The tumult was over, although from the Row came at times a wild shout of exultation from some enthusiastic youth. In 12 Billings, Steve and Tom were dressing for the banquet. There was no feverish hurry in their movements. Tom sat for minutes at a time with a shirt draped across his knees and smiled fatuously through swollen lips. There was plenty of time. The banquet was not to be until seven, and it was now still but a little past six. When they spoke they spoke slowly, lazily, as though nothing much mattered, as though Fate had given them everything they wanted and nothing was left to be desired. Steve, dreamily slipping a belt through the loops of his best trousers, said:

"Tom, when I look at you I'm ashamed of myself. There you are with a face like a war map and one leg all bunged up, and here am I without a scratch. I've got a bum wrist, but it doesn't show." And Steve scowled at the offending member.

Tom grinned. "You can have my mouth if you want it," he said. After a minute he spoke again. "I was glad about Benson," he said.

Steve nodded. "So was I."

Tom laughed. "Yes, you looked it!"

"Well, I didn't know why Robey was taking me out, of course. It seemed after I'd made that touchdown that he'd ought to let me play the game out. Benson was rather—rather pathetic when he hobbled on. I'm glad he's got his letter, though."

"Yes, and there's only one thing I'm not glad about," responded Tom thoughtfully, beginning to squirm into his shirt. "I'm not glad we missed that goal. I wanted that extra point."

"How could we help missing it? Andy isn't any goal kicker, and all the others were afraid to try, I suppose. What's the odds, though! We won, and six to nothing is good enough, isn't it?"

"Mm—yes; seven to nothing would have looked better, though."

"And you're the fellow," scoffed Steve, "who was almost crying awhile back because Claflin would feel bad if we licked her!"

Tom only grunted. Steve went into a daydream with one leg in his trousers until, presently, Tom laughed softly.

"What are you choking about?" asked Steve.

"Just thinking. Remember, Steve, coming on in the train how we were talking about what—what it would be like here?"

"N—no," answered Steve. "Were we?"

"Yes. I remember you said that in the stories the hero was always suspected of something he hadn't done and you said you'd bet that if anyone tried that on you you'd make a kick."

"Well, what of it?"

"You didn't, though. Some of the fellows thought you'd swiped that blue-book that time and you didn't make a murmur."

"Because–"

"Because you thought I'd done it and was trying to shield me. I know. Then you said that in the stories the hero saves someone from drowning and the football captain puts him into the big game and he wins it by a wonderful run the length of the field."

"That's right, isn't it? All the school stories have it like that, don't they?"

"I know."

"Well, then–"

"The funny thing is that it happened like that to us, Steve, or pretty nearly. I don't mean that I—I actually saved you from drowning, but–"

"You sure did, though!"

"Anyway, it was something like that, wasn't it? And then you went and won the game in the last minute of play, just as they do in the stories."

"I didn't make any run the length of the field," denied Steve. "All I did was catch the ball and go ten yards with it. Nothing wonderful about that."

"Still, it's all pretty much like the story-writers tell it, after all, eh? That's what struck me as funny."

"Huh! It doesn't seem to me much like it is in the stories. Say, we forgot about the papers, Tom!"

"What papers?"

"The New York papers, with the account of the thrilling rescue at Oakdale, with your picture–"

"He didn't get any picture of me," said Tom grimly.

"He made you talk, though," laughed Steve.

"He'd make anyone talk," Tom grunted.

"By Jove!" He jumped suddenly to his feet, and with more animation than had been displayed in Number 12 for a half-hour hurried to the closet.

"What's up?" asked Steve in surprise.

"Telegram," came in smothered tones from Tom. "Here it is. Lawrence handed it to me in the gym after the game. Said it came at noon, but Robey wouldn't let him give it to me. Bet you it's from my dad."

Tom tore the end from the yellow envelope and there was silence in the room for a moment. At last, with a queer expression on his battered countenance, he walked across and held the message out to Steve. "It's for you, too," he said quietly.

Steve took it and read: "Tannersville, Pa., Nov. 25. Morning papers have account of Oakdale scrape grateful to you for your rescue of Steve God bless you show this to Steve your father joins me in love to you both. John T. Edwards."

Steve let the telegram fall and stared blankly at Tom.

"What—do—you know—about that?" he gasped. "They've made it up, Tom!"

Tom nodded gravely. "It—it–" A slow smile overspread his face. "Honest, Steve, that's better than winning the game!"

"You bet it is! And you did it!"

"Oh, no." Tom's eyes twinkled merrily. "You did it yourself, Steve, by trying to get drowned!"