“Yes, I think he would,” mused John.
“Well, there you are!”
“And so I shan’t say a word to him about it. You see, I hadn’t intended to,” said John sweetly.
“Then what’s all this jabbering for?”
“It’s always a pleasure, an intellectual treat, to hear your opinions, Davy. Good-night.”
What John did the next morning was entirely characteristic of him. He went to Guy Bassett’s room, introduced himself, and told his mission in less than two dozen words. If Guy experienced either surprise or amusement he was too courteous to show it. Instead, he expressed much pleasure at meeting John, listened politely to what he had to say and then proffered his cigarette case.
“We did play rather high one night,” he said, “and Ryerson lost about sixty dollars, I believe. Since then we have confined ourselves to ten-cent limit and I’m certain he hasn’t dropped more than a two-dollar bill. Of course, if I’d known what I do now I wouldn’t have played with him. I supposed he had plenty of money, and the charming promptitude with which he paid his debts confirmed the supposition. I like Phil; he’s refreshingly simple and human; and he’s plucky, too; and so I’ll see that he doesn’t lose any more of his money here, North. For that matter, though, I guess he’s learned his lesson. I’m awfully much obliged to you for coming and telling me about it; and very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you. Good-morning.”
In the afternoon John went to the Union and, establishing himself at a corner desk in the writing-room, picked holes in the nice clean crimson blotter for fully twenty minutes before he set pen to paper. When he did he wrote steadily for three pages. Then he read what he had written, smiled as though well pleased with it, chewed the end of his penholder for awhile, and then slowly and regretfully tore his letter into minute fragments. In its stead he filled a page with his small, heavy writing and subscribed himself, “Faithfully, John North.” He addressed the envelope to “Miss Ryerson, Elaine, Melville Court House, Virginia,” and dropped it into the box in the hall with elaborate carelessness lest Phillip should be looking on and should in some wonderful manner guess its destination. Then, whistling contentedly, he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and strode off to the field and practice.
The date of the Yale game was but some two weeks distant and confidence in a victory for the Crimson was steadily increasing throughout the college. The prophets were working overtime and, as is their wont, were writing more and saying less each day. It was nearing the time to send in applications for tickets, a fact of which Phil was reminded that evening. Everett Kingsford walked down the avenue with him after dinner and guided him into Leavitt’s for a game of billiards, a game for which Phillip had the highest admiration and at which he invariably lost. A counter was littered with blank applications and the two helped themselves.