Neil smiled back politely from the doorway.

"I don't think I'd better mention your name, Mr. Cowan." He closed the
door behind him, leaving Cowan much puzzled as to the meaning of the
last remark, and sought No. 12 McLean. He found the varsity quarter-back
writing a letter by means of a small typewriter, his brow heavily
creased with scowls and his feet kicking exasperatedly at the legs of
his chair.

"Hello," was Foster's greeting. "Come in. And, I say, just look around
on the floor there, will you, and see if you can find an L."

"Find what?" asked Neil, searching the carpet with his gaze.

"An L. There was one on this pesky machine a while ago, but
I--can't--find--Ah, here it is! 'L-O-V-I-N-G-L-Y, T-E-D'! There, that's
done. I bought this idiotic thing because some one said you could write
letters on it in half the time it takes with a pen. Well, I began this
letter last night, and I guess I've spent fully two hours on it
altogether. For two cents I'd pitch it out the window!" He pushed back
his chair and glared vindictively at the typewriter. "And look at the
result!" He held up a sheet of paper half covered with strange
characters and erasures. "Look how I've spelled 'allowance'--alliwzee!
Do you think dad will know what I mean?"

Neil shook his head dubiously.

"Not unless he's looking for the word," he answered.

"Well, he will be," grinned Foster. "Don't suppose you want to buy a