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THE CRASHAW BROTHERS

“Nothing to fix. If there is, I guess Dr. Barrett at St. John’s can do just as good a job as your man. Now, mind; you’re not to mention it when you write home.”

“All right,” said Edward reluctantly. “It will sort of spoil the story, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I’d like to tell them how you won the game, after being knocked out—when our fellows thought they could go through you, the way—the way you went through me.”

“Oh, shucks!” said Charles. “No, don’t, Ned. I think it would only worry mother.”

“All right.” Edward’s voice was resigned. “But if I could tell it the way I saw it, she and father would be awfully proud of you—just like me, Charley.”

“Oh no, they would n’t; they have too much sense.” Charles gave his brother an affectionate, humorous glance.

But Edward persisted earnestly: “They could n’t help being proud. It was splendid, Charley. But I almost wish you had n’t done it.”