“Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll remember that. You see what you think of the design that’s sent you, Alf, and then write the firm and suggest any changes you like. We’ll call it the—what shall we call it?”
“The Pennimore Cup, sir,” answered Alf and Tom in chorus.
“Hum; no, I’m not looking for glory. Let’s call it the Sound View Cup. How will that do?”
“Pennimore Cup sounds better, sir,” said Dan.
“I think so, too,” Alf agreed. “Let’s call it that, sir.”
“All right,” laughed their host. “I haven’t any objection. The Pennimore Cup it is, then. And I hope you fellows get it for good in the end.”
“I hope we get it this year, anyway,” said Alf. “I’ll get French—he’s our manager—to write over and tell Broadwood about it. It ought to please them.”
“It’ll please them so much,” murmured Tom sleepily, “that they’ll come over here and carry it home with them.”
“If they do it will be after the hardest tussle they ever had,” declared Alf. “We’re going to have a hockey seven that will be a dandy!”
Dan and Alf and Tom said good night and good-by at ten. Gerald, since his father was to take his departure on the morrow, had obtained permission to spend the night at Sound View. The others shook hands with Mr. Pennimore on the porch and then piled into the automobile and were whisked home, a very tired and sleepy and contented trio. By all the rules and laws of compensation every last one of them ought to have suffered that night with indigestion. But they didn’t. Instead, they dropped into sound sleep as soon as their heads touched the pillows and never woke until the sunlight was streaming in at the windows.