"Yes, there is! Come on in the house. There's no one home. Stepper's driving Miss Bruce-Drummond and Muzzie's being marcelled." She did not speak again until they were in the living room. "Now, tell me."
"Why—it's nothing, really. Feeling kind of seedy, that's all. Didn't have much sleep."
"Jimsy! You didn't—you weren't out with Carter?"
"Just for a little while. We went to a Movie. Coach told us to—keep our minds off the game. But I was home and in the house at nine-thirty. It was—Dad. He came in about midnight. I—I didn't go to bed at all."
"Oh...." Her eyes yearned over him, over them both. "Jimsy, I'm so terribly sorry. Is he—how is he now?"
"Sleeping. I guess he'll sleep all day. Gee—I wish I could!" His young face looked gray and strained.
The girl drew a long breath. "Jimsy, you've got to sleep now. You've got to put it—you've got to put your father away—out of your mind. You don't belong to him to-day; you belong to the team; you belong to L. A.... No matter what's happening to you, you've got to do your best—and—and be your best."
"If I can," he said, haggardly.
"Lie down on the couch."