best,” he laughed. “You see, we’re only on the Scrub Team, Mrs. Deane, and it’s the First Team that plays Wolcott. I hope you will come, too, sir.” “Eh?” said Loring’s father. “Well, now, I don’t know.” “I wish you would, dad,” begged Loring. “Well, I’ll see, Lory. It seems to me, though, I’ve got something on Saturday.” “Not a thing but a game of golf,” said Mrs. Deane, “and if Loring wants you to come――” “Yes, yes, my dear! Of course!” He winked slyly at Clif. “I dare say it will rain Saturday, anyway.” “It wouldn’t be the first time you’d golfed in the rain,” responded his wife severely. “But next Saturday, rain or shine, you are coming up here with me.”