"Oh! every day she asks me if I'm real sure I'm not sick," came the
slow reply. "I always tell her I'm all right; but say, she knows
better, Jack. I can't meet her eyes when she looks at me like that.
Once she begged me to tell her what had gone wrong with me, whether I
was doing poorly at school, even if my report stood to the contrary;
but I tried to laugh that off, and told her I'd soon be all right
again, after this football game, mebbe."

"I hope you will, Bob, and a lot of us will have a big load off our
minds if only we can come back home this afternoon, singing, and
feeling joyous. Of course you never really knew how that little scheme
of mine worked, did you?"

"Meaning the idea of putting that marked paper where my dad would be
sure to see the item about the man who sent follow-up letters abroad,
so as to make certain one of them would get to its destination, in
spite of British blockade and German submarines? Why, no, I never
found out if father took to the idea or not. I only know he must have
seen the paper, because I found it later on his desk in the library,
and I left it crumpled up on the floor. He never asked me where it
came from, so I didn't have to tell him you had it wrapped around an
old sweater you were returning to me. All I'm sure of is that he
didn't trust me to mail a second foreign letter. I only wish he had."

"You said he was beginning to look serious, didn't you?" continued
Jack.

"Why, yes, and I can just _feel_ him watching me when he thinks I'm
not looking. He certainly must suspect something, Jack. But the queer
part of it all is that lately he's been a heap more gentle with me