"What is it?"
"I'm awfully sorry about your foot; I can't tell you how sorry, because words are so stupid; the right ones never come when you really want to say something. But I feel about it, oh, awfully! Isn't there even a chance?"
"Yes, a little one," Bob said; "but not enough to matter. I can't start training, and I'll be too stiff to do any good by Spring.
"Tough luck!" Polly laid her hand unconsciously on his arm. "Don't give up, though. You may make good if you work awfully hard. May's ages off."
"Gee!" Bob delivered this inelegant exclamation with feeling. "Poll, you're the best little sport I ever knew. You always understand. Any other girl would have said that running was bad for my heart, and expected me to be consoled."
Polly was overcome by such frank praise. She tried to think of something to say, and finally decided on:
"Oh, rot! Isn't it time to go back?"
The theater that night was very amusing. Lois and Frank were in gales of laughter every minute.
"If you laugh any more," Lois said, between the acts, "you'll never be able to play to-morrow."
"But I won't have to play," Frank protested, "unless an awful lot of awful things happen. Anyway, don't let's talk about it, honestly, Lois." He lowered his voice, "I get cold all over when I think of it. I'm almost sure I'd lose my nerve if I had to go in."