"But how did you find this house, Uncle Peter?" Harold asked.
"I got the address from the letters you wrote me," Mr. Thatcher explained. "And after the game I was spry enough to beat that wild mob to the last taxicab in sight."
"It's great to see you," said Harold.
"Now let's all go down to the Hotel Tate and celebrate with a big dinner," Uncle Peter proposed expansively. "You too, Mrs. Sayre."
The steel magnate went upstairs with Harold to the Freshman's room while Harold changed his clothes again.
"I want to say that to-day's happenings aren't all that have made me pleased with you lately, Harold," Uncle Peter said seriously. "For a while you had your mother and me worried. You got off on the wrong foot, I guess. Then, after that Frolic business, you seemed to pull yourself together. You had the right stuff in you all the time. You just needed something or somebody to bring it out. And I guess you found both. Football is the something and Peggy Sayre is the somebody, eh?"
Harold was blushing furiously.
At the Hotel Tate, Uncle Peter insisted upon ordering the most pretentious dinner that hostelry could serve them. They ate it
