“I wish I was breaking training there,” said Carroll to Irving; “she has
the most wonderful food.”

In the discussion of the game there seemed to be little disposition to
blame Westby.

“After all,” said Blake, “he was only a sub, and he never got so very
much practice in handling punts. I don’t think fellows ought to be sore
on him.”

“No, he’s just sore on himself,” said Carroll.

“It’s hard luck, anyhow; except for that one thing he played mighty
well.”

The mail boy passed, leaving a letter for Irving. It was in his uncle’s
handwriting; and his uncle never wrote to him; it was his aunt who kept
him posted on all the news of home. Did this mean that she was ill—or
that some disaster had befallen?

Irving determined that if it was bad news, he would reserve it until he
should be alone; he put the letter in his pocket and waited anxiously
for the meal to end.

When he was again in his room, he tore open the envelope and read this
letter:—

DEAR IRVING,—I have not helped you and Lawrence much financially. I
thought it would do you and him no harm to try out your own