lever controlling the mechanism and given himself and his uniform an impromptu bath!
It was seven o'clock when Harold at last reached the Sayre home and walked into the hallway.
At once a soft bundle of fluffy-haired loveliness came running out from the living room and, hurling herself frankly into his arms, kissed him happily.
"Hail the conquering hero!" cried Peggy when she had disengaged herself. She stood off surveying him proudly.
Mrs. Sayre came to the living-room door and congratulated him more conventionally. Then Peggy drew him into the room. A short, stocky, gray-haired man was standing there, smiling broadly.
"Uncle Peter!" Harold cried. And rushed forward to shake hands.
"I got there just at the beginning of—what do you call it?—the last quarter," Peter Thatcher explained. "I saw you do the trick. It was great! Worth helping a boy to college for. I never thought I would like football. But say—I felt like kissing everybody in sight. I was as bad as the rest of the lunatics. Including this young lady." He turned to Peggy. Already he appreciated what she and his nephew meant to each other.
