any assemblies, to pass the time in study, or to be sent home.

Lucia Coletti, still in America, still in Lyon High, sat directly in front of Betty and next to Peggy Pollard, who, it may be remembered, had joined the sorority, the “Kappa Upsilons,” to which Carolyn and Betty had been invited. Lucia (pronounced Lu-chee-a, in Italian fashion), looked back, as she pulled down the seat of her chair, and gave the girls a salute, very brief, but Dotty Bradshaw, near by, rather daringly asked, “is that a Fascisti salute, Lucia?”

“It’s a mixture, like me,” replied Lucia, not offended, her black eyes flashing an amused glance at Betty. “Listen, Betty,” she said. “I want to see you some time today. I want you to help me out on something.”

“All right,” said Betty.

But the principal was now standing quietly on the platform, as was his custom, his very presence a check upon too vociferous converse. He clapped his hands together several times for quiet. Instantly the talking began to subside, then stopped as the attention of all was secured. All faces turned to the American flag, which stood in silken beauty of red, white and blue at the side of the platform. In the daily lesson of patriotism, pupils and teachers, led by the principal in clear, unhurried accents, repeated the pledge to the flag and country.

Lucia, half American, half Italian, probably born in some other foreign country, Betty thought, gave the salute with the rest, “out of courtesy,” she had told the girls. It was her mother’s flag, she said. Her father had another, and as for her she was going to choose her country!

But Lucia, bright and interesting, very much alive to all the high school and city life, was possibly arriving at a better appreciation of some phases of America and its opportunities than some of the girls of American birth, and from the very difference of environment and customs.

Lucia Coletti was adding to some old-world advantages, and to her early education in Europe, what America had to offer. Betty was both surprised and pleased with the Lucia Coletti who was a junior. And Lucia, in spite of the sorority circle and many other young friends in the circle in which her countess mother and wealthy uncle moved, still had a high regard for Betty Lee, her first helpful acquaintance; for she considered Betty’s leadership a safe one, whenever independent Lucia needed or wanted any counsel.

“Let us improve the manner of our entrance into the auditorium,” the principal was saying. “I should like to find it unnecessary to do more than lift my hand for attention.” A few announcements were made and then the meeting was put into the hands of a senior boy, Budd LeRoy, in fact.

At Budd’s invitation, after a rousing number played by the band, the cheer leaders came running out, to all appearances in terrible excitement. But that was their pose. In these days the cheer leaders were obliged to “try out” for their position. Betty could remember when in her freshman year there was only one. Now there were six, arrayed in short sleeved yellow tunics or sweaters of a sort, with a big lion’s head outlined in black upon each manly breast. Betty grinned broadly when she saw Brad Warren wearing the lion. So Brad had won in the try-out for some one to take the place of a cheer leader who had left school. Chet had wanted to be a cheer leader, but as he could not very well be a cheer leader and in the band at the same time, that young ambition could not be gratified.

Lyon High was nothing if not up-to-date! And now the yellow-capped cheer leaders wildly ran into a “huddle,” conferring apparently, like a football team, and separating at once. One cried:

“Make it snappy! Just as you’re going to root for the team tomorrow! Everybody in on it! One-two-three-go!

“Now the Big Four yell for the team! One, two, three, four!

A different lad led the school next in one of their rally songs which they sang with a will:

As may be gathered, this occasion was the last Pep Assembly before the game with the Lions’ most competent enemy, the “Eagles,” of the rival city high school. Again the championship was to be determined. They had lost it the year before. This year the team would “do or die” and the rooters expected to be out in force. Accustomed as they all were to this organized method, of arousing enthusiasm, feeling was not hard to stir this morning, from the very facts of the situation. It might do, as the boys said, to “get a licking once; but never twice!”

Artistically and athletically the cheer leaders tore about, doing their various prepared stunts, rehearsed especially for this occasion. Budd, who was announcing the program so easily, had once been timid about public appearance, but in the course of three years and more at Lyon High, with all its organizations and efforts in the public eye, he had gotten bravely over his timidity. Presently he was announcing a speech from the assistant principal, Mr. Franklin, who was particularly interested in the school athletics and often took part in the faculty-versus-student games. His speech was brief and good.

“You need not be afraid that the team will be over-confident,” said he, among other things. “Last year’s experience will be a reminder to those who were on the team and to the new material as well. On the other hand, neither will they suffer the handicap of being fearful. They have a record of success this fall. Be there to boost them with your confidence. The new men this year are not without experience. The quarterback that came to us from Kentucky ranks along with Freddy Fisher or the boy you all knew as the Don.” Here the speaker was interrupted with loud applause, intended for “Kentucky” and the memories of Freddy and Ramon who had led Lyon High to victory more than once.

“I am looking for some spectacular plays, though we shall not ask for them. While I am not expecting or desiring the team to ‘wring the necks of the Eagles,’ as someone suggested, I am expecting it to put them to flight! I thank you.”

Smiling at the vigorous applause which followed his last statement or prophecy, Mr. Franklin left the platform, soon to enter the body of the auditorium, where he stood, an efficient representative of discipline and good order.

As the applause died down, Budd announced speeches by members of the team. First came the Kentucky boy of whom Mr. Franklin had spoken. He was tall and lank, as Kentuckians are supposed to be but often are not. The audience did not know how he had protested against his effort to make a speech. He had finally said he would appear but they need not expect any speech. “Good mawnin,” he said and flushed hotly at the ripple of amusement that ran over the audience of his fellow pupils. He stood soberly waiting a moment and put his hands in his pockets, to give him greater confidence, it might be presumed.

“I nevah made a speech in my life,” he continued, “and I am quite suah that I can’t make one now. But I said I’d get up here and tell you that the team is on the job. We’re goin’ to do the best playin’ of the season tomorrow—and that’s all.”

“Kentucky,” in the midst of uproarious