t wise?" Phil wanted to know.

"Never mind!" rejoined Speed. "Keep moving! Don't let this crowd
catch me ... and keep me away from Coach Brock!..."

"Why?" gasped Milt. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing!" said Speed, "except I haven't had anything but a malted milk
all day--and I'm darned hungry!"

"Can you beat that!" groaned Phil. "Hold up your side of him, Milt!
He's getting darned heavy!... Here we've sacrificed ourselves to save
this guy's nerves ... and then, in this last five minutes, we get all
upset ourselves! My stomach's tied up in such a knot that I couldn't
even digest a soda wafer."

"Don't mention stomach to me," said Milt. "I'm a nervous wreck!"

"Hey!" shouted a jubilant Coach Brock, who saw that a gathering crowd
was carrying the star of the game in triumph to the locker room. "Wait
for me, Speed!" Then, grinningly, he held up a yellow slip of paper
and signalled with it. "Don't you see--you boob--I--I'm _coming_!"...

THE BRIGHT TOKEN

"Here, take this--it's your token of good luck," she had said. That
was twenty years ago, when she was a wistful, dark-eyed slip of a girl
and he a wiry, sandy-haired bundle of nerves that football authorities
insisted on dubbing the best quarterback in Harvard history, a man who
would certainly be accorded All-American honors at the conclusion of
the season.

It was a bare hour before the game that he had met her in a secluded
spot in the shadow of the stands. A cold rain was falling which, most
every one admitted, made a Yale victory look overwhelmingly certain.
He could remember how the delicately traced fingers had clung to the
lapel of his sweater, and how, when he had started to take leave of her
for the locker room, she had restrained him.

The fingers had gone to her throat, had fumbled there an instant, and
had undone the slip of a crimson bow which had been caught at the
collar of her waist. Tinglingly he could recall how she had commanded
him to hold out his right wrist, how sheepish he had felt when she had
tied the bow about it--and yet how proud! He had kissed it then and
she had laughed, a laugh of nervous admiration, and patted him on the
arm. And he had gathered her into one last, impulsive embrace and
whispered, "My darling wife!"

Ah, that was twenty years ago! Twenty years! And yet memory made it
yesterday; for to-day Carrington R. Davies was going back--back to the
scene of it all--back to witness the annual clash wi