to be carried from the field. He lay on the side line the rest of the game, looking on. He lay there and saw another fellow do the things he'd hoped to do. He lay there and saw this chap Skilton—and a corker he was, too—win the game. And yet of all the fellows that played that day you'd have said Clark Harding was the happiest—and so, I believe, he really was, except perhaps Skilton. But here's a thing I saw in our room that night—a thing I've never told till now."
He paused a moment; the boys waited intently. Harry, of course, was listening with a proud and special interest. Rupert was sitting with his eyes lowered, thinking that he did not compare very well with Clark Harding.
"I was writing a letter home about the game, and turned suddenly to ask him a question. He was lying on the bed with his face toward me, dabbing the tears away from his eyes with a handkerchief. I knew it was n't the pain in his knee that made the tears his his eyes. He asked me why I wanted to turn
