t bay.
She had ordered a strictly training-table luncheon for one o'clock for
her charge, and while the clock was striking the hour Kada brought the
tray. Jimsy was still sleeping. Honor looked at him, hesitating, then
she ran to the piano and struck her stepfather's rousing chords and
began to sing:

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night,
Ten to make and the match to win--

At the first line he stirred, at the second he rubbed his eyes, and at
the third he was sitting up and listening. She swung into the finish,
and as always, it ran away with her. She had never gotten over the first
choking thrill at the words:

_Play up! Play up! and--Play the Game!_

Jimsy King came to stand beside her. His hair was mussed and his face
flushed, and there was a sleep-crease on one cheek, but his eyes were
clear and steady. "It's O. K., Skipper," he said. "I can. I'm going to.
I will."

Carter Van Meter drove Honor and Stephen Lorimer and Miss Bruce-Drummond
in his newest car and the four of them sat together on the edge of the
rooting section.

It was still raining a little, teasingly, reluctant to leave off
altogether, and the field was a batter of mud. The rooting section of
L. A. High was damp but undaunted. The yell leaders, vehement, piercingly
vocal, conducted them into thunderous challenges:

_Ali beebo! Ali by-bo!_
_Ali beebo by-bo bum!_
_Catch 'em in a rat trap,_
_Put 'em in a cat trap,_
_Catch 'em in a cat trap,_
_Put 'em in a rat trap!_
_Ali beebo! Ali by-bo!_
_Ali beebo by-bo bum!_

The bleachers rocked and creaked and swayed with the rhythm of it. "My
word!" said Miss Bruce-Drummond. She listened fascinatedly to their
deafening repertoire. Greenmount's supporters, a rather forlorn little
group of substitutes, with the coach and trainer and a teacher or two,
and a pert fox terrier wearing their colors on his collar, elicitated a
brief, passing pity from Honor. They looked strange and friendless,
these smart Northern prep-schoolers. The L. A. rooters conscientiously
gave their opponents' yell and received a spatter of applause. The
Northerners trotted out on the field and were hospitably cheered.

"There, Stepper," said Honor, tensely, "that's Gridley--the tallest
one,--see? Last on the right?"

"So, that's the boy with the beamish boot, eh?"

"Yes. He mustn't get a chance. He _mustn't_."

Miss Bruce-Drummond looked at her frie