At first Honor's own woe engulfed her utterly. For the first instant she wasn't even aware of Jimsy King, standing alone, his arms folded across his chest, staring down the field; of his men, wiping the mud out of their eyes and looking at him, looking to him; of the stunned rooters.

But at the second breath she was awake, alive again, tense, tingling, bursting with her message for them all, keeping herself by main force in her place. Jimsy King never saw any one in a game; he never knew any one in a game; people ceased to exist for him while he was on the field. But to-day, in this difficult hour, she was to see him turn and face the bleachers and rake them with his aghast and startled eyes until he found her. She was on her feet, in her white jersey suit and her blue hat and scarf--L. A.'s colors--waving to him, looking down at him with all her gallant soul in her eyes. It seemed to her as if she must be saying it aloud; as if she must be singing it:

_Play up! Play up! and--Play the Game!_

Then the bleachers and the players saw the Captain of the L. A. team turn and wade briskly down the field to Gridley. They saw him hold out his muddy hand; they heard his clear, "Peach of a kick!" They saw him give the Northerner's hand a hearty shake; they saw him fling up his head, and grin, and face the grandstand for a second, his eyes seeking.... They saw him rally his men with a snapped-out order,--and then they were on their feet, shouting, screaming, stamping, cheering:

KING! KING! KING!

The yell leaders couldn't get hold of them; there was no need. Every man was his own yell leader. They yelled for Gridley and for Greenmount (why worry, when Jimsy clearly wasn't worried?) and for their own team, man by man, and the call of time for the first half failed to make the faintest dent in their enthusiasm.

"But"--said Miss Bruce-Drummond, her mouth close to Honor's ear--"you haven't won, have you?"

"Not yet!" Honor shouted. "Wait!" She began to sing with the rest:

_You can't beat L. A. High!_ _You can't beat L. A. High!_ _Use your team to get up steam,_ _But you can't beat L. A. High!_

It was gay, mocking, scatheless, inexorable. You _couldn't_ beat L. A.

High. Honor swayed and swung to it. Use your team and your tricks and your dry-shod men to kick, but you couldn't beat L. A. High. And it appeared, in fact, that you couldn't, for Jimsy King's team went into the second half like happy young tigers, against men who were a little tired, a little overconfident, and in the first ten minutes of play the King Gink, mud-smeared beyond recognition, grinning, went over the line for a touchdown, and n.o.body minded much Burke's missing the goal because they had won anyway:

GREENMOUNT 4 L. A. HIGH 5

and the championship, the state championship, stayed south, and it suddenly stopped raining and the sun came out gloriously after the reckless manner of Southern California suns, and everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

Honor, star-eyed, more utterly and completely happy and content than she had ever been in her life, turned penitently to Miss Bruce-Drummond.

"When we get home," she said, "I'll explain to you exactly what a 'down'

is!"

They waited to see the joyous serpentine, to watch Jimsy's struggles to get down from the shoulders of his adorers who bore him the length of the field and back, and then Carter drove them home and went back for the Captain, who would be showered and dressed by that time. They were both dining with Honor, but Jimsy looked in on his father first.

"Gusty says he's slept all day," he reported to Honor. He kept looking at her, with an odd intensity, all through the lively meal. She had changed her wet white jersey for one of her long-lined, cleverly simple frocks of L. A. blue, and her honey-colored braids were like a crown above her serene forehead.

"You know, Stephen," said Miss Bruce-Drummond while they were having their coffee in the living room, "of course you know that both those lads are in love with your nice girl."

"Do you see it, too?"

She laughed. "I may not know what a 'down' is, but I've still reasonably sharp eyes in my head. And the odd thing is that she doesn't know it."

"Isn't it amazing? I'm watching, and wondering."

"It's a pretty time o' life, Stephen," said one of the clever women he hadn't wanted to marry.

"'Youth's sweet-scented ma.n.u.script,' Ethel," said Honor's stepfather.

"Jimsy, will you come here a minute?" Honor called from the dining-room door.

"Yes, Skipper!" He was there at a bound.

"Don't you think your father would like this water-ice? I think he could--I believe he might enjoy it."

He took the little covered tray out of her hands. "I'll bet he will, Skipper. You're a brick. Come on over with me, will you--and wait on the porch?"

She looked back into the roomful. "Had I better? I don't suppose they'll miss me for a minute----"

But Carter Van Meter was coming toward them, threading his way among people and furniture with his slight, halting limp. He looked from one to the other, questioningly.

"Taking this over to my Dad," Jimsy explained. "Back in a shake."

"I see. How about a ride to the beach? Supper at the ship-hotel?

Celebrate a little?"

"Deuce of a lot of work for Monday," Jimsy frowned. "Haven't studied a lick this week."

Carter laughed. "Oh, Monday's--Monday! Come along! We can't"--he turned to Honor--"be by ourselves to-night, with the celeb. here. Honor has to stay and play-pretty with her."

"Well ... if we don't make it too late----"

Jimsy turned and sped away with Honor's offering for James King.

Honor looked at Carter. His eyes were very bright; he looked more excited, now, some way, than he had at the game. Poor old Carter. He wanted, she supposed, to do something for Jimsy ... to give him a wonderful party ... to spend money on him ... to excel and to shine in _his_ way. But--the ship-hotel--and his father over there all day in the darkened room--For the first time in her honest life she stooped to guile. "I'll be down in a minute, Carter," she said and ran upstairs, through the hall, down the backstairs, cut through the kitchen and across the wet and springy lawn to the King place.

She waited in the shadow of the house until he came out.

"Jimsy!"

"Skipper!"

"I slipped out--sh ... Jimsy, I--_please_ don't go with Carter to-night!

I don't mean to interfere or--or nag, Jimsy,--you know that, don't you?"

She slipped a little on the wet gra.s.s in her thin slippers, and laid hold of his arm to steady herself. "But--it worries me. You're the finest, the most wonderful person in the world, and I trust you more than I trust myself, but--I know how boys are about--things--and--" she turned her face to the dark house where so many "Wild Kings" had lived and moved and had their unhappy being--"I couldn't _bear_ it if----"

It began to rain again, softly, and they moved unconsciously toward the shelter of the porch.

"You were so splendid to-day! I haven't had a chance to tell you ...

shaking hands with him, being so----"

"You made me," said Jimsy King. Then, at her murmured protest. "You did.

You made me, just as you've made me do every decent thing I've ever done. I'm just beginning to see it. I guess I'm the blindest bat that ever lived. Of course I won't go with Cart' to-night. I won't do anything you don't----"

Honor had mounted two steps, to be under the roof of the porch, and now, turning sharply in her gladness, the wet slipper slipped again, and she would have fallen if he had not caught her.

"_Skipper!_"