“I hope so,” laughed Cal. “Unless you blew it all in on sodas and candy.”
“Even then I’d have a jolly good tummy-ache to remember it by!”
“Well, I hope you’ll find it some time, Ned.”
“So do I. Say, how’s your chin?”
“Hurts sort of. So does my head, I cal’late I’ve got some lumps back there.” Cal felt and nodded gravely. “Dandies,” he added.
“I’m sorry,” Ned said. “But I want you to know that I’ve got a bunch of sore knuckles here, too.” He viewed them aggrievedly. “I guess we’ll have to fake up a yarn to tell the fellows at the house.”
“Say we were scuffling and fell,” said Cal. “That’s true, isn’t it?”
“True enough, I guess. Though I don’t just see how you managed to fall on the side of your chin.”
“I cal—guess we won’t have to give any details,” answered Cal. “What time is it? I’m fearfully hungry.”
Ned looked at his watch and they hastened their pace, reaching West House a quarter of an hour before dinner time. At table Cal’s chin didn’t go unnoticed, and although the explanation tendered was accepted without protest the rest of West House knew very well that Ned and Cal had had more than a scuffle. But whatever had happened had cleared the air. That was very evident. The occupants of the Den now seemed as unwilling to lose sight of each other for an instant as before they had been unwilling to remain together. Dinner was an excited function that day, for everyone’s thoughts were on the football game at two-thirty and the coming contest was talked of over and over.