nally she could stand it no longer. She rushed out and confronted Dan.
"Harold Lamb has more spunk in his little finger than you have in your whole conceited make-up!" she cried.
Then, so upset was she that she sought the hotel manager and announced that she was quitting for the day. She would hurry home, find Harold and tell him what had happened. Tell him the truth and let him fight it out.
Even now, coming upon him sprawled at the head of the stairs, tired and manhandled, Peggy was so full of her recent resolution that she started, "Harold, I've something to tell you—"
But he interrupted her. He turned enraptured eyes to hers and murmured ecstatically, "I made the team!"
Her face fell. She shrugged her pretty shoulders helplessly. She couldn't tell him now. It would be too cruel.
She concealed her real feelings and said simply, "I—I congratulate you."
She took notice of his weakened condition and asked anxiously, "What's the matter, Harold? Are you ill?"
He tried to assure her blithely. "Ill? No, I'm not ill. I've just been out for football, that's all. And I made good, Peggy. Chester Trask himself ordered me to report at two
