The Challengers by Grace Livingston Hill Page A

had never had to do anything of the sort before, and he didn't know how to do it right, he was sure, but he had to have the trousers; there wasn't anything else for him to wear, and before that objectionable hole had arrived in the trousers he had asked a girl to go with him to a college dance.
    It was a terrible predicament to be in, and there seemed absolutely no way to get out of it. He simply couldn't tell the girl about it. She would wonder why he didn't wear another pair of trousers. He couldn't tell a girl he hadn't another pair of trousers, could he? He couldn't say that he had spilled soup on his second-best ones when he was waiting on tables and in cleaning them had worn a hole in the knee of one leg a great deal more noticeable than this one he was now mending in his very best ones. He couldn't ask her to go with another fellow, could he, when she was a girl he had been trying to get to go with him all winter, and he hadn't had a chance with her because Sam de Small had been rushing her? This was Stephen's one and only chance at Sylvia Saltaine.
    Sylvia! He said her name over softly as he darned the coarse black thread in and out of the frayed dark blue serge that had till then composed the seat of his best trousers.
    Sylvia Saltaine. Her name glided along just like herself, all trailing chiffons and soft fluttery scarfs and pastel colors. Her garments always seemed to just drift about her as if they loved her. She was so feminine and lovely.
    Her hair was lighter than most blond hair. It was almost startlingly gold, a sort of white gold. Was that what they called ash-blond? He wasn't sure. And her eyes were so very large and blue under those long curling dark lashes. Of course, she did use too much mascara on her lashes sometimes, at least his mother might think so, but of course that was a minor matter, and it did set out her gold hair and very pink cheeks and blue eyes. And her mouth!
    But there was another point on which his mother might not quite agree with him. Her mouth was very red. Of course, he had been brought up to think that really nice girls didn't do that, but he couldn't deny that on Sylvia it did make a wonderful combination. Oh, his mother couldn't help but see how lovely Sylvia was in spite of all these things.
    Of course, his sister Melissa was a pretty girl. He had always been proud of her looks. He was yet. He loved to take Melissa places, though she really was only a kid, a freshman at college, and he a senior. Yes, Melissa was a dear kid and pretty as a peach, and she never used lipstick. Mother wouldn't let her. But she was a different type, and perhaps even she, when she was older----Mother was apt to be a trifle Victorian. It didn't do any harm to be that way. Sort of protected his kid sister, he supposed. But Sylvia was another type. Sylvia was--
    Stephen left that sentence unfinished and gave his entire attention to his needle, which had come unthreaded for the sixth time since he sat down to sew.
    Gosh! Now he had stuck the blamed thing into his thumb! How did women manage to sew so much anyway? Well, he was doing his best, but somehow the hole looked all puckered around the edge. Would a good pressing take that out and make it seem all right? he wondered.
    Steps sounded along the hall, long strides.
    "Telegram!" a voice called. "Ho, everybody!"
    Stephen's heart lost a beat. He dropped his sewing regardless of an unthreaded needle and went into the hall. Then his folks had come through after all! They would have likely perhaps sent a new suit by airmail! Or, no, they would likely be telegraphing money.
    "Telegram for me?" he called out eagerly, appearing in his doorway.
    "Naw, not for you. Telegram for Elicott Brender. Where is he?"
    Stephen answered shortly that he did not know and returned to his sewing, slamming his door sharply.
    When he had retrieved his needle from under the bed where it had inexplicably slithered out of sight and coaxed again the too-heavy thread into its