feel, through some quality in his voice and the look in his eyes, that the interest with which he had been watching the player was not merely that of a captain, but also that of a friend.
When he had finished his comments, he laid his hand on his companion's arm.
"Phil Ward here ought to be able to give you some points," he said to the team. "He played on St. Timothy's five years ago,—with Clark Harding and Skilton and those fellows,—and you all know he's had two years on a 'varsity team since. Phil, won't you talk to them?"
Ward laughed, and putting his hand on Rupert's shoulder, stood up. He was a tall, handsome, dark-faced fellow, with black eyebrows that met above his nose. His expression seemed determined, and might sometimes be severe, but now there was a pleasant twinkle in his eyes.
"I haven't much to say," he answered, "after hearing your captain talk. He seems to have covered the ground. I thought you fellows played mighty well that half. I don't
