It was Saturday afternoon. Toby lay in bed in Number 22, very glad to be home again after two days of the unfamiliar and monotonous white walls of the infirmary. They had brought him home—for the little, poorly furnished room was home, after all—that forenoon, and he had partaken of a perfectly sumptuous dinner, the first in several days, and had gone peacefully to sleep after it. But he was wide awake now and feeling very comfortable and contented and beautifully rested. He had been, they had told him, a pretty sick boy for a day or so after Mr. Pennimore’s gardener and another man had rescued him and Tommy Lingard from a sinking boat at the mouth of the river. (For it seemed, although Toby didn’t pretend to understand it, that he had lost all sense of direction and had rowed toward the Sound. Either that or his tired arms had not been able to prevail over the current.) But he was quite all right now. Of course, his head hurt a bit and his cold wasn’t quite all gone, and he was still a little stiff in places, but aside from those failings he felt fine!

The window was open a trifle and through it came sounds that brought a puzzled frown to Toby’s forehead. They seemed to suggest something not so pleasant as being at home again in his own bed. Then he remembered and the frown disappeared. They were playing Broadwood down there on the rink and if all this had not happened he would have been there too, guarding his goal in the big game of the year. But, somehow, he didn’t care so awfully much. Frank would play in his place, and Frank deserved it. He owed Frank at least that much reparation for the unjust suspicions he had of him. On the whole, he was glad that Frank had got the position back again, and he only hoped that he would play such a dandy game there that the hated Broadwood would go home scoreless!

Thinking of Frank sent his thoughts back to the afternoon before when a very pale and timid Tommy Lingard had been shown in to him in the infirmary and had haltingly muttered thanks for his rescue and then, after much hesitation and many false starts, had cleared up the mystery of the stolen Hockey Fund. He had owed Frank Lamson some money and Frank had asked him for it that very night he had left his clothes to be cleaned, threatening all sorts of awful punishments if he didn’t pay it up on the morrow. And he had seen Toby go to the drawer of his bureau to make change that night and so knew of the money kept there. The next morning he had gone to Number 22 when he knew that Toby would be in a class-room and taken box and contents and so paid his debt to Frank Lamson. He hadn’t looked carefully at the money and had failed to notice the marked quarter or the patched dollar bill, and when Toby had asked about the latter he had told the first lie occurring to him. And he was awfully sorry about it and would pay it all back, every cent, and he only wished he could do it that minute because when a fellow saves your life, like Toby had saved his—

The sound of triumphant cheering came up from the distant rink, borne on the nipping little westerly breeze. Toby thrilled and wondered how the game was going. He would like to have played, after all! But he owed that much to Frank, and so it had all happened for the best. And by now—long before this, probably—Frank had got the note he had written that morning and dispatched by the goody, in which he had told of his suspicions and of the evidence leading to them and had humbly asked Frank’s pardon. And after awhile, perhaps, Frank would come up to see him and tell him it was all right, and—and maybe he would tell Arnold and Arnold would come, too. Toby had wanted very much to write Arnold as well; he tried several times; but he wasn’t very much of a letter-writer yet and the things he wanted to say had got all mixed up and confused and he had had to give it up. But Arnold would come sooner or later. He was sure of that, for Arnold knew now that he wasn’t a coward and Frank would tell him that he had written and apologized—

Another wild pÆan of joy from the rink interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on the bureau and to his surprise found that it was nearly four! Why, then, the game must soon be over! If only Yardley might win it he wouldn’t care at all that he hadn’t been able to play. Or, at least, not much. He had rather wanted to get his letters and the crossed hockey sticks between, but there was another year coming, and so that, too, was quite all right.

Why, the cheering was getting nearer! The game must be over then! And—and Yardley surely had won, else why should they cheer so? The fellows were marching back from the rink. He could hear quite plainly now, catch each word of the old familiar cheer: “Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!” They were at the gymnasium probably. Yes, they were cheering the players! He heard the long-drawn “Crumbie-e-e!”

“We must have won!” he cried, sitting up suddenly in bed. “We must have!”

Footsteps pounded the stairs and hurried along the corridor and Toby’s heart raced. Eager voices sounded in the corridor, came nearer! There was a knock on the door and Toby, trying to say “Come in!” couldn’t. But it didn’t matter for the door swung open at once and in came Arnold and Frank, still in hockey togs, red-cheeked, bright-eyed, bringing a breath of the frosty outdoors with them. It was Arnold who spoke first, Arnold falling to his knees beside the bed and throwing one arm across Toby’s body.

“We won, chum!” he cried. “Four to two! It was great! And old Frank played a wonderful game—”

“Not as good as Toby would have,” interpolated Frank with conviction from the foot of the bed.

“And Loring told me to tell you,” continued Arnold breathlessly, unheeding of interruption, “that you’re to get your hockey letters, T. Tucker!” Arnold paused then and his face sobered. Finally, in lower tones he said: “Frank’s told me, Toby, and I don’t blame you for thinking what you did. He doesn’t either. And I’m sorry, awfully sorry, that I—I acted the way I did, and called you—what I did. You believe me, don’t you?”

Toby only nodded. He wanted to speak but—well, a nod was easier! Arnold’s hand found his on the coverlid and grasped it tightly.

“I wanted to make up long ago, Toby,” he whispered, “but—but I was just a plain, rotten brute.”

Toby shook his head vehemently, but Arnold wouldn’t have it.

“Yes, I was, chum! A regular brute. Frank told me so a dozen times. But—but it’s all right now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Toby happily. “It’s all right!”

From the direction of the gymnasium came another long cheer: “Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Tucker!”

Toby, hearing, smiled contentedly. “I guess,” he murmured, “most everything comes out all right if you’ll just let it!”

THE END

BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

Hilton Series

The Half Back

The young hero of this story is carried through preparatory school and the freshman year at Harvard. The story closes with an account of a Yale-Harvard game.

For the Honor of the School

The excitement of a cross country run, training for track athletics, with a glimpse of football are all to be found in this school story. The hero is both an athlete and a scholar.

Captain of the Crew

“Captain of the Crew” follows “For the Honor of the School” but is in every sense a complete story. The author is concerned both with school athletics and with the influences that build character.

Erskine Series

Behind the Line

A story of life at a preparatory school with the chief interest centering around football. The author gives an intimate view of the preparation and training necessary for a big game.

Weatherby’s Inning

A story of a young man’s struggle against untoward circumstances in a small New England college. Baseball furnishes the chief athletic interest.

On Your Mark

Track work furnishes the athletic interest in this story of school life.

The Grafton Series

These are stories of life at Grafton School. They are full of sport and games, and will interest any boy who likes the rivalry of contests.

Rivals for the Team

Hugh Ordway comes to America from England. His room-mate, star half-back of the team, gets him started in football, and on the eve of the great contest they find themselves rivals for the same position.

Winning His Game

The day of the game between Grafton and Mount Morris arrives and Bud Baker and Jimmy Logan, two important players, are missing. A search reveals that they have missed the train. And then—well, read the story.

Hitting the Line

Monty Grail comes East from Wyoming to enter Mount Morris School. At the Grand Central Terminal he meets two prominent students of Grafton who induce him to enter their school instead. In the end he is not sorry he changed his mind.

The Purple Pennant Series

In these books Mr. Barbour tells of life in the average high school. Each book is a thriller.

The Lucky Seventh

Gordon Merrick, with Dick Lovering, forms a ball team of the remnants of the High School nine and challenges the boys of the summer colony.

The Secret Play

Clearfield High School loses her football coach, and against much criticism, Dick Lovering, a cripple, coaches the team. When the day of the big match comes, some unexpected things happen.

The Purple Pennant

An athletic meet in which the boys have running races, hurdling, pole-vaulting and hammer throwing, is the climax of this story. The book tells the story of the purple pennant and how it came into being.

Each, illustrated, $1.50 net

These Are Appleton Books

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, New York