The date of the Yale game was but some two weeks distant and confidence in a victory for the Crimson was steadily increasing throughout the college. The prophets were working overtime and, as is their wont, were writing more and saying less each day. It was nearing the time to send in applications for tickets, a fact of which Phil was reminded that evening. Everett Kingsford walked down the avenue with him after dinner and guided him into Leavitt’s for a game of billiards, a game for which Phillip had the highest admiration and at which he invariably lost. A counter was littered with blank applications and the two helped themselves. “You’re an H. A. A. ticket-holder, aren’t you?” Kingsford asked. “Yes.” “Well, look here, then. I’ve got to take some of my folks to the game. There’ll be the mater and my sister and a friend; that means four seats, counting my own. I can only apply for two, of course. Are you going to take any one?” “No, I reckon not. I hadn’t thought of it.” “Well, will you put in your application with mine? I’ve got another fellow who is going to. That will give us six seats together, you see. Of course I’ll pay you for the second ticket. If you don’t want to be bothered talking to women folks you can have the end seat, but I want you to meet the mater. I think you’d like her.” “I’d like to,” answered Phillip, “and the friend, too.” “Oh, the friend!” laughed Kingsford. “Well, I can’t allow that, Phil. I’ll let you sit between Betty and the mater, but the friend’s barred.” “Who’s Betty? Your sister?” “She has that honour.” “Is she――is she intellectual?” “Terribly; a regular blue-stocking. But I’ll tell her to be easy on you. Besides, the mater’ll see fair play. You make out your application to-morrow and we’ll get them in. Your shot.” Phillip, after long and careful aim, missed a simple carrom, and Kingsford, lounging negligently about the table, made a run of fourteen, while his adversary looked on enviously from the seat.