before, and Loring sat between them. They had been to the shore for luncheon, Loring explained, and—
"Lobster," said Mr. Deane, squinting his eyes in his funny way and sighing. "They were good, weren't they, Lory? Um-m!"
"My dear," chided Mrs. Deane, "do you think it's kind to gloat over lobster before Clif and Tom? You don't mind if I call you Clif, do you?" She smiled apologetically on Tom. "Loring speaks so often of you, you know."
"No, ma'am," stammered Tom.
"Perhaps Clif does, though," laughed Loring. "You've got them mixed, mother."
"Have I? Well, that's your fault, Loring. Your introduction was so sketchy! Which of you is it who plays football so nicely?"
"Both of us, Mrs. Deane," replied Clif daringly. "But I'm the one you had in mind."
"Huh-huh," chuckled Mr. Deane appreciatively. Mrs. Deane dimpled and then sighed.
"I'm afraid you're making fun of me. Anyway, you're both gorgeous looking boys, and I like you both for being so nice to my boy. And I'm coming up next Saturday—it is Saturday, isn't it?—to see you play."
"I hope you will," said Tom intensely. "We won't be playing, but it's going to be a corking game, Mrs. Deane."
"But I want to see you play," she demurred. "And you." She included Clif in her glance. "Perhaps, just as a favor to me, you will, won't you?"
