“Not a bit.”
“I suppose—er—that is—er—your sister will be at the game?” ventured Tom.
“Of course. She’s as daffy about it as I am. If she had been a boy she’d have played. Miss Tyler will be there, of course?” Phil questioned in turn.
“I don’t know—I suppose so,” answered Tom. “Oh, of course. She and your sister will probably go together.”
“Yes, they’re great chums. I wonder why I didn’t get a letter from dad to-day? He promised to write every night. I ought to have received one. I’d like to know how my mother is.”
“Well, no news is good news,” quoted Tom. “Let’s start. I get nervous when I have to sit around.”
There was a large crowd on the grandstand at the Fairview gridiron when the Randall team arrived. The seats were rapidly filling up, and when, a little later, the visiting eleven trotted out for practice, they were received with a burst of cheers.
“What’s the matter with Randall?” demanded Bean Perkins, who had been christened “Shouter” from the foghorn quality of his tones. He generally led the college cheering and singing. Back came the usual reply that nothing whatever ailed Randall.
“There’s a good bunch out,” observed Tom to Phil as they passed the ball back and forth. “Look at the girls! My, what a lot of them!”
“And all pretty, too,” added Phil. “At least, I know one who is.”