“Well, anyhow,” remarked John, as he picked up a book and pulled his cap on, “I’m glad that I’d decided to try him again before the letter came. It eases my conscience.” “Your what?” gasped David. “Conscience. Wait until you get into the foster-mother business, Davy, and you’ll develop one yourself. And besides, there’s not only the boy to think of, but――Margaret.” “Who’s Margaret?” asked David suspiciously. “That, my friend,” replied John amiably, as he passed out, “is none of your business.” CHAPTER V John North was one of the busiest men in college. He was taking all the studies that he could manage, was a member of nine clubs and held office in four of them, as head of a club table was responsible for the dietary welfare of ten gluttonous seniors, and had now undertaken the duties of a football coach. But the time and trouble entailed by the latter position he did not begrudge. He had played football for three seasons, and he realized that to withdraw entirely from gridiron affairs and hope to be contented was out of the question. Therefore he was glad of the opportunity afforded him as an assistant coach to keep in touch with the sport and to be of assistance to the association, without, however, being required to give all his time to the game. Phillip’s letter reached him Saturday morning, but, what with one duty and another, it was Sunday afternoon before he found opportunity to pay his second call on that penitent. David flatly refused to accompany him, and so, shortly after lunch, he set forth alone. The front door was open and the drab-hued house was filled with the depressing silence of a New England Sabbath. Or so it appeared until John had mounted the stairs and had reached the hall above. Then he paused and listened with a perplexed frown. From behind the door of Phillip’s study came sounds not dissimilar to those which had greeted him on the occasion of his previous visit――the sound of tramping, of a chair overturned, with now and then a shout. “Great Scott!” muttered John, “he’s at it again!” But this time his knock brought a more hospitable response and he entered upon a different scene. Phillip, coatless, disheveled, panting, stared at him from one end of the room, while at the other a black-and-white setter dropped the glove it had held in its mouth and observed him with a merry and inquiring eye. Phillip, recognizing the caller, coloured during a moment of hesitation, and then advanced to meet him. “Good-evening, sir. It’s very kind of you to call,” he said with some embarrassment. “Not at all,” answered John. They shook hands. “I got your note yesterday morning and would have been around before, but couldn’t find a moment to spare. The fact is, Ryerson, I was going to come, anyhow, before I heard from you. It was awfully idiotic of me to lose my temper the other day; I’m not usually so crabbed. I think it must have been the weather.”