“How do,” returned Cal, walking toward her with unflattering deliberation. “I thought you couldn’t come.”

“I know, but I feared you’d feel so bad about it,” she laughed, “that I just made them let me. Aren’t you terribly glad to see me?”

“Yes,” answered Cal without much enthusiasm. “How—how did you manage?”

“Oh, I just kept at it. Aunt Lydia was on my side and she told Aunt Matilda that she guessed you wouldn’t eat me if I was to come over here. I’ve been calling on Mrs. Linn. She’s a dear, isn’t she?”

“Er—yes.” He was looking at the racket with strange fascination and Molly, following his glance, smiled brightly and held it out for his inspection.

“I bought it this morning. Is it a good one?”

“I think so. I don’t know much about tennis rackets. Ned can tell you. He will be here in a moment; the others, too. Did you—do you want to play today?”

“Yes, if it isn’t too late. I’ve been here a long time, but I suppose you have all been playing football.”

“Yes, we had a pretty stiff practice and I cal’late we’re rather too tired to—”

But at this moment the others came around the corner, Hoop, arm in arm with Sandy and Spud, scowling ferociously and evincing a desire to escape. If Cal expected evidences of embarrassment on the part of the girl he was disappointed. She only smiled interestedly.

“You’ll have to introduce me, Cal,” she whispered.

Cal had never done such a thing in his life, but he managed to get through with the task in some manner, Spud, claiming the privileges of former acquaintance, helping him out.

“And this,” said Spud finally, “is Mr. Hooper, who has eagerly volunteered to teach you tennis, Miss—er—Curtis, while here in the background, modest youth that he is, hides Mr. Parker. Mr. Parker is our football guide and wishes me to offer his services to you.”

Hoop growled something under his breath that didn’t sound especially flattering to Spud, but Clara walked up and shook hands very nicely. Molly bowed and said “How do you do,” or shook hands and said “I’m very glad to meet you” at each presentation, and the boys, grinning, seated themselves on the steps and frankly looked her over. She didn’t seem very formidable with her pink cheeks and blue eyes, and it was difficult to realize that she figuratively held their welfare in the small hands that gripped her tennis racket.

“I suppose,” she said to Sandy, “that Cal has told you that I want awfully to learn to play tennis? He said he didn’t play very well but that he thought one of you would find time to show me a little about it. Do you mind my coming over here?”

Sandy proved traitor on the spot.

“Of course not,” he declared heartily. “I guess any of us will be glad to play with you. I suppose it’s a bit dull over there with just the Old—I mean with just your aunts.”

Spud snickered and Sandy frowned at him.

“Awfully,” agreed Molly. “I thought it was very nice of Cal to want me to come over here. And I’m glad you don’t mind.”

Hoop surreptitiously kicked Cal in the small of the back.

“We don’t mind at all,” said Spud. “We’re tickled. I guess there’s time for a lesson now if you start right away. You’d better get your racket and some balls, Hoop.”

“I’m tired,” muttered Hoop, casting mutinous eyes around the group.

“Miss Molly understands that,” said Ned. “She’ll forgive you if you’re not at your best, I’m sure.”

But Molly was viewing Hoop doubtfully.

“I guess he doesn’t want to,” she said, turning to Sandy. “I’ll come some other time.”

“I’ll give you a lesson myself,” declared Sandy, jumping up. “Find my racket for me, will you, Clara? And bring some balls out.”

“Why do you call him Clara?” asked Molly as the boy hurried inside on his errand.

“Because his name’s Claire,” answered Dutch.

“What a funny name for a boy! And what’s yours?”

“Dutch.”

Molly laughed and went around the group, nodding her head at each in turn.

“Spud.”

“Just Ned.”

“Sandy.”

“The Fungus.”

“Hooper.”

“He means Hoop.”

“And you are Cal,” she said, reaching that youth.

“Short for Calamity,” explained Spud gravely.

“Isn’t he quick?” sneered Hoop, still resentful.

“Quickest thing ever,” answered Spud affably. “Lightning is cold molasses beside me. That’s where I get my name, you know,” he added, turning to Molly. “Ex-spud-itious.”

The boys groaned, but Molly laughed appreciatively.

“I suppose,” she said, “I’ll get you all terribly mixed up at first, and I hope you won’t mind.”

“We never mind,” declared Dutch quite flippantly for him. He received his reward from Molly in the shape of a smile and for some time after secretly rather fancied himself as a wit.

“My name,” she announced, “is Molly. I guess you’d better call me that, if we are going to be friends.”

Clara returned with the racket and she and Sandy proceeded to the tennis court, the others politely electing to watch from a distance so as not to embarrass the novice.

“She’s a funny one,” observed The Fungus with a grin. “‘If we are going to be friends,’ said she. She knows mighty well we don’t dare be anything else!”

“She’s a good sort,” said Spud. “And I guess we might as well make up our minds to enjoying what they call female society after this. Did you see Sandy fall for her on the spot?”

“Conceited idiot!” growled Hoop. “I hope he falls into the net and—and—”

“Chokes to death,” added Spud helpfully. “Remarks of that sort from you, Hoop, are sadly out of place. You are a—a renegade.”

“That’s all right. I didn’t agree to give her tennis lessons.”

“Do I really have to take her to watch football?” asked Clara.

“Of course you do,” Dutch said severely. “Don’t you want to?”

“I suppose so,” answered the boy.

“Seems to me,” observed The Fungus, “that our diplomat isn’t on to his job. Are you—diplomating, Ned?”

“Sure thing. Diplomacy is brain-work. I’m thinking.”

“Don’t see why we gave the job to you, then,” muttered Hoop. “What we ought to do is to find where she keeps that pillow-case and go over and nab it.”

“Huh,” Dutch grunted, “I’d like to see anyone go prowling around where Miss Matilda would catch him.”

“Pshaw, what’s the good of bothering about that old pillow-case?” asked Spud impatiently. “She isn’t going to be mean. She’s just having a little fun with us. Look at Sandy, fellows; isn’t he having one grand good time?”

Sandy was toiling valiantly, chasing balls on all sides of the court. Molly’s efforts were ludicrous and pathetic, and for a time she couldn’t get it into her little head that there was any method to the game beside batting the balls back and forth. The supper bell brought welcome relief to her instructor, although he made believe that he simply hated the thought of stopping.

“You did finely,” he declared as they returned to the porch. “All you need is a few more lessons.”

“That’s silly,” answered Molly promptly. “I know very well that I was just as stupid as stupid! I’m going to buy one of those little blue books with the rules in them the first thing in the morning. Then I’ll know what it’s all about. Thank you very much for teaching me. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Sandy, and “Good night,” called the others. And Molly, her racket tucked under her arm, took her departure. Sandy subsided on the top step and said “Whew!” very expressively. The rest observed him grinningly.

“How now, gallant squire of dames?” asked Spud.

“Someone else has got to take her the next time,” responded Sandy with decision. He glanced at Hoop. But that youth was looking the other way and whistling softly.

“Beautiful sunset, Hoop,” murmured Spud. Hoop scowled.

“Why don’t you draw lots?” he asked.

“We will,” said Sandy, “after supper.”

They did. He and Spud arranged the slips of paper and in some remarkable fashion the fatal slip fell to Hoop’s portion.

“That isn’t fair!” he objected. “You fellows faked!”

But they were very stern with him and in the end he accepted the duty with ill grace. There were three more lessons that week and Hoop officiated at two of them, the other being given by Spud. Strangely enough, Hoop, after the first time, became interested in the task and was quite loth to relinquish in Spud’s favor when the third lesson was due. Clara’s duties began on Wednesday. On that afternoon he took Molly in charge and escorted her to the football field, where she occasioned not a little interest on the part of the candidates. It was something new and novel to have a girl in the audience at practice and I fancy some of the boys worked harder than usual in the hope of distinguishing themselves and so winning a glance of approval from Miss Molly. Clara was very patient and instructive. A few weeks before he had had very little football knowledge himself, but he had watched and studied with enthusiasm and was now a very capable instructor. Molly had never seen the game played before, but, while she objected to it at first as being much too rough, it wasn’t long before she was an ardent champion of the House Team. Clara lent her his rule book and she studied it diligently during the next week. Some of the questions she asked were a trifle disconcerting; such as “Why don’t they have the field smaller so they won’t have so far to go to make a touchdown?” or “Would it count anything if they threw the ball over that bar instead of kicking it?” She listened avidly to all the football discussions on the steps of West House and declared on Friday that if House didn’t beat Hall she’d never speak to any of them again. That threat must have nerved the House Team to desperation, for on the next afternoon it battled valiantly against Hall and managed to hold its opponent scoreless through thirty-five of the forty minutes of playing time, and had begun to count on a tied game at least when a miserable fumble by The Fungus on the Hall’s forty yard-line turned the fortunes of the day. It was Pete Grow himself who leaked through the House line, gathered up the ball and, protected by hastily formed interference, romped over the line with it for the only score of the game. They failed at goal and a few minutes later House trailed off the field vanquished to the tune of 5—0.

House was heart-broken. To have kept Hall at bay through thirty-five minutes of the fiercest sort of battling and then to lose on a fluke was the hardest sort of luck. The Fungus felt the disgrace keenly and looked forlorn and tragic enough to melt a heart of stone. After the first miserable ten minutes succeeding the game his team-mates set themselves generously to work to cheer him up.

“Your fault nothing!” scoffed big, good-hearted Westlake, the House center. “Why, any one of us ought to have got that ball. What if you did fumble it? Gee, we all do that. The trouble was that the rest of us weren’t quick enough to make it safe.”

“That’s right,” said Ned sadly. “I ought to have had it myself. That chap Pete Grow, though, was through like a streak.”

“I guess,” said Dutch, “it’s up to me, when you come right down to facts. I ought never to have let Grow through.”

“Never mind whose fault it was,” said Brooks cheerfully. “We’ve just got to get busy this week and get together. It mustn’t happen next time, fellows. We’ve got to develop team-play in the next five days or they’ll wipe up the sod with us. After all, we had them at a standstill until that pesky fumble.”

Clara and Molly went back to West House silent and sad. But by the time they had reached the porch and Molly had established herself in her accustomed place with her slim back against a pillar the silence gave place to regrets and discussion. Molly was inclined to be indignant with the Hall.

“They oughtn’t to have taken advantage of Fungus’s mistake,” she declared. “I don’t think that was very—very sportsmanlike, do you?”

But Clara pointed out to her that ethically Hall had not transgressed. “Fumbling’s part of the game,” he said, “and you’ve got to take advantage of everything, Molly. We played a pretty good game, after all, I think.”

“We played a wonderful game!” she assented stoutly. “Why, we just put it all over the Hall at first.” Clara smiled at the phrase she used.

“Anyhow, I guess we can do better the next time. The trouble today was that we couldn’t get near enough Hall’s goal to try a drop-kick or placement.”

“How near would we have to get?” asked Molly.

“Oh, about thirty yards, I guess. M’Crae’s a dandy from the thirty yard-line.”

“Wasn’t Spud splendid?” she asked. “He just threw those Hall men about like—like straws!”

“Spud’s a dandy end,” Clara agreed. “He played all around Smith. I do wish, though, we might have won. Now we’ve got to get both the other games.”

“And we will, too,” said Molly, her eyes flashing. “You just wait and see!”

The others came dejectedly home and until supper time they threshed out the day’s battle over and over again, Molly taking a fair share in the debate. The general tone was pessimistic, but Molly refused to entertain the thought of ultimate defeat for a moment.

“You’ve just got to win the next two games,” she declared. “And you’re going to, aren’t you, Sandy?” But she had selected the wrong person in Sandy. He shook his head discouragedly.

“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “They’ve got team-play, Molly, and we play every man for himself.”

“Oh, you and your team-play!” scoffed Spud. “Why can’t we learn team-play as well as they can? You wait until next Saturday.”

“Well, I’m through,” muttered The Fungus miserably. “I guess Brooksie will put in Folsom on Monday.”

“Folsom!” jeered Dutch. “Folsom can’t begin to play your game; nor Westlake, either. Don’t you be so sore, old man. You couldn’t help it.”

“Of course I could have helped it, only—well, if Brooksie keeps me on I’ll bet it won’t happen again. After this I’m going to dig my nails into it!”

“Couldn’t you have explained to them that you didn’t mean to drop that ball?” asked Molly earnestly. “That it was just a—a mistake, Fungus?”

The laughter that this question produced cleared the atmosphere not a little and by the time the bell had rung West House was a good deal more cheerful and much hungrier.

“Isn’t she the limit?” laughed Spud as they went in to the dining-room. “Asking if Fungus couldn’t have explained that it was a mistake!”

“She’s a mighty nice kid,” said Dutch.

“She nearly yelled herself hoarse this afternoon,” said Cal. “Did you see her, Hoop?”

“Yes, and once she was jumping up and down like an Indian. I guess she’s the most enthusiastic rooter we’ve got.”

“The Obnoxious Kid,” murmured Spud.

“Obnoxious nothing!” objected Sandy indignantly. “She’s all right!”

And West House agreed to a man.